Gospel Story Finder

Then, in late November, a friend introduced me to Karen Gerdes, a Latter-day Saint from the United States who was serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in the Philippines. Karen was working in the area of Pantalan Luma, which had been hit by a tidal wave.
There was something about Karen that I had not seen in others. It wasn’t just that her eyes were blue. Her smile and her whole countenance were different. I could feel her sincerity. Happiness and love radiated from her.
I wondered why she would leave the comfort of her home, live in a poverty-stricken area in hot, humid weather, and eat foreign food—all without a salary. Why would she care? Were all Mormons like her?
A few months after I met Karen, I told her, “I am ashamed, because I should be helping my people.” I asked if there was anything I could do to help with her projects. That started our friendship. I would ask her questions about religion. I knew she understood me, because she had also been a Catholic. She did not try to convince me, but she answered my questions and gave me Church pamphlets.
Then in March 1985, Karen invited me to a fireside. At the fireside, I noticed a poster about baptism for the dead. That was new to me. I memorized the scripture reference. The sister missionaries showed a filmstrip called Run and Not Be Weary. I accepted the Word of Wisdom right there. Then they showed The Windows of Heaven. I had never known that a tithe meant ten percent. I resolved to start giving ten percent and to not cheat God.
I found myself explaining to the members how I viewed tithing: “It is like when you go fishing. You use bait—tithing—and then you catch a fish—a blessing.” Then I used another comparison: “When you remove the sweet potato tops, they produce more tops and sweet potatoes, too.”
But I did not like being called an “investigator,” and I didn’t like to be pushed. When members asked if I would like the missionaries to teach me at home, I said no. But I invited the sister missionaries for dinner the following Saturday. They came and showed slides of a refugee camp where they worked, but nothing about religion was discussed. Before they left, they gave me several pamphlets, which I promised to read.
The next week, I went to visit my mother in Manila. I asked her where I could find a priest to answer my questions. She suggested that I go to a Bible class my brother and sister were attending. I did as she said, praying in my heart that I would be able to ask my question. To my surprise, the priest began to explain the importance of baptism. I wasted no time, but raised my hand and asked, “Was there baptism for the dead before, as stated in 1 Corinthians 15:29 [1 Cor. 15:29]?” He read the verse aloud, then looked at his watch and dismissed the class. He said, “I will talk to you in my office.” He got his Greek translation of the Bible and other books, then started explaining the Resurrection. I said, “That is not the issue; I believe in the Resurrection.” After more than two hours of discussion, I was still not satisfied. He lent me two books to read.
The next day I asked the same question of an older priest. He told me that baptism for the dead was no longer necessary.
On April 1, the paper mill was temporarily shut down. I was reading a pamphlet called The Plan of Salvation when I began to feel a certainty that what I was reading was true. The Holy Ghost was bearing witness, making everything clear to me. I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Church was true. I was crying. I had found something so precious. I wanted to tell my co-workers, but they would not understand. I went home early and found Karen at my home. “I know that the plan of salvation is true,” I told her, “and I want to be baptized.” She arranged for the missionaries to teach me.
The following day, I had my first discussion with Elder Johnson and Elder Barangan. I had such a strong desire to be baptized that I went to their home very early the next morning. When I told them of my desire, Elder Johnson told me that to be baptized I must obey the Word of Wisdom and attend church. I said, “I started obeying the Word of Wisdom when I saw the filmstrip, and I have attended the church several times.” They taught me three more discussions. Then on Easter Sunday, 7 April 1985, I was baptized. I felt that this was the very moment I had waited for since I was born.
That day was also Fast Sunday. I fasted, shared my testimony in sacrament meeting, and paid my tithing for the first time. After sharing my testimony, I had an even stronger conviction that I had made the right decision. I felt complete—no longer drifting, but with sure direction. I know that the Spirit bore witness to me.
Since my baptism, I have served a mission and have been an ordinance worker in the Manila Philippines Temple.
I feel so blessed to have the gospel in my life. I know that the Book of Mormon I rescued from the trash is the book that rescued me.

The smell of baking cookies filled the air as Nataniel helped Grandma scoop dough onto cookie sheets. Grandma smiled at him. “Who loves you?” she asked.
Nataniel thought about how Grandma always made his favorite kind of cookies and kept paper on hand because she knew he liked to draw. “You do,” he answered.
“That’s right,” Grandma said. “I’ve known you longer than anyone besides your mom and dad. But there’s someone else who has known you even longer than I have.”
“Who else?” Nataniel asked.
“Someone who loved you before you came to earth,” Grandma said.
“Oh,” Nataniel said. “You mean Heavenly Father.”
“Yes,” Grandma said, giving Nataniel a hug.
He smiled. Knowing he was loved made him feel warm inside.

The bell rang. The first-grade students raced for the door.
“Quietly!” Mrs. Mills said.
Eric stayed at his desk.
“Aren’t you going out?” asked Mrs. Mills. Eric didn’t look up. “Recess is fun. Don’t you want to play?”
“Not really,” Eric whispered.
Eric didn’t like recess. Usually he just wandered around by himself. The other kids already had lots of friends. One boy called him names. He didn’t want Mrs. Mills to know.
“I’m sorry, but we have to go outside,” Mrs. Mills said. “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”
Eric felt like crying. He looked out the window again. He saw someone he knew. Eric smiled and waved.
“Who’s that?” Mrs. Mills said.
“That’s my brother, Pete,” said Eric. “He’s in fourth grade.”
Eric ran outside.
“Why aren’t you playing football?” Eric asked. The older boys always played out on the field.
“Because I’m going to the swings with you,” said Pete.
“Really?”
Pete led the way. They walked past kids hanging on the monkey bars and jumping rope. Eric loved being with his brother. Then they walked by the field where the boys were playing football.
“Hey, Pete,” one of the boys said. “Who’s the kid with the glasses?”
“He’s my brother, Eric. I’m showing him around today.”
“So you’re not playing with us?”
“No,” said Pete. “Today I’m with him.”
Eric smiled as they walked to the swings. A kindergarten girl was standing nearby.
“Want to swing?” Pete asked.
She walked over. “I just lost a tooth!” she said. She showed Eric.
“Cool,” said Eric.
Eric climbed on one swing. The girl climbed on another. Pete pulled back the first swing and gently let go. Then he pushed the other one. Eric felt the wind on his face. The girl was laughing. Pete made sure the swings didn’t go too high.
“You could play together again tomorrow,” Pete said.
“That would be fun,” the girl said.
Maybe, thought Eric, recess would be better from now on.

While living in a small townhouse apartment, Noelle Campbell, of Houston, Texas, USA, discovered that most of the materials she needed to plant a garden were right in her own home. On her patio, she began planting vegetables in used containers—anything from laundry soap containers to kitty litter buckets.
She was amazed at the amount of food she could produce in the small containers. She then expanded her garden, still using materials collected from her home. Old bookshelves and bins became a vertical garden. The frame of an old personal-sized trampoline is now used to support beans, peas, and other climbing plants. She even uses old grills from barbecues to keep her tomatoes from leaning.
“I love the challenge of container gardening, of seeing my patio transformed from a tiny 8-foot by 8-foot (2.5 m by 2.5 m) concrete slab into a green, living, producing garden,” Noelle says.

Sister Mireille Van Tonder of Bordeaux, France, also speaks five languages—Afrikaans, French, Dutch, English, and German. She recently spoke with a young woman visiting from South Africa. Sister Van Tonder, who was born in South Africa, was able to tell the visitor about the Church in her native language. The young woman was surprised and excited to learn that the Church was in her own country and that she could be taught by missionaries when she returned home.

After Julina married Joseph F. Smith (later the sixth President of the Church), she had ten children, who were like grandchildren to Bathsheba. They and her daughter’s fourteen children brought Bathsheba much joy. She knit them mittens, wove them dress fabric, and sewed them clothes. She hid these things in her flowered carpetbag when she went to visit them. After running to hug and kiss her, they eagerly waited to see what gifts were in the carpetbag for them.

Jessica moved into a new ward. Though she wasn’t unhappy, she didn’t smile much. Youth in her new ward misread her facial expressions and judged her because of them. By the end of her first Sunday, rumors were already going around that Jessica was mean, and then people didn’t want to be her friend.
What would you do? How would you fix the situation?
STOP IT!
Try This Ashley, the young woman who told us this story, decided to be Jessica’s friend. “I tried to get to know her, and I tried saying hi,” she says. “It made me feel really good when she smiled or started talking with me.” Eventually these two young women became friends. “I realized that Jessica is a great person, and now a lot of people love her. They just misjudged her at the beginning,” Ashley says.

In our family we have identical twin sons. In some circumstances they are practically impossible to tell apart.
A few years ago, when the twins were about ten years old, we moved and found ourselves in new surroundings. Several days after the move I was talking to Aaron, one of the twins, and inquired about the big bump he had on his forehead.
“Well, Dad,” he said, “Lincoln [who is his older brother] was chasing me down the hall, I ran around the corner, and I saw my twin brother, Adam. Now, I knew I could outrun Adam, so I just kept running.” It turns out he ran into a full-length mirror!

A tender, sweet story about receiving peace from the scriptures appeared in the January 1991 Ensign, submitted by Sister Carole Seegmiller. Using a few excerpts, I quote from her article: “Dad decided that our family should begin an intensive study of the scriptures to help my brother Bruce prepare for his mission. Dad’s goal was to read the entire Book of Mormon before Bruce left, tape-recording our voices as we went along. … We would take turns reading a chapter [each]. …
“The family finished the Book of Mormon a few months later, … so Dad decided we should read and record the four Gospels from the New Testament. I complained this time, telling Dad that I didn’t see the point: we could buy audiotapes of professionals reading the scriptures—and they sounded a lot better than we did. Still Dad persisted. ‘Carole, one day these tapes will be a great blessing to us.’ …
“I began to enjoy these times together with the family. I especially liked to hear Dad share his personal insights about a passage. Soon I began to sense the peace that comes through studying the scriptures. We finished reading the four Gospels shortly before Bruce left for the Missionary Training Center. …
“After Bruce left, I noticed how comforting the tapes were to Dad. He often listened to them, partly just to hear Bruce’s voice, I thought, since they had been very close. Sometimes at night Dad would fall asleep listening, and I would smile to myself as I heard the familiar click-click-click of the recorder that had run to tape’s end. …
“When Bruce had been gone for more than a year, Dad died quietly of a heart attack. … All of our family members … gathered except Bruce, who had determined to finish his mission.
“That evening, after [the funeral], I was feeling low. I went upstairs to Dad’s room and dejectedly sat down at his desk. I noticed his well-used tape recorder lying nearby; inside was one of our tapes of the New Testament, which Dad must have listened to the night before he died. I began rewinding the tape, stopping it at random, hoping to find solace in hearing the gentle resonance of Dad’s voice. … I sat upright as my father spoke from the tape:
“‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’ …
“I listened to that passage over and over; the words reached out and wrapped a comforting arm around me. …
“Peace did come to us that night. … Since then, I have tasted the sweet peace of the New Testament time and time again. To me, that is its greatest message” (“Our Family’s Tape-recorded New Testament,” Ensign, Jan. 1991, p. 27).

I should like to share with you tonight an experience and tell you a story regarding keeping the Word of Wisdom. When I was president of the Edmonton Branch in Canada, I was in charge of our priests group. We used to meet in the basement of an IOOF Hall, which had dirt walls and a dirt floor. One of the priests, named Max, was playing on the school basketball team. He was the only member of the Church on that team. The other boys, naturally, had no qualms about using tea, coffee, or tobacco, and sometimes using alcohol. Max, of course, kept the Word of Wisdom strictly. He used to tell the boys about the Word of Wisdom and the evils of breaking it, and he told them that the Lord had promised that they should run and not be weary, and walk and not faint, if they kept the Word of Wisdom. He assured them they would be better basketball players if they refrained from the use of these things. He was one of the top players, and the boys respected him. It was not long until all of them were keeping the Word of Wisdom.
A few weeks ago I was in Houston, Texas, and was met there by this young man and his family. He told his family of the times we used to meet in the basement of the IOOF Hall and of some of the things he remembered that I had taught them. Then I told the family of his experience with and influence on the basketball team, emphasizing that people always respect one who will live up to his standards, and that he will benefit greatly thereby. Max now is the head geologist in one of the big oil companies in Houston.

Dad, can I invite Jacob to church today?
That’s a good idea, Eric. I’ll call his home for you.
My mom said I could go to church with you!
Great!
Eric and Jacob had a good time at church. They learned about prayer and sang songs during sharing time. Eric was glad he invited Jacob.
The next week, Eric called Jacob again.
Do you want to come to church with me today?
No, not today. I’m going to play at my grandma’s house.
Oh, OK.
Are we picking up Jacob today?
No, he said he didn’t want to come today.
How does that make you feel?
A little sad.
I’m sorry you’re sad. Remember that Heavenly Father lets us all choose for ourselves. Maybe you can invite Jacob another time.
Dad, can I invite him next week?
You sure can. You are a good friend.
Eric called Jacob again the next week.
Do you want to come to church with me today?
Sure.
Eric was glad Jacob went to church with him again. Eric knew that Jacob could choose for himself if he wanted to go to church or not, but he decided to always invite Jacob in order to give him the chance.

A few weeks ago while in England, I had the opportunity to do some traveling by train. Weather and time schedules indicated this to be the most satisfactory method of transportation.
One day as the train rolled from Manchester to Leicester, after about an hour and a half of reading, I put down my books, looked out the window, and wondered if we were getting close to the station. A few minutes later the door to the compartment opened and the conductor entered. He greeted me with, “What is your destination?”
Inasmuch as I had been giving some thought to arrivals, departures, and stops, I answered, “I have an appointment in Leicester.”
To this he responded with, “We shall be at your destination in ten minutes.” He punched my ticket and made his way to check others.
After he left, I pondered his comments, “What is your destination?” and “We shall be at your destination in ten minutes.” He seemed convinced that every time the train stopped and dozens or hundreds of people got off, they had arrived at their destinations. Apparently he has been announcing this to his passengers for years.
However, I knew, despite his comments, that I needed to be in Leicester for two days for quarterly stake conference sessions but that it was not my destination. Stops in other English cities were not my destinations either. They were all assignments along the way. I had not arrived when I reached any of them.
As a result of this experience on the train, and having given this thought some consideration over the years, I am concerned that many of us are confused in our life’s travels with destinations, arrivals, stops, calls, stations, and assignments. It appears to me that some of us may be lost today because we think we have arrived.

In 1837, two years after being ordained an Apostle, Elder Heber C. Kimball was sitting in the Kirtland Temple when the Prophet Joseph Smith whispered to him that the Lord wanted him to go on a mission to England. He would be the first missionary sent outside North America.
“The idea of such a mission was almost more than I could bear up under. I was almost ready to sink under the burden which was placed upon me,” Elder Kimball said. But he accepted the call and went to England—even leaping from the boat upon his arrival in Liverpool. “The moment I understood the will of my heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed” (see History of the Church, 2:489–90).
Elder Kimball’s mission opened the door to much success in England over the next several years, as thousands of people accepted the gospel and became a great strength to the Church.

In April 1844, President Joseph Smith called the Twelve Apostles to serve missions in the Eastern United States.
Joseph Smith: All of the Apostles except Willard Richards and John Taylor are called as missionaries to continue preaching the gospel.
Wilford Woodruff had already served as a missionary in England and America, but he was obedient to the Prophet. He packed his things and got ready to travel.
When he went to say good-bye to the Prophet, Elder Woodruff could tell that he was sad. Elder Woodruff felt sad too even though he didn’t know why.
Joseph Smith: You are about to start upon your mission. God bless you, Brother Woodruff. Go in peace.
Two months later, Elder Woodruff was preaching the gospel in Maine when he heard some terrible news.
Woman: Have you heard, Elder Woodruff? The Prophet has been killed! Joseph Smith has been shot in Carthage Jail!
Elder Woodruff immediately left to meet with the other Apostles in Nauvoo.
Elder Woodruff: Now I know why I was so sad before. That was the last time I would ever see the Prophet Joseph Smith here on earth.
Although many Saints were worried that the Church would not be able to go on without the Prophet Joseph Smith, Elder Woodruff was not afraid. He was asked to go and comfort the Saints in Europe and lead them until a new prophet was called.
Elder Woodruff: Though our Prophet has been killed because of his testimony, the keys of the kingdom of God are still here upon earth. The heavens are not closed.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father will still speak to us and direct His disciples. Be humble and faithful, and the Lord will bless you.

It was the first day of school on a hot, late-August day in New Mexico some years ago. I excitedly entered the school, looking for my friends and hoping that they would be in my fifth grade class. As I walked through the door of my new classroom, I immediately noticed that Mrs. Moore had attached every student’s name to an assigned seat. My name was attached to a desk near the front of the room and next to the bulletin board. The bulletin board was brightly adorned with “Welcome Back to School” and other decorations, as well as important fifth grade information.
Two small cards on the board, hanging almost evenly with my desk, caught my attention. The top one read: The Golden Rule: Do unto Others As You Would Have Them Do unto You. The bottom card asked: What Would Jesus Do?
Although the contents of the bulletin board changed monthly, these two cards always remained in the same place. I don’t know who put them there, but it seemed that during moments of daydreaming, my mind was drawn to them. I had heard the Golden Rule and could think of a few times when I had even put it to use with my little brothers. The question “What would Jesus do?” was not something I had ever thought much about before.
I had been baptized a couple of years earlier, and I had heard the stories of Jesus from my parents and in my Primary classes since I was little. I knew about Jesus Christ and what He did, but now as I thought about that question, I asked myself, What does it have to do with me? I knew that He was and is the Savior. Wise Men visited Him when He was a baby. He fed five thousand people with just five loaves of bread and two fishes. He calmed a raging sea. He healed people and brought the dead back to life. He died for me and was resurrected. But I’m just a ten-year-old girl. How could I ever do anything He might do?
A couple weeks into the school year, a class party was planned. I was on the food committee, and each member brought some sort of treat. There were several small watermelons, a sheet cake, and other treats. One boy brought lots of party sandwiches. We all enjoyed the party on a hot day in September. When the party was over, my committee stayed afterward and packed up the leftover food. There were several half-eaten watermelons, about ten pieces of sheet cake, and some sandwiches. We were instructed by Mrs. Moore to take it all home with us.
Even though we were late leaving school, we stopped to talk at a bench on the school grounds. Excited by the success of the party, we began planning the next one. Our excitement built until we were running and jumping off the benches and over each other.
One member of the group yelled out a reminder that we were all going to be late getting home. We continued running and jumping, but we picked up the party leftovers and went around the corner to the front of the school. There was no one in sight. No teachers’ cars or principal anywhere. We were late!
Then it happened. Splat!! Right in front of my feet landed a watermelon. The rind was broken, and the juice was spilling onto the sidewalk. Over my head flew a piece of cake. Something hit me right in the small of my back—a piece of watermelon. Its juice ran down my back, and the seeds stuck to my blouse. I immediately flung the half-eaten watermelon back at the friend who had struck me. Then I picked up a piece of cake from the ground, now soaked with watermelon juice, and flung it at another friend. The boy with the sack of sandwiches was swinging the sack madly as a shield. The sack finally burst, and became a thousand crumbs scattered in the watermelon juice. Watermelon rinds were strewn along the front of the school. Someone yelled about how late it was, and we all began running toward home.
When we came to the corner that would take us out of the view of the school, I happened to turn around. Then I saw it—watermelon carnage everywhere! My heart sank. What had we done? It had been so much fun, but I hadn’t realized what the damage would be, and I know that none of the others did, either.
I motioned for the others to turn around. A look of shock came over their faces. I asked if we should go back and at least clean up the big pieces. “No way!” “It’s too hot.” “My mom’s going to be mad if I get home any later.” “It’s the custodian’s job, anyway.” All their answers made sense to me, and I headed home, too.
But when I turned around to take one more look, the question on that card on the bulletin board came flooding into my mind: What would Jesus do?
I immediately answered myself that Jesus Christ would never have gotten into a watermelon fight, to begin with. I didn’t even know if there were watermelons where He lived almost 2,000 years ago. Besides, what the other children had said made sense, and I really needed to get home, too.
When I got home, I found my mother busy with one of my younger brothers. I was able to quietly change clothes and brush the watermelon seeds from my hair. As I was doing this, “What would Jesus do?” reentered my mind. I pictured the custodians out early in the morning, cleaning up the mess. They shouldn’t have to do that. I thought of the principal, Mr. Nance, picking up watermelon rinds and that bread sack. He shouldn’t have to do that, either. I somehow imagined that the sixth grade crossing guards might even have to clean up the mess on the crosswalk. I knew that they shouldn’t have to do that. At that moment I knew what Jesus Christ would do.
Although I knew what He would do, I still persuaded myself that it was too hot to be out on the cement and pavement, that it was too hard a job for one ten-year-old girl. But I thought about it again and again.
Finally I went and told my mom that I needed to go back to school for something. I quietly took the broom, dustpan, and a towel and got on my bike and rode toward the school.
As I got to the corner by the school, I hoped the scene had miraculously disappeared. But there it was, exactly as I had remembered. A watermelon war zone. I parked my bike and began sweeping and soaking up juice and seeds.
Two of my watermelon-flinging friends rode up on their bikes and asked me what I was doing. I timidly told them I was cleaning up the mess, hoping that they would offer to help. They only laughed and rode away.
I was carrying the watermelon rinds to the garbage can across the street, when a car approached with a woman and a small child inside. As they got close to me, the car slowed down. The woman had a look of complete bewilderment on her face. I began working faster. I wondered if I was doing the right thing—no one else seemed to think so.
But the job was finally done. Only a trace of the juice was left, along with some seeds, cake, and bread crumbs that had been baked into the hot asphalt after being run over by cars.
The next morning as I walked to school with my little brother, we saw things happening as they did every morning. The crossing guards were there. The flag was being raised. Teachers and the principal were walking the grounds. The custodians with their brooms were happily greeting everyone. Only a trace of watermelon seeds stuck to the pavement, unnoticeable to the untrained eye.
I entered my classroom. None of my classmates spoke of the watermelon incident or how the mess was cleaned up. When I sat at my desk, I looked at that card on the bulletin board—What Would Jesus Do?—and I knew then what the question had to do with me, a ten-year-old girl—and every other person, regardless of age. I knew that I could do what Jesus would do, even though it might be hard and other people may not understand.

High above the lake, up where the city gives way to rugged desert foothills, is the home of Brother Hurt. It’s late spring, and the grape arbor which hangs over his front porch is heavy with fruit. Out back he has a garden he’s very proud of. But the careful desert landscaping of his front yard has given way to a riot of uninvited bushes and weeds. His cancer simply hasn’t left him the strength to swing a mattock or a shovel as hard or often as he needs to in order to keep the area clear.
It’s late. The sun is burning into the mountains on the far side of the lake, turning the cliffs, rank on rank, to purple and blue cutouts. There is dust in the air. It glows with the sunset. The dust is from the blades of mattocks and hoes and shovels. The priests quorum is working hard, grubbing out the weeds and brush.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The rhythm is swift and even. The priests don’t stop to talk or laugh or play. Brother Hurt stands among them, pointing out with a crutch what he wants grubbed and what he wants left. Out go the cheese weed and spurge, the skeleton weed and quail brush, the bullheads and scorpion plants. Out go all their henchmen of the plant underworld.
The sun goes down and no one stops working. No one takes a break. No one complains. They just keep on grubbing until it’s too dark to go on.
The priests shake hands with Brother Hurt. They promise him they’ll be back to finish the job. They’re smiling, both because it feels good to help out, and because Brother Levi has promised he’ll treat them to frozen yogurt.
Brother Hurt smiles too. He was a strong man in his day, and he’s still strong inside, unbowed and unembittered by the illness which gnaws at his vitals. His once viselike grip is growing weak, but he knows that the strong young hands of his brothers are his without even the asking.

Because I studied Come, Follow Me, I think Heavenly Father helped me with school. At first I made lots of mistakes in my homework. Then my dad asked me to start by saying a prayer. After the prayer, I understood better. Soon I was no longer making as many mistakes. When my teachers received my homework, they would say, “Congratulations, Sarah! Keep doing what you are doing!”
I successfully completed my school year. And school at home went well, because we always started with a prayer, just like we do when we study Come, Follow Me.

All of this came together for me in a very personal way a year or so ago in Manila in the Philippines when a telephone call from my wife reached me in the middle of the night in a hotel room telling me that our only son had suffered a severe accident that threatened his mobility and perhaps his life. He was being flown home to be operated on.

About the time of his anticipated arrival home, I telephoned. There was a brief delay, then the sound of my wife’s voice, quiet and subdued. “Your four sons-in-law are standing around your son administering to him,” she said. “Paul has anointed him, and John is about to give him a blessing. He was worried because you’re not here. This will be the first administration he’s had from anyone but his father—but he’s comforted now.” I joined them in that prayer of blessing on my knees in a lonely hotel room half a world away, a room suddenly made sweet and warm.

“It was a dare!” Brett said, avoiding his father’s eyes. “I mean, I had to do it, or everyone would think I was a wimp, especially Alan.”
His father sighed. “Do you care so much what other people think?”
Brett blinked. “Of course I care what people think. I mean, a guy has a reputation to keep up.”
“But what sort of reputation do you want to have?” his father asked. He waited, but Brett was silent, so he laid down the law. “I don’t care who dares you. You are not to go out on the roof again, and certainly not wearing flippers.”
“Aw, Dad …” Brett knew from the look on his father’s face that it was pointless to argue. He quickly changed his tactics, smiling sweetly. “OK. I promise not to go out on the roof in flippers again.”
His dad gave him a close look and raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Brett was relieved. He hadn’t promised that he wouldn’t take any more dares. He’d just promised not to dance on the roof with flippers. Who’d dare him to do that again?
Still, Brett felt a little guilty for giving his dad the wrong impression. It was almost like lying. The thing was that all of his friends liked to do dares. It was easy to say you shouldn’t accept a dare when you were talking to your dad, but it was a lot harder when you were with a friend.
The next day, Brett dared his best friend, Alan, to run through the school office wearing his gym shorts on his head. Then Alan dared Brett to do a handstand in the cafeteria during lunch.
Then they both spent an hour after school in detention. Brett didn’t mind. After all, he’d proved how brave he was.
That night when his family was reading the scriptures, they read about the sons of Helaman.
“Now there’s an example of courage,” his mother pointed out. “They were willing to fight for what they believed in, and they even risked death for it. They trusted in the Lord.”
Brett frowned. Sure, that was courageous, but had any of them ever put a silly hat on the neighbor’s cat, then sent it back home and watched the fun?
“This has always been one of my favorite stories,” his father said. “I also like the story of Nephi, when he stood up for what was right even when his brothers disagreed.”
Brett had the impression that his parents were trying to tell him something. Still, the next day, when Alan bet him that he couldn’t climb the flagpole at school, Brett took the dare. He remembered his father’s words, but the dare was just too tempting. Climbing it was easy. Climbing it without a teacher seeing him do it was the hard part.
That was the part that he messed up on. That and getting down again. He slipped. Fortunately the custodian managed to get underneath him, or he might have been seriously injured.
His father came to pick him up from the principal’s office. Brett expected his dad to yell at him or lecture him. Instead, they walked to the car in silence. Brett got in and watched his dad. His dad didn’t slam the door. He just quietly slipped into the driver’s seat, rested his hands on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes.
Was his dad napping? Was he gathering his energy for a really big yell that would shake the car to its rubber tires? Brett was prepared for a good bawling out. It would clear the air, and everything would be all right again.
Then he realized that his father was praying. It wasn’t a quick prayer, either. It went on and on and on. Brett grew more and more nervous. Yelling was something he could cope with—but praying?
His father opened his eyes and silently drove home. As they pulled into the driveway, he stopped the car, then turned to look Brett in the eyes. “You could have been seriously hurt today. You could have been killed. Your mother and I love you, but you are showing poor judgment.”
“Dad, it was a dare,” Brett tried to explain. “I didn’t have a choice.”
His father opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. For a moment it seemed like he was listening to something. Then he turned to Brett. “You think that kind of a dare is hard—that it proves you’re a brave person?”
Brett nodded. “Yeah. Why else would I take it?”
“Could you handle a harder dare? One that really takes courage?”
Now Brett was on familiar ground. “I can handle any dare,” he announced proudly. “I haven’t missed one yet.”
“Then I dare you to do the right thing.”
“Ah, Dad,” Brett replied, “that’s just a ‘parent dare.’”
“What’s the matter? You can take the easy dares, but you can’t take the hard ones? That doesn’t sound all that brave to me.”
Brett got out of the car without saying a word and marched into the house.
That Sunday in Primary, they sang “Dare to Do Right.”*
Brett squirmed in his seat.
“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” The words echoed in his head. What was this, a conspiracy?
On Monday, Alan met him walking to school.
“So, what’s it going to be today?” Brett asked him.
Alan grinned. “Today’s easy. I dare you to sneak into Mr. Suther’s desk during recess and get a copy of tomorrow’s math test.”
Brett swallowed. “But that would be cheating,” he said.
“Cheating, schmeating! We don’t have to use the test. I just dare you to steal it. Hey—not even steal. Borrow. I dare you to borrow the math test.”
Brett suddenly heard the words to the Primary song go through his head again. He turned to Alan. “No.”
“No? But I dared you.”
“Sorry.” It was hard, but Brett held his ground. “I have another dare to do, instead.” He swallowed again, then offered hopefully, “I’d be happy to help you study for the test.”
Alan stomped off in disgust. Brett didn’t know what to think. He’d done the right thing. Doing the right thing wasn’t supposed to make you feel lousy, right?
Later that day, Brett saw Mr. Suther walking Alan to the principal’s office. His teacher looked at him as they passed. He could tell that his teacher was surprised to not be marching two kids to the principal. Suddenly Brett realized what sort of a reputation he had made for himself. It wasn’t one he wanted.
The words to the Primary song rang through his head again—“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” He promised himself that he would keep only the dare his father had given him.

Throughout the scriptures, and indeed in the writings of thoughtful Christians through the centuries, we find examples of how Christ’s message of light and salvation can spiritually and physically sustain us. As a young priest traveling in Italy in 1833, Englishman John Henry Newman encountered emotional and physical darkness when illness detained him there for several weeks. He became deeply discouraged, and a nurse who saw his tears asked what troubled him. All he could reply was that he was sure God had work for him to do in England. Aching to return home, he finally found passage on a small boat.
Not long after the ship set sail, thick fog descended and obscured the hazardous cliffs surrounding them. Trapped for a week in the damp, gray darkness, the ship unable to travel forward or back, Newman pled for his Savior’s help as he penned the words we now know as the hymn “Lead, Kindly Light.”
Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom; …
The night is dark, and I am far from home; …
Keep thou my feet; …
one step enough for me.
(Hymns, no. 97)
This hymn echoes a truth our hearts confirm: though trials may extinguish other sources of light, Christ will illuminate our path, “keep our feet,” and show us the way home. For as the Savior has promised, “he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness” (John 8:12).