Gospel Story Finder

“I didn’t know what feeling the Spirit felt like until the start of this year,” said Tiago Pereira. “I was speaking to my dad, and he really helped me understand. We were just driving along, and my dad asked me if I had a testimony. At first I said, ‘Well, I’m not really sure.’ Then he asked me to describe the feelings I had when I felt the Spirit. As we were talking, I felt the Spirit again during our conversation. Both of us were crying by the end. It was good. From then on, it’s been easier to understand when I feel the Spirit.”

Many years later, in 1873, Kitty, the wife of this great man, Jonathon Napela, contracted leprosy. She was a beautiful and noble woman in the early days of the Church in Hawaii. Today modern medical knowledge has advanced so that this disease is no longer fatal, but at that time, there was no cure for this dreadful disease. In order to prevent the spreading of this disease, once you contracted it you were forced to live on one of the seashores in the leper colony on Molokai. The lepers were taken there by boat. The sailors were so afraid of this disease that they pushed the patients into the sea, forcing them to swim to shore.

Because his wife had to go to Kalaupapa, the leper colony, Jonathon, too, wanted to go. He took her hand and they went there together. Why would he do this? Because he loved her so much! He knew that life is eternal and love is eternal, even through days of “sickness and health.”

History records that this valiant and giant man of God worked in the leper colony and fought to obtain government assistance for the lepers to have a more comfortable place to live. He was a giant in the pure love of Christ for his own people. Oh, I can almost hear the words of Paul to the Corinthians when he said, “Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal” (1 Cor. 13:1).

This good brother later contracted that same disease and died even before his wife passed away. She followed him two years later.

In England, when John Taylor was seventeen, he was appointed to be a preacher in his church. He was given assignments to preach in areas outside the city.
John: The Lord has commanded us to pray always in His name.
After John arrived in Canada, he continued to go to church and study the Bible. He and his wife, Leonora, joined with some of their friends to study the Bible.
John: We need to pray that God will send His servant to give us the truth!
Leonora: Yes, and to pray that we will know it when we hear it!
In Kirtland, Ohio, Elder Heber C. Kimball called Elder Parley P. Pratt to serve a mission to Toronto, Canada.
Elder Kimball: Elder Pratt, you will find a people prepared for the gospel, and they shall receive thee.
Elder Pratt: If a servant of the Lord extends such a promise, I will go to Canada.
When Elder Pratt first visited with the Taylor family, John Taylor began to study what Elder Pratt preached.
John: If I find your religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be; and if false, then I shall expose it.
For three weeks, John Taylor followed Elder Pratt wherever he preached. He studied and prayed about what Elder Pratt taught.
Elder Pratt: Joseph Smith translated this book, the Book of Mormon.
On May 9, 1836, John and Leonora Taylor were baptized.
Elder Pratt ordained John Taylor as an elder, and they worked together to spread the gospel. Their first baptisms were President Taylor’s parents, Agnes and James Taylor.
John Taylor remained loyal to the truth of the gospel.

Just a few weeks ago, I was working on my family history with a consultant by my side and another helper on the phone. On the computer screen before me was a problem beyond my mortal power to solve. I saw two names, sent to me by the wonders of technology, of people who might be waiting for a temple ordinance. But the trouble was that the names were different, but there was a reason to believe they might be the same person. My task was to determine what was true.

I asked my consultants to tell me. They said, “No, you must choose.” And they were completely sure I would discover the truth. The computer, with all its power and information, had left me the blessing of staring at those names on a screen, evaluating the available information, seeking other research, praying silently, and discovering what was true. As I prayed, I knew with surety what to do—just as I have in other situations when I needed to rely on heaven’s help to solve a problem.

I am the youngest in my family. There is a five-year age difference between my brother Darrell and me, and we were not very close. You might think that five years is no big deal, but 14-year-old brothers rarely have much in common with nine-year-old sisters.
As we grew up, we might as well have been a hundred years apart for all the attention we gave each other. We didn’t dislike each other; we just never talked or saw much of each other.
During my 13th year, I became friends with some non-LDS girls. One in particular loved to dare me to do things against what I believed.
Then this strange thing happened. Darrell took the first step to bridge the gap between us. He let me know he was worried about how much time I spent with these girls. It made me angry. I felt he didn’t trust me. But it did make me start thinking, and I pulled myself out of a dangerous situation before it was too late.
You’d think we would have become super close, but our moments of closeness were few.
And then he left on his mission to Mexico.
Oh sure, I wrote to him like everyone else, but our letters to each other could have been form letters; there was nothing personal in them. If this wasn’t enough, the family was in a Darrell-mania craze.
“Look, Katy, another letter from Darrell. Would you like to read it?” Mom would ask as she held out the letter as if it were from heaven.
“Uh, no thanks, Mom. Just leave it here. I’ll read it when I’ve got some time,” I’d mumble. Well, if I wouldn’t read it, then she’d proceed to tell me all about it, which irritated me all the more.
Dad was just as bad with the slides Darrell sent. Dad was forever nagging me to come and see them through his viewer. When I’d politely decline because of homework or something, he’d act hurt and say, “I guess you don’t care about your brother’s mission, huh?” Then I’d bristle.
With ward members and other relatives and friends always asking about Darrell, he was the only subject talked about wherever I went. I was sick to death of hearing about Darrell.
One day Mom started to talk with me—about Darrell, of course. But instead of talking about his mission, she recalled different memories of him, some good and some bad.
“You know, even though we had some rough spots, I really miss him,” Mom said. Then she looked at me. “Do you miss him sometimes?”
I meant just to say, “Of course I do,” but I felt strongly that I should say what was true. “Not really. I hardly miss him at all.”
Mom looked shocked, so I spoke quickly. “It’s not that I don’t love him, Mom. It’s just that I really don’t know him. How can you miss someone you hardly even know? Think about it, Mom. What have Darrell and I ever done together to make us close? When was the last time you remember Darrell and me doing something together?”
She didn’t answer because, like me, she couldn’t think of any.
That night I decided to write to Darrell. I started with the usual lines about school when I stopped. I thought to myself, Why not tell him how I really feel? So I did. I poured it all out into that letter, all about how I really didn’t know him, and my feelings about his mission. I also added some things that were going on with me, about my new music lessons and about my goals to become a writer someday.
As I sealed it, I knew it wouldn’t be the most cheerful letter he’d ever receive, but it expressed my true feelings and I knew if I didn’t tell him I’d go crazy.
I was on pins and needles waiting for his answer. I came home one day to find a letter from Darrell waiting for me. I ripped it open and began to read:
“Dear Katy,
“I was very thankful for your letter. On Thursday I woke up homesick—something was very wrong. When my companion and I left to go tracting, we both felt impressed to check the mailbox, but there’s never anything in the mail until after four o’clock. But there was your letter. I love you, and I get the feeling that you want to talk. Fasting, prayer, and many tears have gone into this letter. I hope you will read it carefully. …”
He went on to tell me that I was right. We really didn’t know each other, and so he told me he’d like to be friends.
“… I can understand how tiring it must be to hear about me all of the time, so here in Mexico you have some relief from ‘Darrell-mania.’ I want to hear all about you!”
He was very impressed with my goals and my high school schedule and even offered some advice.
He told me many other things that are dear to my heart but too personal to tell anyone else. But it made me feel warm and good inside. It made me remember my experience during my 13th year and our moment of closeness. I remembered that feeling of closeness, because it was back again only much stronger than before.
I was crying by the time I finished his letter. Darrell truly cared about me, and my letter had helped him. Before, I’d been jealous of him and his mission. I resented all of the talk about him and the looks of pride in my parents’ faces, because it made me feel as if I were loved less, cared about less. I felt anything I could do would never be as important as Darrell’s mission. But Darrell made me feel so important, as if what I did mattered. And he really did want to hear all about me. I was deeply touched and deeply grateful.
From then on my letters to and from him were much more meaningful. He took part in helping me with my problems and in helping me to become a better person and learn to grow up. I love him so very much, and the best part about it is I know that my brother loves me too.

Let me share one of our family secrets, found in this family photo taken some years ago, before the advent of social media. Were this taken today, it likely would be posted, presenting a family of four lovely, color-coordinated, well-behaved boys enjoying a harmonious family photo opportunity together. Would you like the real story?

I still remember the phone call from my wife. “Gary, where are you? We’re here at the photographer’s outdoor studio. We’re all ready to shoot. It hasn’t been easy getting the boys all dressed, coordinated, and ready. Are you nearly here?”

Well, I had forgotten and hadn’t left the office yet! I was half an hour late, and things had not gone so well in my absence, bordering on chaos.

What had happened? Well, my oldest son had been running through the yard and had found an apple tree, picked some apples, and begun throwing them at the other boys. He hit our third son in the back with an apple and made him fall down, and so he started to cry.

Meanwhile, as that was happening, my second son sat down and his pants went up a little bit. The other kids saw that his socks were white athletic socks, not the church socks his mother had laid out for him to wear. She asked him, “Why didn’t you wear your church socks?”

He said, “Well, I don’t like them. They’re scratchy.”

And while she’s talking to him, our two-year-old son was running through the yard, tripped on something, fell down, and bloodied his nose. Now there is blood dripping onto his white turtleneck shirt, and it’s stained. This is when I showed up. The only way to salvage the picture was to reverse the turtleneck and put it on backward, hiding the blood stains from the camera.

As it turns out, while our oldest son was running around and throwing apples, he fell down and got a large grass stain on his knee. So, in the picture, his arm is strategically placed, covering up the grass stains.

As for our third son, we had to wait for 20 minutes so his eyes were no longer red from crying.

And, of course, the bloodstains are now on the back of our youngest son’s shirt.

Now, our second son has his hands placed strategically over the top of his white athletic socks so that everything matches.

As for me, I am now in the “doghouse” because it was my late arrival that was the trigger for all of this.

So, when you see this beautiful picture of our family and lament, “Why can’t we get things together and be a picture-perfect family like theirs?” you all know better!

In Popayán, Alfonso Tenorio is a doctor who also publishes a scholarly medical journal. In addition he works with his wife, Lucía, in their spacious garden behind his father’s house. They help in his aunts’ gardens. They check the work LDS young men are doing in gardens they’ve planted at a Catholic school. They speak to city groups and service clubs, promoting home gardens. Largely through the Tenorios’ efforts, gardens have become fashionable in many Popayán households. “We see our efforts as a way to help friends and neighbors become self-reliant so we will all be able to eat in times of trouble,” says Alfonso.

In 1982, Nuria and I were taught the restored gospel of Jesus Christ by full-time missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Jackson, Mississippi, USA. During the first lesson they explained about the doctrine of eternal marriage and eternal families. This particular message addressed some private concerns of ours. Upon our return to Puerto Rico, we began personally searching civil and religious records. We experienced great joy as we began finding some of our ancestors and submitted their names to the temple for sacred ordinances on their behalf. At the time we did not know that it was the spirit of Elijah, testifying to us that families indeed are forever. As often as we were able to travel and attend a temple, we would go and do more work. We understood that this was a commandment and a duty to perform.
More recently, as we were taught to fill out the information in the My Family: Stories that Bring Us Together booklet, the spirit of Elijah was again felt strongly. That is the main purpose in filling out this booklet. This time we felt it was even more personal than when we did our family history work as recent converts.
Before, we spoke of taking names to the temple to perform the sacred ordinances for them. After finding out and recording stories and adding pictures along with the dates of significant life events in the online My Family: Stories that Bring Us Together, we now felt that we knew them, and could not wait to do their temple work. They were now more than just names.
That is how I came to find out about Juana Cancel, one of my father’s grandmothers (and one of my great-grandmothers). She was born in Vega Baja, Puerto Rico in the year 1880. I wrote and recorded the following information about her, which I learned from my father. “Juana Cancel was a very beloved grandmother of my father. She would protect, love, nurture, and spoil him. She safely kept his Life Magazine collection for him. Her husband, Jose Hilario Martinez, died eighteen years before she did. That meant that she had to continue administering and working their farm by herself after his death. She then used to sleep with a half a cue stick, an iron bar, and a hatchet underneath her bed, in case somebody tried to break into her home. She also used to smoke cigarettes. She said that she smoked in order to repel the mosquitoes! She passed away from a metastatic cancer of her cervix. My father remembers her going to receive treatments in the oncologic hospital in San Juan. I love her very much, because it is quite clear to me that my father nearly worshiped her.”
I could not rest until the temple work was done for her. It was a moving labor of love to have all of her vicarious ordinances performed. Family history and temple work are truly the “most glorious of subjects belonging to the everlasting gospel” (D&C 128:17).
I conclude by quoting Sally Johnson Odekirk.1 She wrote an Ensign article where she listed activities that help us do our family history and temple work, in ways that bless all members of the family that participate:
Look at family history websites, especially FamilySearch.org (where you can also find an electronic version of My Family: Stories that Bring Us Together, ready to be completed online). See also churchofjesuschrist.org/topics/family-history/family-history-is-for-everyone.
Take your children to visit the temple or do baptisms for deceased ancestors.
Visit important family sites—such as old homes, schools or cemeteries—and treat them with respect.
Pass down stories about your ancestors. I would add the importance of recording them.
Display (and share) family photos.
Gather and display family heirlooms in your home, cook old family recipes, or plant a heritage garden with flowers and vegetables your grandparents might have had in their gardens.
Create a calendar with birthdays of special ancestors.
Learn about an ancestor’s homeland, including the area’s history and traditions.
Index records at FamilySearch.org.
Keep a photo record of family traditions that you are creating now.
Preserve current and past family history with digital scrapbooks and blogs.
Attend family reunions and family organization meetings.

When I was 14 years old, one Sunday in sacrament meeting, my parents heard about the need for volunteers at the bishops’ storehouse in Slidell, Louisiana. They decided they would help, and, of course, this meant my younger brother and I would also help. Our family went so often, in fact, that my parents were called to be the assistant managers.
At first, I disliked helping out because I felt it took up my valuable homework time (well, OK, TV time). But the more we went, the more I grudgingly accepted this chore, especially after my parents made it clear that we were in it together.
Fortunately, as the months passed, I slowly began to focus less on myself and the earlier resentment I felt and more on what I could do to help. I helped fill food orders for needy families, bag and number them, and then place them on the truck that would deliver them to various cities nearby. Numbering bags was hard because I had to remember the order number as well as the number of bags I had put out on the counter for volunteers to place food in. Also, I had to number bags extremely fast because the other volunteers were depending on me.
Now, instead of trying to avoid work, I began stocking canned goods, dry foods, and produce on the shelves and mopping the floors once in a while. My favorite task, with adult supervision, was cooking meals for the other volunteers. We would prepare an array of magnificent culinary delights that consisted mostly of macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, spaghetti, sloppy joes, and chocolate cake. We usually added a vegetable salad and a fruit salad and considered it a fairly balanced meal. I also began trying to aid the other helpers by showing them where different items were located, and which items to place in each bag. I felt like the official item finder.
My attitude had completely changed from the first couple of months that I worked at the storehouse. There were still days when I felt a little lazy and tired, but mostly I viewed working at the storehouse as a blessing. I also counted myself lucky to have the opportunity to serve so many people (around 60 families a week) and make an impact, albeit a small one, on their lives. Best of all, I started to recognize the value of all the blessings I had received and how fortunate I truly am.
Though I may not have made a huge difference by helping at the storehouse, it has definitely influenced me. My experience has taught me to value all the blessings I have received throughout my life and that I am expected to use my abilities to help others. More than four years have passed since my first time at the storehouse, and now my parents are the managers. I still help out when I can, and when I do, I love it.

I relate two experiences to demonstrate what I mean. A man in one of our organizations was transferred to New York City to direct the work of one of our radio stations. He had never been to New York before, but he located one of our chapels and attended church the first Sunday he was there. He was welcomed into the priesthood quorum as a brother, and his wife and children were similarly welcomed and were soon right at home.
In contrast, at the same time another young man whom he knew was sent by his company to operate another station. Though he was a member of a church with many times the membership of the LDS church, he found it most difficult to feel at home and soon asked for a transfer back to his original station. It might have been his fault, or it might have been the fault of his church. However, in our Church if the individual and the quorum are functioning as they should, all Church members should feel happy, wanted, and accepted wherever they go.

After the Saturday evening session of stake conference, on my way to the hotel, I noticed people buying food along the road late at night. I asked my driver why they were doing it when it was so dark rather than during the day. He responded that they were working during the day to have the money to do it later.

“Oh, they were working today to eat tomorrow,” I said.

But he corrected me: “No, they were working during the day to eat tonight.” I had hoped our members might be in a better situation, but he confirmed that many faced similar challenges in that part of the country. The next morning, during our Sunday session and newly aware of their circumstances, I was even more moved by their smiling faces and grateful hearts.

When I went to Sunday School class that day my teacher was giving out red leather Bibles to some of the children who had 100 percent attendance for a year. I wanted one of those Bibles so bad I could hardly stand it, but there was no way I could get one now. I’d be gone in less than a month.
After class I went up to the front of the room just to look at the one beautiful book that was left. As I reached up to touch it, the teacher turned around from cleaning the blackboard and looked at me.
“You’re moving away, aren’t you, Dora?” she said.
I nodded my head.
“I’ll miss you in my class. I can tell when I see you listening that you are very close to our Heavenly Father.”
I nodded. She was right. I was close to Him. I knew He understood me even when no one else did.
“Would you like to have that Bible to take with you?” she asked kindly.
I bobbed my head up and down so fast I could feel my curls bouncing. She handed me the book, and I hugged it to me.
I reached up and kissed her cheek and skipped from the room, so happy I wanted to sing.
“Thank You, oh, thank You,” I murmured, glancing heavenward.

When Monika Fullmer served in a Relief Society presidency in Germany, she became acquainted with Anne, a less-active sister. (The name has been changed.) Anne’s visiting teachers encouraged her to come to church, but she was hesitant to come back after being away so long. The sisters finally convinced her that she would be welcomed with open arms.
At first, Anne sat in the back of the meetinghouse. But gradually, as the women in the ward drew her in, she became comfortable. The Relief Society presidency soon felt impressed that they should request that Anne be called as Relief Society music leader. Even though she knew very little about music, Anne accepted the assignment. With the support of the sisters in Relief Society, Anne learned to fulfill her calling, then accepted other leadership positions in the ward. In time, Anne’s husband was baptized, and her family was sealed in the temple.
“Whenever I think of sisterhood, I think of Anne,” says Sister Fullmer. “The Relief Society sisters’ love and acceptance made her feel welcome—and then needed.”

Last year the children in Clara’s grade-four class were assigned to give four-to-five-minute speeches. Clara chose to give a speech on the Holocaust, which she presented as if she were a girl in a concentration camp. When she first rehearsed her speech, it took eight minutes and 40 seconds to give because many of the words were hard to say. She practiced it over and over. The speech slowly grew shorter as she learned to say the words fluently. She finally presented the speech in four minutes and 40 seconds, and her classmates chose her to represent them in front of the whole school. When she did, the entire student body broke into wild applause. Many of them had known Clara since grade one, and her progress seemed miraculous. “The principal was crying,” Clara’s mom recalls. “Clara’s grade-two teacher was crying. Her grade-four teacher was cheering. It was such a victory---one of the greatest moments of my life!”
What did Clara learn from the experience? “Keep trying,” she counsels children everywhere. “Never give up.”
Of course, prayer was also a vital part of Clara’s triumph. She has great faith in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Primary, home evenings, scripture study, and her parents’ teachings have helped. Her older sisters have made a difference too, both through their good examples and their reading materials. As soon as Carly, 18, and Josie, 15, turned 12 in their turn, they began putting New Era Posters on their mirrors. Clara has also memorized seminary scripture mastery scriptures and learned President Hinckley’s six B’s with her sisters.

There are two main experiences that led to my testimony of Christ. The first happened the day my big brother died. He passed away on a Scout outing in eastern Arizona. I was 14 years old. When my parents and I found out, we were heartbroken.
At first, it was hard to imagine that I would be living the rest of my life without my big brother. But I was wrong. From the moment I heard of his death, I felt peace. I was at peace because Christ was there to mourn with me when I mourned and comfort me when I needed comfort. Never for one minute did I feel alone.
More than a year later, I participated in the Mesa Temple Easter Pageant. It depicts Christ’s life on the earth and plays six nights during the week of Easter. The best part was that it took place on the temple grounds. I was just one of the crowd in a cast of 300. For several weeks, I was able to spend hours near a house of the Lord.
As I watched Christ’s life portrayed to thousands of people, I was able to witness a representation of His birth. I was feet away when He was shown healing the sick and raising the dead. I watched when He was portrayed suffering and atoning for the sins of the world, and I was there when He was depicted dying on the cross for all. I was there and saw the portrayal of Him rising from the dead three days later, and I saw the representation of Him ascending to His Father.
The feelings I had at that time are indescribable. It seemed so real to me. I was able to testify of Christ’s message many times to those who had never heard it—that He lives!
I know that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer. He is the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords. He is the way, the truth, and the life. Because of Him I can be with my brother again. Because of Him, I can be with Heavenly Father. This message is what will save the world in the last days. If we have faith in Him, we can receive blessings beyond measure. If we follow Him, we can become like Him.

Seventeen-year-old Mackenzie H. took President Pickup’s challenge to heart and began indexing, and she helped her siblings, parents, and grandparents become involved as well. In less than two years, Mackenzie indexed more than 44,000 names. More importantly, Mackenzie and her family felt prompted to seek out their own family names, take them to the temple, and participate in the saving ordinances.

President Hinckley shared the following story about Sister Hinckley’s grandfather at the rededication of the Manti Temple. He said:
“Yesterday morning as we came here, Sister Hinckley and I were brought to the east temple door. They wanted to get us in quietly, I guess. But in any event we were brought privately to the east temple door, and the door was opened. There are two of them there (two sets of them), but the one we came through was opened—a very, very heavy door, some three inches thick, beautifully milled, beautifully put together, beautifully hung on substantial hardware. And it was a very touching experience because her grandfather, who was a young man then, at the time twenty-four years of age, married with one child and another one coming, hung those doors. And in the course of hanging those very heavy doors he suffered a hernia which became strangulated. He suffered terrible pain for a few days and died, literally a martyr to the faith which had prompted him to work on this temple as a finish carpenter over a long period of time, for which he received no compensation other than a pound of butter or a dozen eggs now and again” (fifth session, 15 June 1985).

Just last year I decided to see how many residential dwellings were still standing from the period between 1950 and 1955 when I served as bishop of that same area. I drove slowly around each of the blocks that once comprised the ward. I was surprised to observe in my search that of all the houses and apartment buildings where our 1,080 members had lived, only three dwellings were still standing. At one of those houses, the grass was overgrown, the trees unpruned, and I found no one was living there. Of the other two houses remaining, one was boarded up and unoccupied, and the other housed some sort of a modest business office.
I parked my car, turned off the ignition, and just sat there for a long while. I could picture in my mind each house, each apartment building, each member who lived there. While the homes and the buildings were gone, the memories were still very vivid concerning the families who resided in each dwelling. I thought of the words of the author James Barrie, who wrote that God gave us memories that we might have June roses in the December of our lives.2 How grateful I was for the opportunity to serve in that assignment. Such can be the blessing of each of us if we put forth in our assignments our very best efforts.

It’s something like the experience of a young girl who was walking with her grandmother. The song of the birds was glorious to the little girl, and she pointed out every sound to her grandmother.
“Do you hear that?” the little girl asked again and again. But her grandmother was hard of hearing and could not make out the sounds.
Finally, the grandmother knelt down and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Grandma doesn’t hear so well.”
Exasperated, the little girl took her grandmother’s face in her hands, looked intently into her eyes, and said, “Grandma, listen harder!”
There are lessons in this story for both the nonbeliever and the believer. Just because we can’t hear something doesn’t mean there is nothing to hear. Two people can listen to the same message or read the same scripture, and one might feel the witness of the Spirit while the other doesn’t.
On the other hand, in our efforts to help our loved ones experience the voice of the Spirit and the vast, eternal, and profound beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ, telling them to “listen harder” may not be the most helpful way.
Perhaps better advice—for anyone who wants to increase faith—is to listen differently.

May I close with just one other experience. Let me tell you of one elderly brother who sat in a nursing home just looking at the floor day after day, week after week. Someone who loved him and knew about Deseret Industries arranged for him to come to work. He began by the supervisor placing a wide push broom in his hands, taking him to the end of a corridor, and having him push the broom down the hall to the other end; then turning him around and having him push it back again. This he did time after time.
In the process of doing, he started to get a small glimmer of interest in something—in anything—and his eyes raised from the floor. He saw the walls, and he saw the windows. As this process continued, the development of a feeling that everyone needs was nurtured. It wasn’t long until other assignments were given to him which he did very well. In time his faith in himself and his feeling of worth had been restored. He became a supervisor of others.