Gospel Story Finder

Over the following days, the entire family of the deceased boy attended the chapel, while it was open, where they displayed incredible faith and were extremely grateful for the ward’s response.

A two-minute silence was also held for both boys during sacrament service that following Sunday, to which all members, family and the community were invited.

The next day, President Shorland was contacted directly by the family asking if they could attend to grieve collectively without the public or media representatives being present. He made the necessary arrangements. Time was spent in the chapel reading the messages and in a prayerful reflection. President Shorland said it had an “extremely spiritual impact” on him.

To illustrate an element of my topic today, I would like to share an experience that I had many years ago as a young man serving in the military. I enlisted when I was 17 years old, right out of high school. I was so young I only had to shave maybe once a week. Looking back 30 years I can say that during that time, I had many experiences that were formative in shaping my future. One such experience took place while I served as a crew member on an M109 self-propelled howitzer. Essentially, it is a large cannon on tracks. The primary purpose for that piece of equipment is meant to be very destructive, and it is.[2] Perhaps there are those of you who have served in field artillery who can relate to this experience. I was used to being on the sending end of an unforgiving kind of business, where we would fire high-explosive rounds that weighed approximately 100 pounds to the distance of anywhere from only a few hundred yards to many miles away. The distance the shell was sent was determined by many factors. The first factor consisted of the amount of gunpowder that was placed behind the shell in the barrel, or the "tube," as we called it. The powder would come premeasured and in large bags that were placed in canisters. Each canister had the same number of bags in it, but we were instructed as to how many we should use for a particular firing mission. The angle of the tube had a major effect on the distance. Those of you who may be physics majors would likely know something about this. We had to consider factors relating to the weather, such as wind, rain, as well as how smoothly the shell would fly through the air (whether it would catch and tumble or spin). Any type of friction could throw it off target. Again, mistakes could be very unforgiving. When we were given the order to fire a round someplace, we were also instructed to adjust the "gun," as it was called, either right or left or up and down a certain number of millimeters; and then, when told to do so, we simply pulled a string called a lanyard, there would be a loud boom, the ground would become unstable under our feet, and we would wait for further orders. What's the harm in pulling a little string, one might ask, or being off target one millimeter? One day I had the opportunity to observe where the rounds would hit. We drove to the side of a mountain where the forward observers were located. They were the soldiers whose job it was to observe where the explosives hit and then relay information back to the gun line and instruct us how and where to adjust our firing. Interestingly, we were far more accurate at hitting the targets that we could not see as opposed to those that we could see, because of the help of the observers who would direct our fire. Brothers and sisters, I had never seen the "other end" of what we were doing back at the gun line. That was my first exposure to that part of the experience. We have all seen similar things on television, movies, and in pictures, but nothing can describe the sights, sounds, and smells. The unique burning-sulfur aroma of the gunpowder is something I will never forget. The destructive power is difficult to describe, especially if you can imagine as many as 24 rounds being shot simultaneously into an area. We needed to do our job correctly, paying attention to detail and listening for proper feedback. Another vantage point gave me a very different perspective about the work that we were involved in, and it intensified my own efforts to improve.

David soon discovered that he was the only member of the Church in his new school. With only a small number of students there, David knew he would get more attention from teachers because of the class size, but he didn’t want any special attention from his peers for being a Latter-day Saint.
“I was quiet about my beliefs at the beginning,” he says. “It was a new environment, and I was afraid I would be shunned and it would be hard to make friends.”
Then around his third year in the school, David remembered his priesthood lessons about letting his light shine.
“One time there was a big assembly at the school, and as I was looking around, it struck me that I was the only priesthood holder there,” he says. “The Lord had given me a responsibility, and I wasn’t doing enough.” He knew he had to make his membership in the Church known.
He decided to tell his friends about his standards and beliefs. He says it was harder to live his standards when he didn’t tell anyone about them, but when he made them known, it was easier to live them, and he even received support from his friends.

And I am grateful for my wife. I would like to tell you a little story. I have been to three or four thousand meetings, I guess, in the last twenty-five years; and every one of those times she has sustained me—except for one. When I was off to a Sunday School meeting one night, she asked, “Will you be home early?” I said, “Yes, I’ll be home at 10:30.” Eleven o’clock and 11:30 came, and I wasn’t home. When I finally came home, I walked up to the door to walk in as usual, and it was locked. I rang the doorbell—and no answer. So I knocked on the door, and finally she came. She said, “I’m not going to let you in.”

I said, “Oh, come on.”

And she said, “No, it’s one time too many.”

In those days we had a Nash Rambler with a front seat that made out into a bed (but it was in the middle of winter). So I took my overcoat and went out into the car and rolled back the seat, and went to bed.

After a little while I could hear the front door open, and my wife came out to the car and asked me to come in. I told her I didn’t think I would. It was so cold I finally did.

Brethren, my wife is such a wonderful woman. In all of those years, she has sustained me so much; and I would hope that as members of the priesthood, as we hold leadership roles, we will remember this little experience and remember our wives.

As youth around the world make the effort to attend seminary, they’re receiving strength in much more than scripture study. Cameron L. of England found that he was blessed in all areas of his life. “Not only does seminary help with the spiritual side of things, but it also helps with school and education,” says Cameron.
He says that “an early start to the day gets your brain into gear. Some of my friends said they were too busy to attend—well, it’s not like you’re going to be reviewing math at 6:00 a.m., are you?” As you study, “the Lord will help you in your exams, and if you go to seminary, He will help you even more,” says Cameron.
Of course, seminary helped Cameron strengthen his testimony as well. He says, “The beginning of my testimony came from the seminary program. At the youthful age of 14, I was really struggling in the gospel. I did not enjoy church, and I got up to things that I shouldn’t have. It was only a matter of months before I would have given up entirely.” But when a friend invited Cameron to attend seminary, he decided to go with her. Then the blessings really began to come.
“I began to feel the Spirit again,” says Cameron. “I started paying more attention in church and attended my Sunday School and priesthood lessons. It became easier, and I started to feel happier. I finally gained a testimony of the gospel for myself.” After two months of seminary, Cameron met with his bishop and was ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.
Cameron knows that seminary helps him stand strong against the temptations of the world. “As seminary continued,” he says, “I found it easier to deal with the challenges that the world presents. It’s pretty tough being a youth in the world we live in—sin is surrounding us from all sides. I testify to you that if you attend seminary, you will find the strength to defend yourself against it. Seminary creates a spiritual shield to protect you. Many different trials and temptations have been thrown my way, and seminary has been such a huge help in keeping me on the strait and narrow.”

Two examples will illustrate what I mean. On a 1997 flight across the Atlantic to attend a scientific conference in Aberdeen, Scotland, I sat immediately behind two women. At some point during the long flight they began conversing in good English, tinged with some sort of European accent I couldn’t quite place. Their conversation was rather loud because of the jet engines, and although I should have done my best not to listen in, I confess that they caught my attention, and what they said still does. They spoke critically of Americans for lack of depth in their relationships with people.

One said, “The first thing that an American wants to know about a person who has just been introduced is what the person does for a living.”

“Yes,” concurred the other, “that seems to form their basis for personal judgments. They aren’t interested in who a person really is beyond his occupation.”

As I pondered their evaluation, I found myself realizing, uncomfortably, that they might be more right than I wanted to admit. For much of the remainder of the flight I pondered these two questions: (1) Beyond those aspects of my life that are connected with my work at BYU, who am I? and (2) Isn’t what I am more than merely what I do? The intellectual answers to those questions are easy. The operational answers can be challenging.

For example, there was a young soldier on sentry duty one day. His foul-mouthed sergeant, whom he generally avoided, approached him. The recruit steeled himself for the customary barrage of profanity that he would later have to scour from his mind. Instead his sergeant said, “You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?” The recruit nodded in the affirmative, with some surprise, only to be stunned by the next observation: “I could tell because you don’t swear.” The private gulped inwardly as he took quick inventory. The sergeant continued: “You know what gets me about you guys? You are good when you don’t have to be!”
Another time in the military a whole delegation of LDS college men went through summer training. As they moved from one field demonstration to another, each hour they endured the military instructors who began each session with a dirty joke. One NCO unintentionally prefaced the inevitable lewd story by asking, “Anyone object to a joke?” There was a split second of intense silence while the opportunity ran through the group. Then quickly from the back came a solitary but solid, “Yes.” The cadreman looked up in shocked surprise, immediately becoming defensive. Intending to intimidate such an upstart, he fired back, “Well, leave if you don’t like it.” Again a second of silence—followed by a decision. Then three-fourths of the group voted with their feet.
The military experience is like other forays into secularism that LDS youth are facing today. They are away from home with carnal options on every hand—gambling, profanity, pornography, immorality, and bug-out-ism. Such crass enticements successfully ensnare the uncommitted, but thousands of others choose to swim against the current. One young priest, during his first week away from home, confronted some returned missionaries in his barracks who appeared more sophisticated. Why weren’t they saying their prayers, he queried. His challenge encouraged them all to overcome their smoothly disguised fears of censure. They joined after lights out for a family prayer each night. Soon they discovered that their Mormon compatriots throughout the post were doing the same in small scattered groups; they even included their fellow nonmember squad members. The result was a brotherhood—blessing when sick, counseling when troubled, and bolstering each other during competition—instead of the harassing, cutting, and undermining that are so common in basic training. This higher life occurs without leaders or instructions; it emerges from being “anxiously engaged in a good cause,” from conviction, from feeling the power of God within. All over the globe, many Mormon youth seek out each other. Their spiritual adventures are legion. They often reach out to friends who have followed the carnal path into deprivation. Their example, caring, and persistence have supported many through a transformation that has led them into the Melchizedek Priesthood, the temple, sometimes mission calls—in other words, into their eternal potential.

It was at the height of his career as an orthodontist that Randall Kay Bennett and his wife, Shelley, felt “a distinct impression” to prepare to serve missions. This meant that they would need to sell their home right away.
The reason for the prompting didn’t become immediately apparent—it took three years for their home to sell, a process that “took a lot of patience” and required that they “show the Lord that we were really committed,” Elder Bennett says. “We continued to trust in the Lord and tried to stay close to Him through frequent temple attendance, daily scripture study, prayer, fasting, and service to others.”
Shortly after their home finally sold, Elder Bennett was called to serve at the Provo Missionary Training Center and then as president of the Russia Samara Mission.
“It was wonderful—and very humbling—to know that the Lord had been mindful of us and had been preparing us,” Elder Bennett said. “We have come to know that the Lord is aware of the thoughts of our minds and the feelings of our hearts. We have learned to trust that He knows better than we do, that He knows more than we do, and that He loves us.”

Sister Roper nodded. “A few years ago, when my son Micah was your age, we had a similar lesson in Sharing Time. We were talking about how we can follow Heavenly Father. The counselor in the Primary presidency had a big banner in front of the Primary room. She told the children to raise their hands when they thought of a way to follow Heavenly Father. Then she would write their answers on the banner.
“The children began giving wonderful answers, like ‘Read your scriptures’ and ‘Say your prayers’ and ‘Be a good example.’ Micah raised his hand, and when the counselor called on him, he said, ‘Brush your teeth.’”
Sister Roper was laughing, too. “You know, I think we all wondered that. I thought that Micah hadn’t been paying attention. Poor Micah! Everyone was laughing, and I could tell that he was really embarrassed. He looked like he was ready to cry. I know that he was sorry that he had raised his hand.”
“Well,” Sister Roper went on, “there were still a few snickers, but almost everyone stopped. The great lesson that I learned that day came when the counselor said, ‘Very good, Micah. We do show Heavenly Father that we love Him when we take care of the bodies that He has blessed us with. I’m glad you thought of that.’
“No one was laughing while she wrote ‘Brush your teeth’ on the banner. I looked at Micah, and he was happily beaming. I was glad the counselor had helped both him and the rest of us see that his answer really was correct.”

Throughout my life I have had numerous examples of being blessed when following the promptings of the Lord. When I was a missionary in the Philippines Davao mission there was a great deal of political furor over the desire by separatist groups wanting Mindinao, the largest island in the Visayan island group, to secede from the Philippines and become an independent Islamic state. On our P-day my companion and I were shopping at the only large department store in Davao when I heard a clear emphatic voice whisper to me saying, 'sister leave, leave now." I turned directly to my companion and said, 'sister I think we should leave," to which she responded, "yes you're right," there was no further discussion, we both put down the goods we had in our hands and left the store immediately. On our "jeepny" ride traveling back to our area we heard on the radio that a bomb had exploded in the department store we had been in less than a half hour earlier and according to initial reports there had been loss of life. Later we found out that 13 people were killed in that explosion. We were blessed by heeding the promptings of the spirit. D&C 84:47 states "every one that hearkeneth to the voice of the Spirit cometh unto God . . ." There was, and is no doubt in my mind that the Lord was watching over me and my companion. Heeding the Spirit brought us physical safety and brought us closer to the Lord through our enriched testimonies of the power of the Spirit.

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

Many appreciate this chance to be an example for their own family. Says Elder Vernon Snarr of Salt Lake City, “We felt that we could not expect our ten grandchildren to be obedient to a call from the Lord if we, as grandparents, were not obedient.”

During Sister LaVaun Asay’s orientation interview with her mission president, Elder M. Russell Ballard, now of the First Quorum of the Seventy, she confided to him that she didn’t know how to be a missionary and was nervous and frightened to try. So he kindly went through a practice session with her asking the golden questions.

Later, on her first missionary day in Kirtland Lake, Ontario, while her husband, Verl, was paying for their groceries, she found the courage to ask the lady at the grocery check counter the golden question. The lady responded positively.

After the Asays’ first discussion with this woman and her husband, Robert and Betti W. Guild, Robert invited his brother, Don, and his wife, Sheila, to join them. After a short time all four were baptized. Their influence among friends and other family members has led to at least twelve more baptisms so far—all because Sister Asay discovered courage she didn’t think she had.

Another blessing is spending twenty-four hours a day together—even though it takes some adjustment. Many couples reported their joy from working hard together, seeing their eternal companion doing the Lord’s work, and being involved in a spiritual atmosphere together for so many hours at a time.

Missionary couples and mission leaders are quick to insist, however, that a mission is not a leisure time—it is not a retirement vacation. “When a retired couple moves into missionary work,” says Elder Pinegar, “they have just accepted a challenging and exciting task.”

But Elder Dean M. and Sister Marchey Lloyd of Pocatello, Idaho, believe that shouldn’t discourage anyone. They appreciate the spiritual development they’ve had on their mission. “We were retired, and doing some long-planned traveling. We were enjoying our trips, but our spiritual life was not receiving much nourishment. Our decision to go on a mission brought new vigor, new emotions, new friends, new places, new challenges. It brought us closer together as husband and wife; we had a common goal and a real partnership. And best of all, it brought new spiritual growth, instead of spiritual retirement.”

“That wasn’t as bad as the year we wore Santa hats and pajamas,” I said.
“A horror show,” Lucy agreed.
Actually, it was our pressed pajamas and Santa hats. Mom decided to starch and iron all our pajamas and the effect was one of my older brother, Michael, Lucy, and me (Tyler wasn’t born yet) standing stiffly at attention in our cardboard nightwear.
“Cute, Matt. You looked pretty awesome in your fire truck jammies,” teased Nick Flander, who until that moment had been my best friend.
The list of disasters is long. One year we all looked fine, except for Lucy, who had her eyes closed and mouth wide open. Or the Christmas when we used a photo from our vacation at the beach, all of us in our swimming suits.
“I thought it would be different. Kind of cute,” Dad explained.
“Beach shots don’t cut it in December,” groaned Michael that year. At least this year he’s on a mission in Great Britain and mercifully out of reach of even the longest of my Dad’s lenses.
“Is there any way out?” Lucy asked sadly.
“I don’t think so. Pray for a miracle,” I answered. “It’s our only hope.”
It was Tyler who boosted my faith in divine intervention a couple of nights later. I was upstairs, deep into a college hoops game, when he came in.
“Can we talk, Matt?”
“Always. Trouble with homework? Depressed about the ozone layer? Need some advice about girls?”
“No, I was thinking about Christmas cards.”
That got my attention. “What about them?”
Tyler sighed. “Michael.”
The light bulb that occasionally doubles as my brain flickered to life. “Yeah. Michael. He won’t be in the picture this year. Doesn’t seem right, does it, bud?”
“Nope.”
I was sensing a good angle, one that would end our hopeless holiday tradition. “I’ll talk with Dad, as soon as I catch him in a good mood, like right after he eats dessert.”
Tyler looked a little happier. And I was feeling pretty good too. A foolish tradition of my father’s was about to come to a screeching halt. Now all I had to do was convince Dad that without Michael in the picture, we weren’t quite a family.
We have a spare bedroom in our house that through the years has evolved into the music room, the library, the den, and the sewing room. When Dad is doing some serious vegging out, he heads up there, which is what he did an hour after dinner the following night. The timing felt right. I gave Tyler a thumbs up, then trudged up the stairs. Dad was sitting in an old chair, listening to ancient music from the ’70s.
“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” he greeted me, sounding fairly relaxed for a parent.
“Hi, Dad.” My strategy was simple: link this all up to Tyler. That way if Dad got ticked, I just tell him it’s all his last-born child’s idea, and I skate home free, since parents hardly ever get upset with the baby of the family. “Dad, can we talk about Tyler for a second?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“He’s worried about the Christmas card. He doesn’t think we should have a family picture this year because Michael is in London.” Then, feeling a surge of nobility, I lowered my voice and quietly said, “I kind of agree with him, Dad.”
Dad sat up in his chair. “You kids don’t really like the idea of a family photo, do you?”
“I think we’d like to try something else, something more contemporary. Like what other families do.”
He looked serious. Very serious. “Could be that I’ve had my blinders on,” he said slowly. “I’m not the best photographer in the world. I know that. I always thought the cards were kind of cute. Maybe it wasn’t the picture itself, just that we always were together in the photo. I suppose things change.”
This was too easy. “Change is good, Dad,” I reminded him, going for the jugular. “I think it says so in the Old Testament. Or Brigham Young said something like that.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed his chin. “Still …”
The word still made me nervous. If there is one word that throws fear into the lives of teenagers everywhere, it is still when a parent is on the verge of making a wise and favorable decision. In this case, it signaled that Dad had not been totally swayed by my logic and eloquence. The sweet feeling of victory was slipping through my grasp.
“Still,” he repeated, and I felt doom encircling me, “let’s try one more year, at least. Michael may need it. Next year, we’ll buy boxed cards if you kids don’t want the family photo. Can you live with that, Matt?”
Partial victory, at least. One more year, then the family Christmas photo would be history.
“Okay, Dad. One more year.”
“We’ll take care of it on Saturday then.”
“But not in the mountains.”
“No, not in the mountains. I’ve got somewhere special planned.”
I didn’t even ask where. I wanted to hurry out of the room and give the news to Tyler and Lucy, before he could change his mind.
In our front yard is an old oak tree, and since we’d had a mild autumn, some of the leaves were still hanging from it. When I finally got up on Saturday and made my way downstairs, I was startled to see the tripod set up underneath the oak’s long, graceful branches. Dad’s special place was right at home. An hour later, we stood under the tree while he fiddled with his camera and made all the final adjustments.
“I hope nobody sees us out here,” Lucy whispered.
“Better than being in a blizzard,” I replied.
“Okay, everyone, straighten up. Everything is set. Here I come!” Dad said exuberantly. “Now one, two, three, everyone say, CHEESE!”
What can I say? The photo was great. It was perfect. Against all odds, defying all Andrews family tradition, Dad managed to get us in focus with our eyes open, and all of us looking natural and happy. Set against the oak tree, with our red and green sweaters and Tyler’s stocking cap, we managed to look right in step with the season.
“Guess it was bound to happen some year,” Dad mumbled, looking over the photos in an unconvincing attempt to sound humble.
“Miracles still do happen,” Mom chimed in.
“Can we send this to Michael? I think he’ll like it even if he isn’t in it,” Tyler said.
“Michael will get the very first one,” Mom promised.
We didn’t have long to wait before hearing Michael’s opinion about the Christmas card. Ten days before Christmas, a letter arrived. Mom tore it open as soon as she came in from the mailbox.
Dear Mom, Dad, Matt, Lucy, and Tyler,
I can’t tell you how neat it was to see the Christmas card photo. It looked great, even if I wasn’t part of it. Maybe I’m the reason they never seemed to turn out very well!
We’d had a rough day. It was dark, windy, and cold, and we didn’t have much luck with the work. We had so many doors slammed in our faces that my companion and I joked about needing plastic surgery to straighten out our noses. Anyway, we picked up our mail at the post after lunch, and I jammed your letter into my overcoat pocket.
It was on the bus that I opened the letter. When I saw you standing in front of the tree in our yard, I started to giggle. A woman sitting across the aisle said something about how I must be reading a nice letter. I showed her the card, and she was impressed by the photo. One thing led to another, and we’re going by her home to drop off a Book of Mormon tomorrow. Who knows if anything ever comes of it, but it wouldn’t have happened if a certain photo of a good-looking family hadn’t appeared in the mail.
Mom set down Michael’s letter. “Maybe we should try the photo again next year.”
Nobody disagreed. “But no train jammies,” I said. “I draw the line there.”
“No pajamas, Matt,” Dad nodded. “Same deal though. If the photo isn’t acceptable to everyone, we won’t use it. We’ll work hard to make it a decent picture.”
That evening, I walked into the spare room. Dad was on the floor, leafing through the family Christmas photo album. He flipped to the first page. “Look at this, Matt. See something?”
I squinted at the picture, faded after more than 20 years. “You and Mom. In front of your old car.”
“What else?”
“Well, Mom had long hair, and you had more hair …”
“Anything else?”
I studied the photo. Two people. My parents, soon after they were married. The first Andrews family Christmas card. No children back then. A long way from our family as it was today.
Or was it?
Whether it was two Andrews, six Andrews, or just five Andrews with one on a mission, it was still our family. The Christmas photo was about tradition, togetherness, the season of the year, and the way we celebrate it, and not so much the photo itself. This was a history of our family, a year at a time, right at our fingertips. An occasional brush with frostbite and teasing from our friends seemed a small price to pay for the treasure at hand. We would look through these photos someday and all laugh or cry, watching our family change from year to year. Someone would notice Michael was missing from this year’s photo and certainly say, “Oh, that was the year he was on his mission. Whatever happened to the woman he met on the bus?” What great Christmas memories.
“See anything else?” my father gently asked.
“What I see is a family, no matter how many people are there. I see a lot of what Christmas is about.”
And as I said so, for the first time, I got the distinct feeling that I was not looking at just a photo but seeing the whole picture.

I can’t pass by President Hafen without mentioning his delightful sense of humor. I have to confess that sometimes I didn’t get the point of his puns, but I nevertheless chortled for days—after all, he was the President. I do remember the telling of one joke which I thought captured his rather unique sense of humor. One day we were walking across campus in the late winter. It had been a particularly brutal winter, even by Rexburg standards, and the snow was flying at us driven by a forty mile an hour wind. As we struggled to make our way, President Hafen turned to me and said, “Mike, Ricks College is a special place.” “How so,” I cautiously responded as bits of ice and snow stung my face. “Well,” he continued above the howl of the wind, “In the Church, many are called, but few are frozen.” His humor warmed me up on a cold and blustery day.

While we were growing up in a small community, my father saw the need for my brother and me to learn the principle of work. As a result, he put us to work on a small farm on the edge of town where he had been raised. He ran the local newspaper, so he could not spend much time with us except early in the morning and in the evening. That was quite a responsibility for two young teenagers, and sometimes we made mistakes.
Our small farm was surrounded by other farms, and one of the farmers went in to see my father one day to tell him the things he thought we were doing wrong. My father listened to him carefully and then said, “Jim, you don’t understand. You see, I’m raising boys and not cows.” After my father’s death, Jim told us his story. How grateful I was for a father who decided to raise boys, and not cows. In spite of the mistakes, we learned how to work on that little farm, and I guess, although they didn’t say it in so many words, we always knew we were more important to Mother and Father than the cows or, for that matter, anything else.

I was baptized when I turned eight years old, though it wasn’t until the summer after my junior year of high school that I found out what it meant for me to have a testimony of the Church and gospel.
We had a combined stake youth conference that year, and it was held in a beautiful valley. For two days we were given tasks to perform, helped around campsites, and played lots of games.
On the third day, we were given a packet and told not to open it until instructed. After a prayer, we each found a quiet spot not too far away where we would be alone. Once settled, we could open the large manila envelope.
There was a spot, serene and shaded, with a gorgeous view and a log to sit on. I perched on the log feeling like there was no one else around me. I opened the packet and pulled out all the papers inside.
The top sheet told me this was my very own opportunity to talk with my Heavenly Father. Then there was a white envelope, which held a letter from each of my parents. Tears sprung to my eyes as I read the loving words my parents wrote me.
Next, I looked at my goal sheet. It listed a few suggestions for me to tell and ask my Heavenly Father in prayer. There was also space for me to write my own ideas.
There I knelt, eyes closed and hands clasped, and had a good talk with my Father in Heaven. I can’t remember everything that I said or felt. One thing stands out clearly, though. A wonderful truth slipped into my mind.
“Heavenly Father,” I said, “I know—I KNOW the Church is true. It just is.”
At that moment, something warm crept over, around, and through me. I felt so light I could have been floating. Everything seemed bright, peaceful, and perfect. A feeling of love enveloped me so fully I almost couldn’t breathe.
I remained on my knees, soaking in the Spirit for several minutes. When my eyes opened, the world around me didn’t seem real. It was quite a shock to come back to dirt, bugs, and heat. I was happy, though. I gathered my pages and headed back to my group.
Yes, I was baptized when I was 8, but this experience at age 17 truly strengthened my testimony.

Let me briefly recount the life of Maggie Nichols Comer. African-American, she was born in Woodland, Mississippi, to a sharecropping family that had lived on in Mississippi after the end of slavery. Her father died when she was five years old. Her mother then married a man who was physically abusive to his wife and children and who kept them from school whenever it was possible for them to earn the slightest bit of money. At 16 Maggie ran away from home and migrated to East Chicago, Indiana. She worked as a domestic and eventually married Hugh Comer. With the help of her husband, who was often sick, she raised five children of her own as well as a stepdaughter. She was determined that her children would receive the opportunities that education could provide. She worked very hard, often at two or three jobs, to give her children opportunities. Her husband died of emphysema when her children were in high school. Still she did not let any obstacle deter her from helping her children to achieve all that was possible.

Let me give you a couple of examples of her tenacity. One of her sons who was attending Indiana University needed to take a course in the summer to be on track for his program, but the family did not have sufficient money to finance the education. Maggie Comer called Indiana University and asked to speak to the president. When the operator told her she couldn’t just call up and speak to the president of the university, Maggie simply insisted that she had to—and she eventually did obtain financial aid for her son. Once her son Charles had mistakenly received a “pink slip” from school indicating poor work. While driving down a four-lane highway connecting East Chicago to Chicago, she decided to discuss the matter with Charles. Here is her son James’ account of this conversation:

She said, “You can do better than that!”
He knew that there must be a mistake but he said, “No, I can’t.”
“You can!”
“I can’t.”
“You can!”
“I can’t.”
Finally Mom got so frustrated she stopped the car in the middle of the street and said, “You can!!!”
Mom was not the best driver in the world. . . . I was always a bit nervous when we got in the car. . . . But this was more than that. We were stopped in the middle of Columbus Drive, the busiest street in town—right in front of the main fire station. Cars were whizzing by and I could imagine that at any second the fire engines would roar out of the station. I was terrified! I could have choked Charles. Tell her you can and get us out of here, I thought to myself! [James P. Comer, Maggie’s American Dream (New York: New American Library, 1988), p. 111]

It turned out that the pink slip was a mistake. There were only two black children in Charles’ class, and the pink slip was meant for the other boy.

Maggie Comer raised five children, all of whom graduated from college and received advanced degrees. She taught them right from wrong. She taught them that they were responsible for their choices. All successfully pursued their professions with distinction and raised families of their own. Her son James, who tells her story in his book, is the Maurice Falk Professor of Psychiatry and associate dean at the Yale Medical School.

If you wish to believe that an undereducated black woman named Maggie Comer was programmed to use up her life in service to her children and many others, you may. I see her as a heroine who understood the principle of agency. Here is her statement in her own words.

Even as a little barefoot girl back in the country, I had this dream. I had this gift from inside to want something. I thought to myself that if this one could do it and that one could do it, I could do it. And when I couldn’t go on, I said my children would do it. People would say black folks can’t do this and can’t do that—I wouldn’t have any of it. Sure, I could see it was harder for black people, but I just wanted a chance. That’s what your father used to say, “Just give my people a chance!” [Maggie’s American Dream, pp. 227–28]

After our first date, we both knew we wanted to go on a second date. Ben wanted to go on another date because Rachel was friendly and fun to talk to. Rachel wanted to go on another date because Ben was a gentleman and was still smiling after all of his well-laid plans fell through. After the second date, plus many more dates and prayers after that, we fell in love and decided to get married in the Sacramento California Temple.
The wedding day was absolutely perfect, and we have loved being married ever since. The world may see marriage differently, but we know that “no other relationship of any kind can bring as much joy, generate as much good, or produce as much personal refinement.”1 Marriage is awesome, and here’s why.

Long ago, the renowned author Charles Dickens wrote of opportunities that await. In his classic volume entitled Great Expectations, Dickens described a boy by the name of Philip Pirrip, more commonly known as “Pip.” Pip was born in unusual circumstances. He was an orphan. He never met his mother or father. He never saw a picture of them. Yet he had all the normal desires of a boy. He wished with all his heart that he were a scholar. He wished that he were a gentleman. He wished that he were less ignorant. Yet all of his ambitions and all of his hopes seemed doomed to failure. Do you young men sometimes feel that way? Do those of us who are older entertain these same thoughts?

Then one day a London lawyer by the name of Jaggers approached little Pip and told him that an unknown benefactor had bequeathed to him a fortune. The lawyer put his arm around the shoulder of Pip and said to him, “My boy, you have great expectations.”
Tonight, as I look at you young men and realize who you are and what you may become, I say to you, as that lawyer said to Pip, “My boy, you have great expectations”—not as the result of an unknown benefactor, but as the result of a known Benefactor, even our Heavenly Father, and great things are expected of you.

What I charge you with today is what I charge myself with, which is to discover more creative solutions to working these concepts into our everyday lives. You can tell this has changed my life a lot. I hope you can tell that it really has. When I was working on this research four years ago, I came home with a chapter from a book that showed these data analyses, and my wife read it. She reads everything I write. She tells me pretty honestly when it’s not so good. She read the chapter and said, “I think this is really something. I think we can use this.”

“Yeah, we should give more,” I answered. “We should write bigger checks. We should take this seriously.”

She said, “No, no, no. I think we should do something bigger. I think we should adopt a baby.”

And I said, “Sweetheart, it’s only a book.
But I had no argument. We had to do it. And we did it. It was the best thing we ever did. And that changed our lives even more.

As for your money being cheerfully refunded, I can’t guarantee that, but I promise you that this stuff really works. It works—if you want—because of God in heaven, or it works—if you want—because of your neurochemistry, but it really works, and I leave you with that and one more thought.

As an American citizen and as a person with great delight to be here at BYU and living in this great country, one of the things that I’ve learned as a result of my research is that I’m a happy prosperous person because I live in a country with people who serve. Because you give to your churches and the causes that you care about here in Utah, I have a richer, happier, and healthier life even though I live in Washington, D.C. So for all that you do between your student life and your giving and your missions and everything else that characterizes your life of service that helps me so much, my last words to you are thank you.
© Arthur C. Brooks.