Gospel Story Finder

A label frequently seen and grudgingly borne is one which reads: “Handicapped.”
Years ago, President Spencer W. Kimball shared with President Gordon B. Hinckley, Elder Bruce R. McConkie, and me an experience he had in the appointment of a patriarch for the Shreveport Louisiana Stake of the Church. President Kimball described how he interviewed, how he searched, and how he prayed, that he might learn the Lord’s will concerning the selection. For some reason, none of the suggested candidates was the man for this assignment at this particular time.
The day wore on. The evening meetings began. Suddenly President Kimball turned to the stake president and asked him to identify a particular man seated perhaps two-thirds of the way back from the front of the chapel. The stake president replied that the individual was James Womack, whereupon President Kimball said, “He is the man the Lord has selected to be your stake patriarch. Please have him meet with me in the high council room following the meeting.”
Stake president Charles Cagle was startled, for James Womack did not wear the label of a typical man. He had sustained terrible injuries while in combat during World War II. He lost both hands and one arm, as well as most of his eyesight and part of his hearing. Nobody had wanted to let him in law school when he returned, yet he finished third in his class at Louisiana State University. James Womack simply refused to wear the label “Handicapped.”
That evening as President Kimball met with Brother Womack and informed him that the Lord had designated him to be the patriarch, there was a protracted silence in the room. Then Brother Womack said, “Brother Kimball, it is my understanding that a patriarch is to place his hands on the head of the person he blesses. As you can see, I have no hands to place on the head of anyone.”
Brother Kimball, in his kind and patient manner, invited Brother Womack to make his way to the back of the chair on which Brother Kimball was seated. He then said, “Now, Brother Womack, lean forward and see if the stumps of your arms will reach the top of my head.” To Brother Womack’s joy, they touched Brother Kimball, and the exclamation came forth, “I can reach you! I can reach you!”
“Of course you can reach me,” responded Brother Kimball. “And if you can reach me, you can reach any whom you bless. I will be the shortest person you will ever have seated before you.”
President Kimball reported to us that when the name of James Womack was presented to the stake conference, “the hands of the members shot heavenward in an enthusiastic vote of approval.”
The word of the Lord to the prophet Samuel at the time David was designated to be a future king of Israel provided a fitting label for the occasion. It certainly was the thought of each faithful member: “Man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7.)

I was attending a stake conference where I was to interview some prospective missionaries. Before one boy came in the room, the stake president said to me, “Now here is a boy who has just come through a serious experience. He is just out of the service. He suffered shell shock; you had better talk carefully to him and make sure that he is prepared to go.”
So as I talked with him, I said, “Now, why do you want to go on this mission, son? Are you sure that you want to go, really, after all this harrowing experience?”
He sat thoughtfully for a few moments and then replied: “Brother Lee, I had never been away from home before I went into the service. When I arrived in the military camps, every waking hour I heard filthy, profane language. I found myself losing a certain pure-mindedness, and I sought God in prayer to give me the strength not to fall into that terrible habit. God heard my prayer and gave me strength. Then we went through the training, and it was arduous, and I asked him to give me physical strength to go through, and he did. He heard my prayer, but as we moved up towards the fighting lines and I heard the booming of the guns and the crackling of the rifles—and sometimes as we crouched down in our shell holes, it just seemed that if I put a finger up it would be shot off so intense was the fighting—I was afraid. I would lie there just waiting, and I prayed to God to give me the courage to do the task that I was there to do, and the Lord heard my prayer and gave me courage. Then they sent me up with an advance patrol to search out the enemy and to radio back to the reinforcements, telling them where to attack. Sometimes the enemy would almost hedge me around until I was cut off, and it seemed that there was no escape and that surely my life would be taken. I asked the only source of protection to guide me safely back, and God heard my prayers. Time and again through the most harrowing experiences he led me back.
“Now,” he said, “Brother Lee, I am back home. And I would like to say thanks to that power to which I prayed—God, our Heavenly Father.” And then he said, “My purpose in going out on a mission is to teach others that faith that I was taught in my Sunday School, in my seminary, in my priesthood class, in my home. I want to teach others so that they will have that same strength that guided me through this difficult experience.”

Now let’s look at two people who followed the Savior’s example of shining light. Recently my friend Kevin was seated next to a business executive at dinner. He worried what to talk about for two hours. Following a prompting, Kevin asked, “Tell me about your family. Where do they come from?”

The gentleman knew little about his heritage, so Kevin pulled out his phone, saying, “I have an app that connects people to their families. Let’s see what we can find.”

After a lengthy discussion, Kevin’s new friend asked, “Why is family so important to your church?”

Kevin answered simply, “We believe that we continue to live after we die. If we identify our ancestors and take their names to a sacred place called a temple, we can perform marriage ordinances that will keep our families together even after death.”

Kevin started with something he and his new friend had in common. He then found a way to witness of the Savior’s light and love.

The second story is about Ella, a collegiate basketball player. Her example began when she received her mission call while away at school. She chose to open her call in front of her team. They knew almost nothing about the Church of Jesus Christ and didn’t understand Ella’s desire to serve. She prayed repeatedly to know how to explain her mission call in a way that her teammates might feel the Spirit. Her answer?
“I made a PowerPoint,” Ella said, “because I’m just that cool.” She told them about the potential of serving in one of 400-plus missions and possibly learning a language. She highlighted the thousands of missionaries already serving. Ella ended with a picture of the Savior and this brief testimony: “Basketball is one of the most important things in my life. I moved across the country and left my family to play for this coach and with this team. The only two things that are more important to me than basketball are my faith and my family.”

Last month the Salt Lake City newspapers carried an obituary notice for Fred Sudbury. It indicated that he was survived by his wife, Pearl, and a son, Craig; that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and that his marriage had been solemnized in the Salt Lake Temple. What the obituary notice could not adequately convey was the inspiring human drama which preceded Fred’s passing.
Some years ago, Craig Sudbury and his mother came to my office prior to Craig’s departure for the Australia Melbourne Mission. Fred Sudbury, Craig’s father, was noticeably absent. Twenty-five years earlier, Craig’s mother had married Fred, who did not share her love for the Church and, indeed, was not a member.
Craig confided to me his deep and abiding love for his parents and his hope that somehow, in some way, his father would be touched by the Spirit and open his heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ. I prayed for inspiration concerning how such a desire might be fulfilled. Such inspiration came, and I said to Craig, “Serve the Lord with all your heart. Be obedient to your sacred calling. Each week write a letter to your parents; and on occasion, write to Dad personally and let him know that you love him, and tell him why you’re grateful to be his son.” He thanked me and, with his mother, departed from the office.
I was not to see Craig’s mother for over eighteen months. She came to the office and, in sentences punctuated by tears, said to me, “It has been almost two years since Craig departed for his mission. He has never failed in writing a letter to us each week. Recently, my husband, Fred, stood for the first time in a testimony meeting and said, ‘All of you know that I am not a member of the Church, but something has happened to me since Craig left for his mission. His letters have touched my soul. May I share one with you?
“‘“Dear Dad,
“‘“Today we taught a choice family about the plan of salvation and blessings of exaltation in the celestial kingdom. For me it just wouldn’t be a celestial kingdom if you were not there. I’m grateful to be your son, Dad, and want you to know that I love you.
“‘“Your missionary son,
“‘“Craig”
“‘After twenty-six years of marriage, I have made my decision to become a member of the Church, for I know the gospel message is the word of God. My son’s mission has moved me to action. I have made arrangements for my wife and me to meet Craig when he completes his mission. I will be his final baptism as a full-time missionary of the Lord.’” He heard the message, he saw the light, he embraced the truth.
A young missionary with unwavering faith had participated with God in a modern-day miracle. His challenge to communicate with one whom he loved had been made more difficult by the barrier of the thousands of miles that lay between him and home. But the spirit of love spanned the vast expanse of the blue Pacific, and heart spoke to heart in divine dialogue.
No missionary stood so tall as did Craig Sudbury when, in far-off Australia, he helped his father into water waist-deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words: “Fred Sudbury, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 20:73).
The prayer of a mother, the faith of a father, the service of a son brought forth the miracle of God.

To demonstrate the kind of inner strength I am talking about, I would like to share the story of Susanna Stone Lloyd, who at the age of 26 left England in 1856 and traveled to Utah alone. The only member of her family to join the Church, Susanna was a member of the Willie handcart company. Like so many other pioneers, she endured life-threatening hunger, illness, and fatigue.
Upon arriving in the Salt Lake Valley, Susanna borrowed a mirror to make herself more presentable. Despite her best efforts, she recounts: “I shall never forget how I looked. Some of my old friends did not know me.” Having sold her own mirror to an Indian for a piece of buffalo meat, she had not spent much time looking at herself. Now she did not recognize her own image. She was a different person, both inside and out. Over the course of rocky ridges and extreme hardship came a deep conviction. Her faith had been tried, and her conversion was concrete. She had been refined in ways that the very best mirror could not reflect. Susanna had prayed for strength and found it—deep within her soul.
No matter our circumstances, who of us can afford to waste our life in front of the mirrors of self-pity and discouragement? Yes, as the Apostle Paul admonished, we all need to examine ourselves from time to time. We all need to repent, recognize our weaknesses, and more fully come unto Christ. Like Susanna, we may have to sell our looking glass in order to cross the plains of pain, sorrow, and discouragement. But as we do, we will discover God-given strengths that we may not have otherwise known.

“I share with you an experience that embarrassed, a game that was lost, and a lesson in not taking ourselves too seriously.

“First, in a basketball game when the outcome was in doubt, the coach sent me onto the playing floor right after the second half began. I took an in-bounds pass, dribbled the ball toward the key, and let the shot fly. Just as the ball left my fingertips, I realized why the opposing guards did not attempt to stop my drive: I was shooting for the wrong basket! I offered a silent prayer: ‘Please, Father, don’t let that ball go in.’ The ball rimmed the hoop and fell out.

“From the bleachers came the call: ‘We want Monson, we want Monson, we want Monson—out!’ The coach obliged. …

“I fared much better at fast-pitch softball. My most memorable experience in softball was a thirteen-inning game I pitched in Salt Lake City on a hot Memorial Day. The game was scheduled for just seven innings, but the tied score could not be broken. In the last of the thirteenth, with two men out and a runner on third, the batter hit a high pop fly to left field. The catch was certain, I thought. And yet the ball fell through the hands of the left fielder. For thirty-eight years I have teased my friend who dropped the ball. I have promised myself I will never do so again. I’m not even going to mention his name. After all, he, too, remembers. It was only a game.”1

Some years ago, Elder ElRay L. Christiansen told about one of his distant Scandinavian relatives who joined the Church. He was quite well-to-do and sold his lands and stock in Denmark to come to Utah with his family. For a while he did well as far as the Church and its activities were concerned, and he prospered financially. However, he became so caught up in his possessions that he forgot about his purpose in coming to America. The bishop visited him and implored him to become active as he used to be. The years passed and some of his brethren visited him and said: “Now, Lars, the Lord was good to you when you were in Denmark. He has been good to you since you have come here. … We think now, since you are growing a little older, that it would be well for you to spend some of your time in the interests of the Church. After all, you can’t take these things with you when you go.”
Jolted by this remark, the man replied, “Vell, den, I vill not go.” But he did! And so will all of us!

Have you ever had to ask yourself, “What’s more important, my friend or our friendship?” I faced that problem when a note fell out of my friend Kate’s* pencil pouch. I read it and realized that my friend was using drugs. I was devastated. I tried desperately to talk to her, but she ignored me.
Kate was my friend, and I realized that no matter what she said or did, her safety was most important to me. Every time I thought of it, I wanted to cry. I knew that Kate might never forgive me if I told on her, and she might tell my other friends that I wasn’t trustworthy. I asked my mom to help me, and we prayed, talked, and read the scriptures. I was looking for something to help me help my friend. We found a scripture that gave me courage to do whatever I had to do and to live with the consequences: “For I do know that whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions” (Alma 36:3). I knew that if I did what was right, God would support me.
I decided to tell the resource officer about Kate’s drug problem. Later that afternoon Kate was called to the office. When we changed classes, she was with her guidance counselor and a police officer. Kate caught my eye, and I could tell she knew I had told on her.
Several weeks went by before Kate would talk to me. I dreaded what she would say, but I was surprised that she wasn’t angry anymore. Our friendship had changed, but in some ways, it was better than before. She seemed to understand that I had done it for her sake. I never wanted to lose her friendship, but it was more important to love her enough to try to stop her from hurting herself and the people who love and care for her.
Yes, this experience was painful, but I learned that if we “trust in the Lord with all [our] heart; and lean not unto [our] own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5), anything is possible.

What can we do to better prepare our children spiritually for their eternal roles? Perhaps the most inclusive answer is: Teach them how to live the principles of the gospel. To be good teachers, we must learn to be better listeners. Let me share one personal example: Our first child, Clark, when he was four years old, appeared to be guilty of some minor wrongdoing that at the time seemed to require some sound fatherly counsel. I took him into the bedroom and talked to him about why he must not ever again do what I had predetermined that he had done. When I concluded my great discourse, this little, brown-eyed boy looked into my eyes and said, “But Daddy, I didn’t do it.” Through his eyes his spirit talked to me and I knew that he was telling me the truth. I embraced him and asked for his forgiveness. His spirit, though in a four-year-old mortal body, spoke loudly to me that day, and I learned from him a great lesson: Always be a good listener.

I sat in the temple waiting to do baptisms for the dead, and I prayed. I was 20 years old, and I wanted to know: Should I serve a full-time mission? I had a feeling the answer was no, but I wanted to ask once and for all.
Suddenly I shivered all over, as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over me. No was the impression I felt. No mission for me.
Although I knew the expectation for young women to go on missions is not the same as for young men, I was confused. Why did the Spirit encourage me not to serve? Wouldn’t I be good at spreading the gospel?
As some of my friends received mission calls, I sometimes wondered what my future would hold. My 21st birthday was approaching, and I couldn’t help thinking, “There’s still time to be interviewed and submit my mission papers.”
I was studying in England when my parents called me. I could hear my mother crying as she told me the devastating news: She had been diagnosed with cancer.
A month later when I came home to the United States for the summer, chemotherapy was making Mom weak. I started helping around the house, learning to manage chores and meals. I also spent hours talking to Mom, fearful that I might lose her. I learned that managing a household is complicated, time-consuming work, and I gained a new appreciation for Mom’s efforts over the years. I barely managed to put decent dinners on the table.
Fortunately, ward members and others in the community helped us.
Mom’s treatment went on, and meanwhile our family grew closer. Mom told us stories about her youth, and we played lots of board games. We talked about the scriptures. My dad shared his fears with me as well as his testimony.
During that summer, I learned eternal lessons. I knew my place for now was at home with my family. My testimony grew as I felt Heavenly Father’s love all summer long. I became better friends with the ward members I had known all my life. My family grew closer, comforted by the knowledge that our family ties would last beyond death. I thanked the Lord for answering my question about serving a mission, guiding me to serve my family.
Editor’s note: Since her treatments, the author’s mother has recovered her health.

One time President and Sister Harold B. Lee were in our home. Sister Lee put a handful of pennies on a table before our young son. She had him slide the shiny ones to one side and said, “These are your tithing; these belong to the Lord. The others are yours to keep.” He thoughtfully looked from one pile to the other and then said, “Don’t you have any more dirty ones?” That was when the real teaching moment began!

At first, I was embarrassed and ashamed.
I mean, how would you like it if you were always the object of the ward service projects? I came from a single-parent home, and we were considered “underprivileged.” All that service was a little hard to accept.
But when I started noticing the joy in the faces of the kids in my ward, my feelings began to change. It wasn’t right for me to deny them the joy of service just because I was a little ashamed. They weren’t there to embarrass me and my family. They were there because they loved us and were aware of my mom’s struggles, and wanted to offer their time and labor.
And would you believe that participating in a ward service project at my own house made one of the best days of my life? The youth of the ward came to spend an entire Saturday sanding and painting our house. The brushes were set out; paint had been bought; razor blades, sandpaper, and ladders were all ready for action. Before we knew it, there was paint everywhere, with extra amounts splattered on the advisers.
By the end of the day, we were all tired and thirsty, but no one could wipe the smiles off our faces or wipe away the friendships we had just cemented. My heart filled with warmth and my eyes stung from the oncoming tears as I looked at the newly painted house that was our little home.
Now, every time I look at our house the memory of hitting the advisers with paint brings on a smile, but I also see something else. One of the deacons walked across the roof with paint on the bottom of his shoes. It was the funniest thing to look up and see white footprints across the roof.
With time, the footprints have faded, but what the youth and the ward have done will never fade. The love they extended to us through service means so much to me, and my mom said that she will always be grateful to those who have taken time out for us.
So my advice to you, if you ever get the chance to be charitable, is to enjoy it. The blessings will be great. But if you get the chance to receive, do it, knowing that people’s motives are pure. They love you and want to serve you.

I always pray for guidance from Heavenly Father when I design a building or for anything in my life. I love Heavenly Father and the Savior, and I know They know me personally. I grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming, USA, and as an architect I helped design the new Star Valley temple! My son, Micah, even helped me turn a shovel of dirt at the groundbreaking. It is a blessing to help create a building that can bless so many lives.

The Mendez family lives in a small mountain town near the city of Oaxaca, in southern Mexico. They say, “There are challenges of time, finances, and distance, but the will to do what our Savior wants us to do motivates us to overcome any obstacle.”

Gonzalo Mendez, age 15, says, “When you live in a place where there is danger, temptations can be very difficult, but with the help of prayer we don’t partake of the enticements of the world, and we stand as witnesses to a better way of life.”

The gospel has long been established in Mexico, but there are still areas where the Church is developing. Jaime Cruz, age 15, and his family are the only members of the Church in their small town in the mountains above Oaxaca City. He and his friend Gonzalo work on home-study seminary during the week. Every Saturday they travel two hours by bus to go to the nearest chapel for seminary class with other youth from their ward. Jaime shares what he learns in seminary with his classmates at school and answers their questions. Jaime’s younger brother, Alex, a deacon, is a leader among his friends. Alex says that when he asks them nicely not to use bad language or wear inappropriate clothing, they listen to what he says. Jaime and Alex both know that holding the priesthood is an honor and a responsibility. “I know that the priesthood is given to young men to glorify God’s name by serving others and preaching the gospel,” Jaime says.

During a recent visit to Mexico, Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles met with the youth from three stakes in the city of Cancun. Of his time with these youth, he said, “We saw the light in their eyes and the hope in their faces and the dreams they have. I kept thinking about what a beautiful future Mexico has.”16

One Sunday before sacrament meeting, the bishop approached me and asked, “Can you help us bless the sacrament?” I said of course I would.
I went and got my hymnbook and then washed my hands before taking my place at the sacrament table. I opened the hymnbook, and the first hymn I saw was “I Stand All Amazed” (Hymns, no. 193). The meeting hadn’t started yet, so I began to read the first line: “I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me.” Immediately a feeling of profound love filled my heart.
The previous night I had been reading in the Bible about the end of the life of Jesus Christ—the parts involving the Last Supper, the Garden of Gethsemane, and His death and Resurrection. I imagined Jesus being tortured, beaten, and ridiculed by the executioners. I also pictured Jesus carrying out His atoning sacrifice in the Garden of Gethsemane while His disciples slept.
I realized that I was about to bless the bread and water that represent His body and blood. The sacrament allows us to renew the covenant we made when we were baptized, which is to always remember Him, to keep His commandments, and to take His name upon us.
When sacrament meeting started, all of these thoughts were in my head. I felt profoundly that Jesus suffered in such a painful and incredible way that it is incomprehensible to us. The thought then came to me that He endured the suffering because of His love for us—for me.
I felt so loved by the Lord that I couldn’t control my tears. I felt like I wasn’t worthy of what the Savior did for me. But I also felt that His love for me is perfect. A friend will lay down his life for his friends (see John 15:13). When the sacrament hymn started, I stood with another brother to begin the ordinance.
We folded back the beautiful white tablecloth that covered the bread. As I held the bread, I knew I had the responsibility of breaking it as part of the ordinance, but I hesitated. The bread represents the body of Christ. I thought of the soldiers hurting the Lord, and I didn’t want to break the bread. When I broke the first piece, I thought of the painful and humiliating way Jesus was treated prior to His death—the crown of thorns, the whipping, the suffering. The tears continued to roll down my cheeks as I prepared the bread.
Then the thought came to me that these painful and humiliating events were necessary. They were part of the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ, and He made the sacrifice because of His love for me and each one of us.
I began to feel a great peace and joy. I broke every piece of bread carefully and slowly, knowing that what I held in my hands was about to be blessed and sanctified for a special purpose and represented something very precious, beautiful, and extraordinary. I felt the great responsibility of doing this ordinance so that those in the meeting could renew a covenant with the Lord and receive the blessings of the Atonement.
When we finished, I saw the trays filled with the broken bread. The sight was marvelous and sublime. My companion said the prayer. Never before had I so clearly understood the phrase “that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son” (D&C 20:77).
When I partook of the bread, I felt my Savior’s love once again. I felt protected, humbled, and determined to do what’s right. I wanted to examine my life and repent of all I had done wrong.
I’m thankful to Jesus Christ for His love for me. I’m thankful that we can receive the blessings of His Atonement: to be forgiven of our sins and have the chance to return to our Heavenly Father.

It was a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon. I was away from home serving in the South African army, and the 10 men of our section had gathered in our tent to visit and relax after having just completed some chores. Unfortunately, much of the conversation became crude, as often happens among young men in such circumstances.
I was uncomfortable and thought about leaving. My eyes turned toward the tent door, which was flapping wildly in the wind and failing to hold back the chill of winter. The sight immediately convinced me it would be foolish to leave, so I decided to remain inside and read my scriptures. Although it had not been uncommon for me to read from them in the presence of these men, on this day it would prove to be difficult. The discussion soon took a turn for the worse as my friend, something of a ringleader in the group, began telling some dirty stories.
My immediate impulse was to object out loud. However, I was checked by the thought that others might consider me self-righteous and accuse me of trying to spoil their fun. After a few troubling moments, I decided to do the only thing I thought possible under the circumstances: shut my ears and concentrate on my reading. This approach worked somewhat. Yet I could not shrug off a feeling of uneasiness.
Time has a way of clouding our memories, and within a few weeks I forgot about the experience. Then, two years later, my friend did something that brought the memory of that day back into focus. We were in the presence of a number of soldiers who were drinking beer. In the group was a man I didn’t know. He began teasing me for not joining them in drinking a little alcohol. My friend rose to my defense and added with an earnestness that surprised me, “Chris Golden is the only true Christian in our group.” Others who knew me joined my friend in defending me, which silenced my critic.
Later, as my friend and I walked back toward our foxhole on a gray, half-moonlit night, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a seriousness I had not been accustomed to during our friendship. He recalled the event of earlier that evening and said, “I meant what I said. In fact, I have never met an individual who has been more true to his faith in God than you, Chris!”
This was unexpected. Even though I had always tried to live the gospel, I felt I had not done more than many Latter-day Saints would have done in similar circumstances, and I had always tried to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Still, he had more to say: “You have let me down only once.” My shock at his matter-of-fact accusation was matched only by the speed with which my mind raced through all of the events we had shared together. I finally remembered that blustery, cold Sunday two years earlier. My friend’s words exposed painful memories of a day I would rather have forgotten.
He continued, “Do you remember that cold Sunday afternoon when we were sitting inside our tent and telling stories, some of which I now feel quite embarrassed about?”
I nodded a little numbly in acknowledgment. Standing opposite him, I hoped that the shadows of the night hid my discomfort.
He said, “While I was talking, I had been silently praying that you would ask me to stop telling those dirty stories—but you did nothing.”
During the long silence that followed his stinging condemnation, a deep sense of disappointment welled up within me. I had let not only him down, but I had failed the Lord—and myself.
Ever since that day, I have tried not to make the same mistake. I was taught an important lesson about the true meaning of the Lord’s command to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Observing that “no man can serve two masters” (Matt. 6:24), the Savior counseled us, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33).

As that first school year drew to a close, I again found myself without enough money to pay my tithing and my last month’s rent. I paid the tithing, hoping to find some extra work I could do somewhere to earn money. I was concerned because my already busy schedule did not provide much in the way of extra time, and I did not want to be late in paying Sister Knight. The day that my rent was due, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door, Don Wood, a member of the BYU football team, was standing in the doorway. He handed me an envelope that he told me he had received earlier that evening from his father, President Charles W. Wood, then first counselor in the Union Oregon Stake presidency. President Wood had asked Don to deliver the envelope to me. Don had said he would be seeing me at school the following Monday or Tuesday, but President Wood had replied, “No, you take it to him tonight. As my plane was landing in Boise, I was impressed that Jim needed some help. I think he needs it now, and I want you to deliver this envelope to him tonight.”
I had never spoken to President Wood nor, to the best of my memory, to Sister Knight or any other person concerning my lack of funds. As the oldest of seven children from a very poor family, I had always been aware I could not expect any financial assistance from my family. The experiences I had already had my first year at BYU had greatly solidified my testimony of tithing.
Recalling all this in my mind, I thanked Don for delivering the message and envelope. Slowly I opened it; inside was $20.

In April 1992 my family and I were living in Provo, Utah, where we had moved from Canada so I could complete a degree in engineering at Brigham Young University. My son Jase, who was 17, had become friends with a young woman named Krista.
On the Saturday evening of general conference weekend, Jase came into the living room and asked if he could borrow the car to take Krista out for a milk shake. I tossed him the keys, and he went into the kitchen to call her. I could hear one side of the conversation, which went like this:
“Hi, Krista, it’s me, Jase. I was wondering if you would like to go out for a milk shake.” Silence. “You mean after priesthood meeting? Well, OK, I’ll call you then. See ya.”
Jase hung up the phone and came back into the living room.
“So are you going out with her?” I asked.
“She said she would like to go,” he replied, “but she told me to call her back after I get home from the priesthood session.” With a dejected look on his face, he slunk off to his room.
Something hit me like a ton of bricks. I had grown up in southern Alberta, nearly 80 miles (130 km) from the stake center. No one had expected me or even my parents, who had leadership positions in our branch, to show up for conference sessions, let alone the priesthood session. Now someone was counting on it.
What would my response be to my son’s look of sadness as he went to his room? I knew that my decision would set a precedent for years to come.
I got up from my chair and called down the hall to Jase and my second son, a newly ordained deacon, “Change your clothes. We have 10 minutes to get to the priesthood session at the stake center.” I hurried to get ready, and when I came out of my bedroom, both boys were ready, and we headed for the car.
I don’t remember the talks very well, but I remember that we felt the Spirit. It felt good to be at the priesthood session with my sons. When we came home, Jase felt good about himself, which made me feel good. He called Krista, and they went to get milk shakes.
In the two decades that have passed since that day, the priesthood holders in our family have not missed a single priesthood session of general conference. Because a righteous young woman stood up for her beliefs, our family had the opportunity to change, and we continue to hear the words of latter-day prophets and feel the Spirit in the priesthood session of general conference.

Late one night, we sat with our family doctor in constant vigil over our little boy who lay silently struggling for breath. The hours were long, but rewarding. Not only did the professional assistance of this great individual help to save the life of a precious child, but from him, we came to recognize the kind of human understanding that causes one to give his life in selfless service to others.
It was my wife who broke the silence by asking: “Tell us, Doctor, why is it that you have never sent a bill for any of the help you have given to our family?”
It was evident, by the contemplative pause, that his mind was returning to earlier days. Then, as a tender sadness came over his face, he told the following story:
“Before I was born, my parents migrated from Germany to America. Life was challenging and they had to work hard to provide for us little ones as we came along
“During a diphtheria epidemic, my little sister and I both became very ill. The doctor who came told my parents that he had only enough medicine for one, and that a decision would have to be made.
“For some reason, I received the medication and lived. A couple of days later, my little sister died.
“I still remember my father placing her in the little wooden coffin. The neighbors could only come and look through the window, because we were quarantined and everyone was terribly afraid of the contagion.
“I was so small that father had to lift me up to see over that crude little coffin and look upon the face of my childhood playmate for the last time in this mortal existence. Then father went out, got up on the wagon seat, tenderly lifted the coffin onto his lap, and rode away, all alone, to the nearby cemetery.
“Years later, after completing my first month of medical practice, my nurse prepared bills for all my patients. As I saw them sitting there on the desk, that childhood memory passed before me. I remembered also how my parents had later paid the doctor with potatoes and other produce. I asked myself, as I had often asked before: ‘Why was my life preserved instead of hers?’ With that question still on my lips, I swept the stack of bills into the wastebasket and told my nurse that we would keep good records on the books and if people wished to pay me, they would do so; but we would not follow the usual practice of billing patients.”
When the doctor had finished, there was silence as we pondered. How refreshing it was to be in the presence of one who had truly succeeded in placing service ahead of self!
The Savior was willing, not only to lay down his life for his friends, but also to give himself in service to them while he lived. We sat that night with one who served even as the Master. We were healed physically. Spiritually, we were loved, understood, taught, encouraged, and fed by this wonderful teacher and friend.

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any kind to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over six hundred natives, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with over eight hundred in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived from Winter Quarters.