Gospel Story Finder

“My father had a dairy products business and five or six horse carts. Sometimes I used to help him with the deliveries.
“I remember one of the first songs I learned in the Church was ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.’ I used to sing that song every day; in fact, my father got tired of hearing that particular song.
“One day I went to deliver two bottles of milk to a customer. The lady of the house heard me singing that song and came out and asked, ‘What are you singing?’
“‘I’m singing, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”’ I answered.
“‘What is that?’ she inquired.
“‘One of the songs we sing in my church,’ I replied.
“‘What church is that?’
“‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“‘Well, I don’t know them. Do they have another name?’
“‘Yes, the Mormon Church.’
“‘Why don’t you tell me something about your church?’”
Elder Abrea concluded his experience by saying that after two weeks, the lady and her family began attending the Latter-day Saint Church. This was his first missionary experience.

I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.

On one occasion while serving in the temple I observed a 12-year-old boy, dressed in white, who had come to perform proxy baptisms and confirmations. He was in a wheelchair, for he had been born without arms or legs. His spirit was whole and his small body was only temporarily deprived. He had come to the temple intending only to do confirmations, which at first appearance seemed quite convenient as he remained in his wheelchair. But, with encouragement from ordinance workers, he was taken into the font and there immersed as proxy for others who, if permitted to witness, must have wept at the honor of having such a special son of God baptized for them.

I imagined that this young man, in far greater proportion than myself and others, understood the great miracle of a body, complete and whole. He did not feel sorry for himself. His spirit soared and he bore a fervent testimony. He had learned to swim like a dolphin. He could write with a pencil in his mouth. He could attend to many of his own needs. He undoubtedly was also grateful for the heavenly assurance that someday his tabernacle would be added upon and perfected, in the image of his God. The boy's name is Gabriel. For a brief moment we were blessed by the presence of our own angel Gabriel in the Bountiful Temple. He came without wings, or even arms or legs.

Some weeks later I received a phone call. It was Cameron’s mother, Joyce. She was the Young Women president; my husband, Van, was the Young Men president. It was routine for her to leave messages with me.
As we spoke, she indicated that she was tying up all loose ends before Cameron’s surgery. Cameron’s surgery? I tried to think. Oh, yes, something to help his hips. The conversation ended, and I hung up the phone.
Suddenly the feeling came to me: Cameron was going to die.
I felt nauseated and weak. I went to my bedroom to pray. Was there something I should do? After praying, I felt a sense of reassurance.
Cameron had his surgery. Joyce called and reported that all had gone well. Still, I sensed something in her voice. Everything seems fine, she said.
The next day as I was trying to organize my day, the telephone rang. It was Jamie, a member of the Relief Society presidency.
“How are you?” I asked politely.
“Not very good,” she answered, as she started to cry. “Cameron passed away last night.”
I sat down.
“I just thought that you should know.”
“Thank you for calling me, Jamie,” I said. “You may never know how much this means.” I hung up the phone, then took down the picture of Jesus healing the man born blind. I wrapped it and thought of a gracious God who prepares answers to prayers before they are uttered. I wrote Cameron’s family a letter that I hoped would comfort them, then I attached it to the gift.

Sarah listened as Mom talked on the phone. She was telling Dad how Sister Evans’ car had a flat tire, so Mom had given her, her baby, and her groceries a ride home. Sarah heard Mom say, “I did my good deed for the day.”
Sarah was puzzled. She wandered into the family room where her big brother, Christopher, was busy folding the laundry. “What’s a good deed?” she asked.
“A good deed is something helpful that you do for someone,” Christopher explained. “For example, if you helped me put away these clothes, you would be doing a good deed.”
“OK, I’ll help,” Sarah said. She scooped up a stack of towels and hurried to the bathroom to put them away. Before long, the job was done.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Christopher said.
Sarah smiled. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I guess I did my good deed for the day.” She went to tell Mom what she had done. On the way, she saw her baby brother, Adam. He was standing in front of Dad’s big easy chair, looking very unhappy. His ball was on the chair, just out of his reach.
“Oh, Adam,” Sarah exclaimed, “I’ll help you!” She ran to the chair, grabbed the ball, and handed it to Adam. He smiled, threw the ball, and toddled off after it.
“Now I’ve done two good deeds,” Sarah said to herself as she continued to search for Mom. She found her in the kitchen, fixing dinner. “May I set the table?” Sarah asked.
“Of course you may,” Mom answered. “I’m always happy to have you as my helper.”
“I’m doing good deeds today,” Sarah announced as she set the table. “I helped Christopher, then I helped Adam, and now I’m helping you.” She paused, then asked, “What’s a good deed that I can do for Dad?”
“When he gets home from work, you can give him a hug and tell him that you love him,” Mom suggested.
Sarah laughed. “I always do that,” she said. “That’s not a good deed.”
“It is a good deed,” Mom said. “Your dad looks forward to your hug and ‘I love you’ all day long.”
Just then they heard Dad opening the garage door. “Here I go!” Sarah said. She ran to Dad and jumped into his arms. “I love you, Dad!” she declared, giving him a great big hug.
“And I love you, Sarah,” he said, carrying her into the kitchen. “Tell me what you did today.”
Sarah beamed. “I did lots of good deeds.”
“Good for you!” Dad set Sarah down and gave Mom a kiss. “I called Sister Evans and told her that I would change her tire right after dinner.”
“That will be your good deed for the day, Dad!” Sarah declared. “It’s a good thing Sister Evans had a flat tire today or we wouldn’t have been able to do so many good deeds!”

In 1980, I was a fourteen year-old kid living in Moses Lake, Washington. May 18th of that year was a Sunday. At about 10:00 that Sunday morning, my dad noticed an enormous bank of very strange clouds approaching from the west. Soon the whole family was in the front yard, taking pictures and describing to one another those very unusual clouds. Oddly, the clouds kept moving, but it didn’t start raining.
It didn’t rain because those clouds were not what they appeared to be. A phone call from a neighbor informed us that 150 miles to the west, Mount Saint Helens had erupted. We were looking at a volcanic ash cloud. As those now ominous clouds approached the eastern horizon, it became increasingly and dramatically dark. Although it was not yet noon, there was soon only a thin line of daylight left in the east. When the falling ash blocked out all the light of the sun and even the lights of the closest houses, a pleasant spring morning became sudden, unnatural night.

Let me take you back to my hometown. When we left Moses Lake a few minutes ago, an ash cloud had turned a spring morning into frightening darkness. Throughout a very long night, volcanic ash fell from the sky. We awoke to a hazy, completely grey world in which everything was smothered in several inches of pulverized stone. The cloud was gone, but months of work to remove the ash from lawns, roofs, and roads lay ahead of us. It was long, hard, and gritty work. There was much to do to return things to something like a normal condition, but please note that it didn’t stay dark forever. The sun came up on a different and damaged world, but the sun came up.
You may even now find yourself in the shadow of your own frightening ash cloud. If you do, please remember that you can chase that darkness away with the light of truth. I promise you that the sun can come up again in your world too. However, when the light returns, don’t be surprised to find that there is long, hard, and gritty work yet to do. The exhausting work we had to do to deal with tons and tons of volcanic ash took its toll primarily on our arms and backs. As you struggle to recover from the fallout of darkness in your life, you will find yourself laboring primarily with your knees and your heart.

Because his father believed that boys should learn to work, he bought a farm. The family lived there in the summer and went there on Saturdays in the spring and fall. They pruned trees in winter and early spring, then picked the fruit in late summer and early fall. Young Gordon learned to work hard. He also learned the beauty of nature that God has given us “and the bad things that happen when nature is abused.”†

The Depression of the 1930s deepened during the early years of their marriage. To earn money, Howard sold soap door to door, ran a surveying transit, and painted bridges for Claire’s father, who operated an industrial painting business. He and Claire became parents on 20 March 1934 when Howard William Hunter, Jr., was born. But that summer, tragedy struck as little Billy became ill with an ulcerated intestinal diverticulum and died following surgery.

While attending a sacrament meeting during the summer months, I was fortunate to hear messages from three students who were home from school for the summer. One of the talks especially interested me.
She had been working during the summer recess in a restaurant frequented by truck drivers. One driver who had a regular run stopped at the restaurant on the same day each week to eat. The regularity of the stop created an opportunity for short visits. He asked the young lady where she lived. She reported that she was home for the summer to earn money to return to school in the fall. His next question was, “Where do you attend school?” Her answer with pride: “BYU–Idaho.” He wanted to know more about the school, which led to a gospel discussion. Her first approach was to teach him about the Word of Wisdom. She was successful. She convinced him to give up smoking.
Then her shift was changed, and she no longer had the opportunity to serve him, so she wrote him a note and enclosed a Church missionary tract about the plan of salvation. After several days she received a note from the driver. It simply stated, “You’ve created a monster.” Thanks to this young woman, he had found information which caused him to think about the changes he must make in his life. I do not know the full outcome of this little encounter between a waitress and a truck driver, but clearly his life was affected.
She then went on to explain how easy it is to let others know about the beauties of the gospel. Opportunities are there every day in our normal pursuits of life to open our mouths to let people know of the gospel truths that will bless them here and now and into the eternities to come.

At the end of July this year, young single adults from several countries in eastern Europe gathered outside Budapest, Hungary, for a conference. Among this group were 20 young men and women from Moldova who had spent days obtaining passports and visas and over 30 hours traveling by bus to get there. The conference program included some 15 workshops. Each person needed to select the two or three that he or she most wanted to attend. Rather than focus exclusively on their own interests, these Moldovan young adults got together and made plans so that at least one of their group would be in each class and take copious notes. Then they would share what they had learned with each other and later with the young adults in Moldova who could not attend. In its simplest form, this exemplifies the unity and love for one another that, multiplied thousands of times in different ways, will “bring again Zion” (Isaiah 52:8).

I had been in the police department only a few years when I was promoted to the rank of sergeant. One of my first assignments was to patrol the east side of Salt Lake City. It was a beautiful Sunday, and Liberty Park was crowded with families enjoying the spring weather. Suddenly, my quiet patrol was interrupted by a call for assistance from another officer in the park. As I approached the officer, I could see a large group of people pushing and shoving him around. (This group had been having a “beer party” in the park, even though many signs in the park read, “No Beer or Alcohol Allowed.”) The officer had tried to arrest one of the individuals who was determined to keep drinking despite the law.
The crowd appeared angry and threatening. I could see that the officer was in real trouble and that drastic action would be needed to rescue him. I quickly picked up my microphone and ordered the crowd to disperse.
“This is the police! Please disperse and leave the area immediately!” Upon hearing the announcement, the crowd became even more violent. I called for additional help, but because it was Sunday, few officers were on duty. I was on my own.
In a desperate attempt to rescue the officer, who was now being beaten and having his uniform torn, I opened the trunk of my car and got out the tear gas grenades. I knew that if anything would disperse the crowd this would be it. I selected a canister, pulled the pin, and lobbed it toward the angry crowd.
Poof! The gas began to fume, and people were running to get out of the way. The tear gas was effective in dispersing the crowd, but it also enraged the beer partiers. Chaos broke out, and within a short time the crowd was throwing bottles and rocks and jumping on police cars. More police arrived, and more people joined the riot. Before the situation was finally brought under control, more than 1,000 people were involved, including almost 100 police officers and several police dogs. Both citizens and officers were the victims of torn clothing and dog bites. For a few hours that day in Liberty Park, anarchy reigned.

About this time, I attended a fireside where Julie spoke; she talked a lot about prayer. I took her counsel to heart and decided to start praying morning and night with real sincerity. I got up earlier than before, scheduled 15 or 20 minutes just for prayer, and treated it as an appointment with the most important person in my life. I found that I could get answers and guidance in a way I never had before.

In the eastern part of the city, about 20 youth from the Colcapirhua Ward, Cochabamba Bolivia Los Alamos Stake, meet each day at 5:30 a.m. for a simple breakfast before seminary begins at 6:00.

“I get up early because I know that if I come to seminary it’s going to help me have the Spirit and be closer to God all day,” says Jenny Linares, 18.
Breakfast usually consists of bread with sugar and mate, an herbal drink, or api, a drink made with ground purple and white corn. But the youth come to seminary more for spiritual nourishment than for food.
“It’s fun to come to seminary,” says Luly Bravo, 14. “The youth brighten your day in the morning. We come to learn more about our Father in Heaven and His Son.”
“The truth is that the four years of seminary have made me think a lot about a mission,” says Diego Díaz, 18. “That’s why I am graduating from seminary, so I can go on a mission.”
Franz Condori, 20, of the Arocagua Ward, Cochabamba Bolivia Universidad Stake, agrees. He was baptized four years ago and plans to serve a mission soon. “When I became a member of this Church, I had already set the goal to go on a mission, and the four years in seminary have helped me a lot,” he says. “I know the scriptures we always read and study will help me answer the questions I might be asked when I become a missionary.”

Jackson Payne’s life is busy and wouldn’t seem to leave much room for early-morning seminary or priesthood responsibilities, but he knows where his priorities are. Hailing from Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 18-year-old Jackson started participating in artistic gymnastics when he was 6 or 7 and has since made it to several national and international championships. The high bar is his best event, but he’s decided to reach for something even higher.
Instead of spending his time before school at the gym squeezing in extra practice time, Jackson attends early-morning seminary. This daily routine is just as important to him as his gym routines. “I think if I disrupted my routine by not going to seminary for a couple of days, it would really mess up my day. It’s important for me to stick to that routine.” He observes that “if you keep messing up your gymnastics routine, you don’t gain any confidence or consistency for competition. In the same way, if you don’t go to seminary or church, you’re more likely to fail in the real world.”
When it comes to gymnastics, precision is key. “You’re judged on everything you do; everything affects your score,” Jackson says. He also says that the better you perform a routine or skill, the easier it is to execute and the more it becomes second nature. No one can perform a perfect routine in gymnastics, just as none of us lives a perfect life in mortality. But Jackson says that unlike in gymnastics, we have a perfect example to strive toward: Jesus Christ. And in our paths to perfection we’re given commandments like tithing, the law of chastity, and the Word of Wisdom, commandments we can execute with exactness right now.
Gymnastics teaches Jackson about dedication and faith, principles he can directly apply to the gospel. “I go into the gym every day and have certain things I have to do. It gives me a test of my dedication and faith in knowing that if I do all the things I’m supposed to do, I can get better at gymnastics. In the same way, if I do things I’m supposed to do with church and Mutual and fulfilling my priesthood duties, my testimony will strengthen and I’ll learn more about the gospel.”

During a recent fast and testimony meeting, I sat on a cushioned folding chair in our little branch building and tried to convince myself to go up and bear my testimony. I don’t necessarily get stage fright, but I don’t enjoy talking in front of everybody either. Part of me wanted to get up there, and the other part made up excuses not to. The words “I don’t even have a testimony” popped into my mind.
I quickly took those words back, if you can do that with thoughts, because I knew it wasn’t true. “Of course I have a testimony,” I said to myself. “It may not be an extremely great or strong testimony of every gospel topic, but I have a strong belief in some gospel principles.”
I started listing them in my mind. “I know that Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost love all of us. I believe that families are extremely important and that through the plan of salvation, families can live together forever.”
I had recently turned 14, and my mom told me with a smile, “Joseph Smith was 14 when he had the First Vision.” I knew this, but that simple sentence strengthened my testimony of Joseph Smith. I know that he was a true prophet called of God and that he translated the Book of Mormon and restored the gospel.
Not all of this came to mind right then, but in the days that followed I thought a lot about that Sunday. As with my testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith, my belief and testimony of other things didn’t grow just because of what I learned or heard but also through things that happened to me.
For example, last October my grandpa passed away. He had been sick with diabetes for a long time. His was the first funeral of a family member I’d been to, and it was a very sad time for my family and me. Being among all of my relatives during the funeral and knowing we would see Grandpa again strengthened my testimony that families are extremely important and play a key part in Heavenly Father’s plan. I know that because my mom and dad were sealed in the temple, our family can live together forever. I am so thankful for their choice.
This week my dad taught us a lesson about the Holy Ghost during family home evening. He listed several things we can do to bring the Holy Ghost into our hearts. Among them is bearing our testimonies. He said that it takes courage to bear testimony but that the Lord will bless you with the Holy Ghost for your bravery. This week is a fast Sunday, and I look forward to sharing my testimony with my branch.

Many years ago, two of my teenage friends and I decided to take a drive into the mountains to a place where several small lakes collected melted snow in the spring to water thirsty summer crops in the valley below. We decided to drive in an old car which had been parked for sometime and had long ago exhausted its usefulness. We put gasoline in it, checked the radiator and oil, and by pulling it with a tractor, finally got it started, and we were on our way.

We soon realized why the car had been abandoned. The steep hills were more than it could easily negotiate, and frequently it stalled before reaching the top. When this occurred, we backed down the hill and up the one behind us. Then with a roar of the engine and all the encouragement three teenagers could muster, the old car pushed up the hill, over the top, and down the other side.

We soon reached the crest of a tall hill -- the last obstacle that stood between us and our destination. We opened the gate and looked down -- way down. The road was steep, much steeper than we anticipated. Still, we felt invincible, and although we were miles from home, no one wanted to mention or think about whether or not the car had the power to return up the hill.

We had set our minds upon enjoying ourselves at the lakes. The possibility of not being able to get back was far from our minds, so we drove through the gate and down the steep hill. The car engine revved up as it held back the car's descent to the lakes. We felt the quick drop in the pit of our stomachs.

We enjoyed this beautiful place, the scenery, skipping rocks on the lake, and the simple joy of life and living. As the sun began to lower in the sky, we knew it was time to go home. We looked up the hill, which seemed even steeper now. There was only a short distance from the edge of the lake to the point where the road began a steep angle upwards.

We piled in and started up the hill. We only made it part way -- not nearly far enough. We tried again and again. It was only then that the consequence of our earlier decision began to rest squarely on us.

We were not really concerned about our safety. We could sleep in the car that evening, and even if our tee shirts didn't keep us very warm, we would survive and walk out the next day.

We tried practically everything. Each new effort seemed to propel us a little farther up the hill. Perhaps, we thought, if we could muster one more major effort and have everything work right for us, we could make it out.

We cleared away brush near the lake to provide more distance to make our run. We removed rocks and debris from the road, and two of us stationed ourselves part way up the hill to push when the car reached its limits. One last chance! With the gas pedal to the floor, the old car fishtailed up the road, and as it slowed down, two teenage boys with arms under the rear bumper and faces squashed against the trunk pushed with all their might, as rocks spun from the wheels and stung their hands, arms, and legs.

Finally, we reached the top and were on our way home, a little wiser and armed with a life-long reminder that while we are free at any given time to make choices, we do not choose the consequences of the decisions we make.

Pich Sareth, a member of the Phnom Penh 12th Branch in the Phnom Penh Cambodia North District, also saw trials at a very young age. He was only five years old when he was separated from his family and forced to work in the fields. He would sometimes find crabs or frogs he could eat to quell his hunger.
Brother Pich’s wife, Seng Tha, and her family were also forced from their home. Because she was only four years old and small, she was not required to work, as other children were. She was separated from her family much of the day and was watched by elderly women who could not work.
After meeting the missionaries in 1995, Brother Pich and his wife began to learn about the love Heavenly Father has for them. “When I had problems, I could see that praying helped me get through them,” Brother Pich says. “I knew Heavenly Father cared.”
After Brother Pich decided to be baptized, his wife also gained a testimony of the gospel and was baptized.
Since their baptisms, Brother Pich and his family have recognized the joy that stems from gaining a testimony of Jesus Christ. The Pich family takes time every day to read the scriptures. As they have done this, the joy of the gospel has permeated their souls.
“We feel we are on the right path now, and we want to stay on this narrow path and continue to progress,” Sister Seng says. “I am grateful every day that we can have our children on this path with us.”

Arise Early
Arising early is not in Doctrine and Covenants 89, but rather in section 88: “Retire to thy bed early, that ye may not be weary; arise early, that your bodies and your minds may be invigorated” (v. 124).
My husband gets up for work at 5:00 a.m. In the past, I didn’t get up with him. I would sleep in, and I didn’t get up with my teenage sons either. At night I went to bed early, but my husband stayed up until 11:00 p.m. or later. I was worried about him because he would get sleepy when driving. We needed a change.
I decided to get up with my husband and have breakfast with him. Now we spend time together talking over breakfast. As a result, I am up now with my children before they go to school, and I send them off with prayers and hugs.
My husband is now going to bed early too. I find that my sleep, which had always been poor, has become much sounder, so I don’t need as much. It seems that many things are working better in my life because I strive to heed the counsel to “arise early.”
Linda Davis, Utah, USA

I have always enjoyed sports. When I was growing up, my home in Tremonton, Utah, was a gathering place for the boys in the neighborhood, and we loved to play softball and football in the pasture and basketball in the yard.
As a young man, I was invited to be on a semiprofessional baseball team. I was thrilled! But I soon found out that the games would be on Sunday. I talked with my father, probably trying to persuade him that it would be OK because I would still be able to go to my Church meetings, then play baseball in the evening. My father listened carefully and then asked me to think about how my decision might affect my friends and others who might be watching.
I thought about that advice, and I knew what I should do. I turned down the offer to play on the team. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was one I have never regretted. Ever since, I have tried to remember that the way I choose to live my life can affect others.

There are different shades of truth telling. When we tell little white lies, we become progressively color-blind. It is better to remain silent than to mislead. The degree to which each of us tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth depends on our conscience. David Casstevens of the Dallas Morning News tells a story about Frank Szymanski, a Notre Dame center in the 1940s, who had been called as a witness in a civil suit at South Bend [Indiana].
“‘Are you on the Notre Dame football team this year?’ the judge asked.
“‘Yes, Your Honor.’
“‘What position?’
“‘Center, Your Honor.’
“‘How good a center?’
“Szymanski squirmed in his seat, but said firmly, ‘Sir, I’m the best center Notre Dame has ever had.’
“Coach Frank Leahy, who was in the courtroom, was surprised. Szymanski always had been modest and unassuming. So when the proceedings were over, he took Szymanski aside and asked why he had made such a statement. Szymanski blushed. ‘I hated to do it, Coach,’ he said. ‘But, after all, I was under oath.’”