Gospel Story Finder

It was a Thursday night, and I was not exactly in the best mood. The day had gone from bad to worse. Not only was I late for seminary because I had slept in, but in the bustle of getting to the car, I managed to forget my math homework. The whole day continued in this miserable pattern until I came home, pounded upstairs to my room, and slammed my door, daring anyone to disturb me. No one did.
Now with chemistry homework half complete, I slammed shut my book and sat against the bed I had not even had time to make. I felt nothing but empty frustration and anger. What did I do to deserve this? Why was everything going so wrong? I thought wallowing in self-pity.
I glanced at my scriptures and suddenly remembered I had forgotten to read. I flipped them open. I stopped and felt rebellion building within me. Why should I bother? I thought. I had dragged myself out of bed at a ridiculous 5:30 A.M., to get to seminary and all for what? So I could forget my homework and have one of the worst days ever?
I was at my breaking point. Deep down I knew my troubles and poor attitude were my own fault. It was just so much easier to blame someone else. I was contemplating what to do next when a brave soul dared to knock on my door.
“Time for prayer!” shouted Ronnie’s sweet four-year-old voice while still pounding with all his might. I groaned and unlocked my door, emerging from my cave of self-pity.
“Hello, beautiful!” my dad said, kissing my cheek. I only scowled as we walked into my parents’ bedroom where the family had begun to congregate—all seven of us.
“There you are, Catherine. I have hardly seen you all day,” Mom said to me just as Baby Candace, as we like to call her, entered the room. I was greeted by the adorable two-year-old with a bubbly, “Hi, Ratren,” and a hug around the knees. I always find it amazing how much love is stored in that tiny body of hers. I felt slightly better, but I was still annoyed with the way my day had been going. Then I began to think of all the tests waiting for me Friday. I turned to my dad and, with a touch of that attitude which accompanies most 15-year-olds, asked, “Can we just get this over with?” (Luckily, my father was in a better mood than I was.)
“All right then, let’s see,” Dad said looking around the circle and counting as he went, “Where’s Steven?”
“Steven!” Ronnie shouted, cupping his small hands to his mouth as though his 11-year-old brother were across the street rather than in the next room. With that, Steven came bounding in, did a half-somersault, and took his place in the family circle. I only rolled my eyes.
“Now,” Dad began again, “whose turn is it?” I sat back on my heels hoping he would not call on me. The last thing I felt like doing was praying.
“Me turn, me turn!” shouted Candace, waving her hand wildly in the air.
“I guess it is your turn, Candace,” Dad said, smiling. “Do you want Mommy to help you?” Candace nodded and scooted closer to Mom.
“All right then, fold your arms, Candace,” Mom said gently. The small girl glanced around the circle to make sure all eyes were properly closed before she began. I was totally unprepared for what followed.
Before Mom began her usual whispered prompts, Candace started all on her own: “Heavenly Father, tank dee for Mommy, Daddy, Tistine, Ratren, Steben, Nonnie, and me, Tandace. Dat we are a family togeder. Help us choose da right.” The room was silent, except for the voice of a small girl speaking with her Heavenly Father. She had no thoughts of personal gain, only asking a blessing for Daddy at work and to help us “choose da right.” From the mouth of a two-year-old came one of the most humble and pure prayers I have ever heard. I was filled with shame as she closed, “Name of Jesus Christ, amen!”
We gave hugs and praises for the wonderful job Candace had done. After good-night kisses, I once again departed for my room. I gently closed the door and walked over to the corner where my scriptures lay waiting.
In Matthew 18:1–4, I read, “At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?
“And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them,
“And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.”
Tears gathered in my eyes. For the first time, I knew the meaning behind this scripture. Yes, my day had been tough, but only because I had allowed it to be. I realized that throughout life, trials would come and go, but if we humble ourselves to become “as little children,” the Lord can help us get through anything.
After kneeling by my bed to pray, I opened my door and crept into the room where Baby Candace was supposed to be sleeping. “Hi, Ratren!” she shouted as she jumped out of bed, throwing her small arms around my neck. “Shhhh. I love you, Baby,” I said to her, as I tucked her under her sheets.

This story took place in the USA.
Roy sat down at the table and opened his lunch bag. His family had just moved, and this was his first day at his new school. His mom had made his favorite Armenian food, kofta. He was excited to eat it!
Roy unrolled the wax paper wrapped around the kofta. It was like a long, skinny meatball. He loved the smell of the spices baked into the meat. And the hole in the middle made it like a little whistle. He put it to his lips and blew. Then he took a bite. Delicious!
“Hey,” said a boy across the table. “What’s that weird thing you’re eating?”
Roy felt his cheeks flush. “It’s my lunch.”
“Well, it doesn’t look very good.” The boy laughed.
Roy didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know that no one else here ate kofta. He didn’t want them to think he was weird! So he put away his lunch and ran outside for recess.
After school, Roy found Mom unpacking boxes.
“I don’t want to take kofta to school anymore,” Roy said.
“Why?” Mom asked. “It’s your favorite.”
Roy told her what happened at school. “It was so embarrassing!”
“I’m sorry that happened,” Mom said. “Most people here have never had kofta. What if we gave the other kids a chance to try some?”
“Why?” Roy asked. “They won’t eat it.”
“Well, you can’t know unless you ask! I know it’s hard to make new friends. But we are all children of God. Sometimes we just have to get to know more about each other.”
Roy thought about it. He didn’t want to be laughed at. But he did want to give the kids at lunch a better chance to understand. And kofta really was tasty.
He nodded. “OK. Let’s make more.”
The next day at lunch, Roy took a deep breath. He sat down next to the boy who had laughed at him.
Roy opened his lunch bag. “Would any of you like to try some Armenian food?”
The other kids gathered around as Roy unwrapped the kofta.
“I’ll try some,” the boy said.
“Me too,” a girl added. Roy passed around the kofta so everyone could try it. Then they all took a bite.
“This is really good!” the boy said. “What’s it called?”
“Kofta,” Roy said.
“Cool!” The boy smiled. “I’m John. Want to play at recess?”
Roy could only nod with a full mouth. His mom was right—they were all children of God too! And sharing helped him make friends after all.

I would like to finish by sharing an experience that I had here last December. I came down at Christmas time and spoke to a small group of students; and sometime during my talk I made this comment: “The Lord forgives us in a millionth of a millisecond.” I had talked of repentance, but only for a moment. Afterward a young man came up and said, “I don’t believe I’m forgiven; I don’t think what you said is right, Elder Pinnock.”

I replied. “Well, perhaps I made a mistake—the Savior forgives us instantly. It doesn’t even take him a millionth of a millisecond.”

The young man faded away, and I went out and got into the automobile and drove home. Several days later the telephone rang and he reintroduced himself. “I’m the young man that questioned whether I had been forgiven or not.”

I said, “You were forgiven, if . . .” and we reviewed the steps. “Oh yes,” he said. “I’ve talked to my bishop. I have not reverted to those things I did before.” “Then you are forgiven,” I told him.

But the telephone rang once again. This time I said, “Listen, dummy, you are forgiven.” But oh, how he wanted that feeling, and what a struggle he was having to obtain it!

Over 50 years ago, I had the privilege to serve as the president of Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. On the morning of June 5, 1976, my wife, Kathy, and I drove from Rexburg to the Idaho Falls Idaho Temple to attend the sealing of a close friend. Of course, with four young boys in our home at the time, our temple trip could be only accomplished with the help of a courageous babysitter! We left our precious children in her care and made the short, 30-minute drive.
Our experience in the temple that day was wonderful, as it always was. However, after the conclusion of the temple sealing—and as we were preparing to return home—we noticed many temple workers and patrons nervously conversing in the lobby of the temple. Within moments, one of the temple workers told us that the newly constructed Teton Dam in eastern Idaho had collapsed! More than 80 billion gallons (300 million cubic meters) of water were flowing through the dam and into the 300 square miles (775 square km) of neighboring valleys. Much of the city of Rexburg was underwater, with homes and vehicles carried away by floodwaters. Two-thirds of the 9,000 residents were suddenly homeless.
As you might imagine, our thoughts and concerns turned to the safety of our dear children, hundreds of college students and faculty, and a community we loved. We were less than 30 miles (50 km) from home, and yet on this day, long before cell phones and text messaging, we had no way of communicating immediately with our children, nor could we make the drive from Idaho Falls to Rexburg, as all the roads had been closed.
Our only option was to stay the night in a local motel in Idaho Falls. Kathy and I knelt together in our motel room and humbly pleaded with Heavenly Father for the safety of our dear children and the thousands of others affected by the tragic event. I recall Kathy pacing the floors into the early hours of the morning with worry about her children. Despite my own concerns, I was able to put my mind at ease and fall asleep.
It wasn’t long thereafter that my sweet eternal companion woke me and said, “Hal, how can you sleep at a time like this?”
These words then came clearly to my heart and mind. I said to my wife: “Kathy, whatever the outcome, all will be well because of the temple. We have made covenants with God and have been sealed as an eternal family.”
At that moment, it was as if the Spirit of the Lord confirmed in our hearts and minds what we both already knew to be true: the sealing ordinances, found only in the house of the Lord and administered by proper priesthood authority, had bound us together as husband and wife, and our children had been sealed to us. There truly was no need to fear, and we were grateful later to learn that our boys were safe.

I close with a recent, personal experience. Not long ago, Mary and I knelt by our bed to say our evening prayer. It was my turn to say the prayer, and I began by praying for many of the same things that we've always prayed for. We prayed for President Monson, his counselors and the Twelve. We prayed for our missionaries and for other missionaries, for our children and for our grandchildren, and for ourselves. Then an unusual spirit came upon us and I said, “Heavenly Father, all that is left in our lives is to do whatsoever Thou would have us do and to work to bring the blessings of the gospel more strongly into the lives of our children, our grandchildren and, if Thou allows it, our great grandchildren.”

After so many experiences together, Mary and I have come to that place where we are willing, absolutely willing, to fully surrender to our Heavenly Father’s will, not because of force or fear of consequence, but because of our love for Him, and our gratitude for His Son, and our complete confidence in Him as our Father, who loves us. We know that He sees farther than we do. We know that He can provide for us and others in ways we cannot understand. We know that as we follow His will, even when we do not fully understand why, and even when it is contrary to something that we have planned or even worked toward, He will bless us in ways we cannot now even imagine. How we love Him and His Son. How we trust them. How grateful we are for His blessings, and especially those blessings which have required work, faith and trust.

One day my older brother Wallace and I were on our way to school. It had been raining the previous day and the ground was very muddy, especially along the street on which the building known as Joseph’s brick store was. Wallace and I both got stuck fast in the mud and could not get out. And, childlike, we began to cry. Looking up, I beheld the loving friend of children, the Prophet Joseph, coming to us. He soon had us on higher and drier ground. Then he stooped down and cleaned the mud from our little heavy-laden shoes, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped our tear-stained faces. He spoke kind and cheering words to us and sent us on our way to school rejoicing. You can see why Wallace and I loved him.

Now that she is a Laurel, Amy has also chosen a value project that is helping her come closer to Christ. “This year I’m really concentrating on getting to know Jesus Christ better,” she says. Realizing that the way to know Him better is to be more like Him, Amy made a list of all the attributes of Christ she could think of, with help from the scriptures. She came up with attributes like faith, charity, and generosity, and she tries to develop each of the qualities on her list one at a time.

When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.

A little story given by one of your missionary sons in Italy a few weeks ago brought this clearly into focus for me.

He recounted that one morning a poor little crippled boy in ragged clothes and badly worn shoes came to a busy street corner and went from person to person, begging for a few lira without success. A man observing the boy from a distance finally went over and picked up this little lad, held him tightly and loved him, and then went forth and cared for him with his means without any judgment.

This sight would have touched any heart and helps us see the power of love that our Father in Heaven would have us understand in our lives. Jesus, the beloved Son of God, reemphasized this new dimension to bless the world when He said, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another.” (John 13:34.)

As in the case of the man who picked up the little crippled boy, there are no reproachments or judgments—just love and help.

Sister Holland spoke of another very memorable experience that became “a real turning point in my life.” She said, “My parents had allowed me to come to Salt Lake City and live with a group of girls for the summer while I worked. They were all about my age. We had many happy times together, but in our apartment at one time we felt despondency and discouragement, and I remember feeling it so strongly one day that I decided to fast and pray about how to be happy, how to find the peace and security and confidence that a person needs. That evening my roommates and I decided to go to a movie. We first went to a grocery store to get some treats to take with us. At the store we pulled our car in right next to Elder ElRay L. Christiansen, then an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He walked right over to our car. He chatted with each one of us. He seemed very interested and asked us our names. I was so excited, I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.”
As if she were reliving that experience and sensing again the impact of that memorable occasion, she bore testimony: “Just before Elder Christiansen got ready to leave, he paused, looked right at me, and said, ‘Pat, the only way to be happy is to be obedient.’”
There was silence for a moment, each pondering the magnitude of this simple counsel and the direct answer to fervent prayer. She recalled her feelings on that occasion, “First of all, just to see a General Authority was a highlight in my life. It was the first time I had ever had any personal contact with Church leaders like that.”
This young girl, anxious to find the right answers and inspired by the counsel of a General Authority, had no way of knowing then that later, as the wife of Jeffrey Holland, former Church Commissioner of Education and now President of Brigham Young University, she would find herself in close and frequent association with many of the General Authorities. “To have my prayers answered so directly was another turning point in my life,” she said. “I realized right then and there that truly the greatest thing that I could cling to, the only way to be confident and happy, is to be obedient and live by the Spirit.”
While yet a teenager she discovered “there is just no substitute for obedience.” While obedience had not been a struggle for Pat, still the impact of receiving such an immediate and direct answer to her earnest supplication, and to receive it from one of the Lord’s chosen servants, a General Authority in person, was just more than she had ever hoped for.

Several years ago, as this Conference Center was being built and nearing completion, I entered this sacred building on the balcony level in a hard hat and safety glasses, ready to vacuum the carpet that my husband was helping to install. Where the rostrum now stands was a front-end loader moving dirt, and the dust in this building was thick. When it settled, it did so on the new carpet. My part was to vacuum. And so I vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed. After three days my little vacuum burned up!

The afternoon before the first general conference in this beautiful building, my husband called me. He was about to install the last piece of carpet—under this historic pulpit.
He asked, “What scripture should I write on the back of this carpet?”
And I said, “Mosiah 18:9: ‘Stand as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.’”

Years ago when I was vacuuming this carpet—trying to act well my small part—I didn’t realize that I would one day stand with my feet on the carpet under this pulpit.

Last August, I had an important decision to make. I could either go to Young Women camp with my ward or attend a volleyball camp. I would be trying out for the volleyball team at school, and the volleyball camp was highly encouraged. It showed you were dedicated if you attended it. I had been praying about whether I should go to Young Women camp or volleyball camp. I had a strong impression to go to Young Women camp.
The biggest lesson I learned at Young Women camp was about blessings we receive when we follow the Lord. The following week, I went to tryouts. I made the volleyball team and progressed to varsity at the end of the season. My testimony grew immensely. I know whenever we are faced with decisions, we can pray and receive answers.

Some years ago in the early spring, I took my little niece Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along a creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating, as we would take a step, hesitate, reach, step forward, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthly floor, and we saw the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his great love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close.

Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go of Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands stuck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included gratitude for the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for the same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up, placing both arms around my neck, and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean, if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense security in our eternal relationship if I could somehow awaken within her a great eternal truth.

“Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us members of one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our brother, too, our elder brother.”

“Then what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by linking my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear! We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked. Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain: “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use His name.”

I pondered the answer to her simple questions. I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears so often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul: “… that they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them …” (D&C 20:77).

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon ourselves that sacred name and committing to try always to remember Him and keep His commandments?

While Shelly seemed secure and satisfied with the explanation given her at that time, over the years I have searched for deeper understanding of this sacred ordinance in which we renew our covenant each week to take upon ourselves His name. And while that usually occurs on Sunday, what does it mean on weekdays, and what difference does it make to a child, a youth, or an adult? Does it affect how we live our lives in the summer, winter, or fall? Should it? Can we afford to consider this sacred ordinance passively and allow it to become routine in nature?

I would now say to Shelly, “Yes, my dear, put my name with the Savior’s.” He said we could. He wants us to. He wants us to feel comfortable carrying his name.

As I held Shelly’s little hand in mine for one last squeeze before tiptoeing from her room that evening some years ago, a feeling of gratitude and reverence came flooding forth as I realized that while her hand had been in mine for most of the afternoon as I helped her through the creek, across the rocks, and over the tree and lifted her up to see the miracle of life unfolding in a robin’s nest, this child led me to begin a search that would lead me to a better understanding of a great eternal truth. King Benjamin explained it for us: “And now, because of the covenant which ye have made ye shall be called the children of Christ, his sons, and his daughters; for behold, this day he hath spiritually begotten you; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters” (Mosiah 5:7).

We can all be members of the same family. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t, consider Shelly’s question to me: Why don’t you stop? It may not always be easy, but with his help we can overcome.

Two years ago, the Pace family was able to bring a part of the Easter pageant home with them. A pure white baby lamb, needed for a scene where Adam offers a sacrifice, didn’t have a mother, and many worried the lamb might die.
“When my mother noticed the lamb,” Kelsey Pace, 14, remembers, “she told the owner that I had raised lambs on a bottle before. So the lamb became my responsibility. I had to feed her every four hours, even in the middle of the night, with extra-large bottles of powdered goat’s milk and sometimes medicine, too.
“We prayed for her every day. She is now healthy, and she’s even in the pageant again as one of the sheep with the shepherds who hear the angel tell of the birth of Jesus.” The lamb, now a family pet, lives in the Paces’ backyard.

I did not fully appreciate memories and self until I, with the help of others, compiled my personal history. I gave my wife a draft copy to read and asked her to edit it. My instructions were: “You know me better than I know myself, so please read it carefully and make corrections in the manuscripts.” A half hour later, when I returned to see how she was doing, she was crying. I said, “My goodness, is it that bad?” “No,” she answered, “it is that good!” “Have you made any changes?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “it is you speaking, and I don’t want to erase or edit you out of the record.”

Later, we gave bound copies of my history to our children. Both of us knew that the thing would probably be placed on a shelf and read only sometime. A few weeks ago, however, one of our daughters said to me: “Dad, I love you so very much.” I wondered what was wrong and asked: “What made you say that?” She explained, “It was your personal history; I have been reading about your life.” She added: “I did not realize what you had done, or all that you had experienced.”

My father was raised on the island of Moloka’i as a Catholic. Unfortunately, as an altar boy, he acquired the taste of alcohol at a very early age. That never stopped him from being a hard worker and providing for his family though. We grew up in Kaneohe where he worked for Board of Water Supply. He was a very good employee and always showed up for work. He started at 7:00 am and was home by 4:00 pm, but if he wasn’t home by 4:30 pm, we knew he wasn’t coming home sober. I remember sometimes cringing in my bed and pretending I was asleep, because when he came home late, he always wanted company in the kitchen. He would always yell out for one of us kids to come and sit with him—that kid was usually me. I would have to listen to him talk nonsense and pretend I was falling asleep so he would either tell me to go back to bed, or he would fall asleep too. What we kids didn’t want for sure was for my mom to get up and start arguing with him. That usually didn’t end very well at all.
There were many awful nights we had to endure at home. At those times we would ask my mom, “Why don’t you just leave him already?” My mom would remind us, “He’s a good man. He just has this weakness.” She saw a great man in my dad. It just took a lot longer for my dad to see it in himself.
Our bishop at the time was also a police Sergeant and for whatever reason, he was the only one my dad would listen to when he was drunk and belligerent. Bishop Sam had a way of calming my dad down. Because he loved my dad first, my dad loved him. There wasn’t anything my dad wouldn’t do for Bishop Sam, except stop drinking and smoking. Although not what you would consider “active,” my dad would always be the first at the chapel for clean-up. He would even take his lawn mower to the chapel when no one else was there and clean the yard if he thought it wasn’t good enough. Mom saw the diamond in the rough. She loved him first and taught me to do the same.
My dad worked very hard to try and take us to the temple. However, he died from liver cancer before he was able to do that. Thank goodness for the temple and the work that goes on in there. We did his work a year later.

I close with this last true story, as it was given by Bob Richards in his book Life’s Higher Goals. It always touches my heart and it may touch yours. Lou Little tells this story about his greatest football team. They were on their way to the conference championship—one last game. He had a boy on his squad who had not quite been able to make the team for four straight years. Just before the game—three days before—Lou was given a telegram to give to this boy that informed him his only living relative had just died. The boy looked at the telegram and said, “Coach, I’ll be back for Saturday’s game.” The morning of the game he came up to his coach and said, “Lou, I want you to put me in this game. I know I haven’t made the first team yet, but let me in for this kickoff. I’ll prove to you that I’m worthy of it.” Well, Lou could see that the boy was emotionally upset, and he made all kinds of excuses, but finally he thought, “Well, he can’t do much harm on the kickoff, so I’ll put the boy in.”

The roar of the crowd followed the kickoff. The opposing quarterback took the ball on the goal line, moved up, and on the seven-yard line there was a tremendous tackle. The boy had dropped him in his tracks. On the next play Lou left him in. He made the next tackle; he was in on the next tackle; you couldn’t move him out of there. He made practically every tackle that day—terrific downfield blocking. He was the reason why Columbia won the championship. Afterwards, all the guys were pounding him on the back. When they were all done, Lou Little went up to the boy and said, “Son, I don’t understand it. Today you were an all-American. I’ve never seen you play like this in four straight years. What happened?”
And the boy looked up at his coach and said, “Coach, you knew my dad died, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I handed you the telegram.”
He said, “You knew he was blind, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve seen you walk him around the campus many times.”
He said, “Coach, today is the first football game my dad ever saw me play.” It makes a difference, friends, when those unseen eyes are watching.

One summer when I was a teenager, I became very discouraged. It seemed that all my friends were taller and better at sports than I. I thought that growing taller would solve my problems, naively thinking being bigger would somehow make me better at whatever I wanted to do.
Worried about my lack of height, I went to my tallest brother and asked him what I could do to grow taller. I figured he would know the answer to my question. What he said surprised me: “Obey your mother. Whatever she asks you to do, do it without waiting.”
My confidence in my brother was so strong that I went to a storage room, stood against the wall, and made a pencil mark to record my height.
For the remainder of the summer days, my mother’s wish or slightest hint was my command. Almost immediately the feelings of growth began to fill me with satisfaction. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of this before. My mother may have spent the summer in shock, but it didn’t matter. I was growing. Anticipation of the results that awaited me at the conclusion of my vacation brought me happiness all summer long.
When fall came I returned to my measuring spot near the storage room. Quickly I located the mark on the wall. Standing next to it, pencil in hand, I made a second mark, turned and looked to see how much I had grown. You can imagine my disappointment when only one slightly darker mark could be found.
I went to my brother to get an explanation about what had happened. After hearing my concern, he asked me an important question: “How do you feel inside?” My inward feelings of growth were undeniable. This I explained to him. He then reminded me that Heavenly Father looks on the heart, not the outward appearance (see 1 Sam. 16:7).
It was really true; I had grown. The willing and obedient service rendered had increased my ability to understand that the true measure of our success or growth becomes apparent to us when we do our best to willingly serve others.

My friend invited me to a birthday party during the Saturday morning session of general conference. It was really hard to choose whether to listen to general conference or go to the party. I had a feeling I should listen to conference, so I did. It’s a good thing I did because I had to give a talk in our Primary program on what President Monson said in conference. Since I had decided to listen to conference, I was able to hear the prophet so I could do my talk.
Katie J., age 9, Utah

My grandmother Firl Bagley was born in Charleston, Utah. Charleston is the small town at the far end of Deer Creek where you turn to go to Midway. She was the tenth of eleven children. Her family decided to move to Victor, Idaho, when she was young. Her mother was ill, and they left her in Salt Lake City to recover. However, her mother died when Firl was four years old. Firl’s dad could not take care of a farm and eleven kids by himself, so Firl was put in a foster home with a German couple. This couple raised her in Victor until she left to go to Sugar City to high school.

Howard met Firl in a very interesting way. Firl was in front of the church on a Sunday morning and noticed that a small child had fallen and scraped a knee. Firl reached her first, picked her up, and loved her. Howard was a young returned missionary with black curly hair, a beautiful smile, and a twinkle in his eye. He said to himself, “That girl is going to be my wife.”