Gospel Story Finder

It was early Halloween morning. The sun hadn’t come up yet, so it was still dark outside. I was trying real hard not to be scared. Dad had asked me to feed the calves their hay while he finished milking our three cows. I was just gathering an armful of loose hay, when I saw the biggest, blackest bird standing on top of a hay bale about halfway up the stack.
The bird had an old, wrinkled, bald head and a long, skinny tail that went almost halfway to the ground. I didn’t believe in witches or ghosts or goblins, but I could see that this was a real monster kind of bird.
I turned around, tripped over some baling twine, and fell right on my face. I just knew that big bird was going to swoop down and carry me away, so I got up as fast as I could and started running.
When I got to where Dad was milking, I was breathing so hard that I couldn’t talk. Dad said that my face was as white as a frog’s belly and my eyes were as big as buckets.
When I finally caught my breath, I shouted, “There’s a huge monster bird on the haystack! It’s bigger than an eagle, and it’s really ugly. It must be a Halloween bird.”
Dad listened to me and nodded his head and finished squeezing the last drops of milk out of our cow Kick-a-Pooh Daisy. When he had finished, he hung his bucket of milk on a nail and said, “We’d better go have a look at this ‘monster bird.’”
By then the sun was starting to peek over the mountains, and things were a little lighter. When we got to the haystack, that old bird was still there—right on top of the hay bale—but I could see it better now. It was big all right, but it didn’t scare me this time. Its long, skinny tail was now spread into a shape like a great big fan. My monster bird was just an old turkey—the hugest one I’d ever seen!
When Dad and I climbed up on top of the hay, that old turkey didn’t even try to fly away. He just stood there looking at us, his tail spread and his big chest sticking out. Dad picked him up and said that he might weigh as much as forty pounds.
We carried the turkey down to the chicken coop and put it inside with the chickens. Then we called Mom and my sisters, Jana Lee and Sarah, and my little brother, Jared, to come see it.
“That’s probably Brother Reeves’s turkey,” Mom said.
Brother Reeves was our neighbor who raised hundreds of turkeys, so Mom called him. When he came over, he looked at the turkey and nodded his head. “Yep, it looks like one of mine,” he said. “One of the doors on the turkey truck must have jarred loose, and it probably jumped out when the truck went out this morning. That’s one of my biggest toms.”
“A tom?” I asked.
“Yep. That’s what you call a male turkey. Do you have your Thanksgiving turkey, Aaron?” he asked me. I shook my head. “Well, you do now. That is, you do if your dad will let you keep him.”
Dad had a big smile on his face, and said, “If Aaron will take care of him, he can keep him and feed him and we’ll have him for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I’m going to call you Turkey Tom,” I said to the turkey. “And you’re going to come to our Thanksgiving dinner.”
“He’s going to be the dinner,” Brother Reeves said with a chuckle.
Our family had never raised our own Thanksgiving turkey, so I was sure proud of Turkey Tom. Every day after school I rode the bus home, changed my clothes, and did my chores as fast as I could so that I could go out and watch Turkey Tom. Sometimes my friends came over, and we watched Turkey Tom strut around. Then he’d poke in the dirt, looking for bugs and things.
The chickens were pretty mean to Turkey Tom at first. They didn’t play with him, and when it came time to eat, they pushed him aside and wouldn’t let him get any grain or mash. I would take a handful of grain and hold it out to Turkey Tom, and he learned to eat right out of my hand.
After a while he started to follow me around. Even when I went to feed the calves or to take the scraps to the pigs, he would come right behind me, strutting along with his big chest out.
Every day I liked Turkey Tom more and more. And though I knew better, soon I had made a pet of him. He was my friend, and I decided I didn’t want to eat him for Thanksgiving dinner. You just can’t eat your friends for dinner, even if they are turkeys.
One day when Dad was out milking, I asked him, “Why do we have to have turkey for Thanksgiving dinner? Why don’t we just have hot dogs or hamburgers or something?”
“Well, I guess we could eat anything we wanted,” Dad answered. “But the Pilgrims had turkey, and we’ve always had turkey, and you yourself said that turkey was your favorite meat.”
“But that was before I found Turkey Tom,” I said. “I just don’t know if I can eat him, even if Brother Reeves did give him to us for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“What would we do with him if we didn’t eat him?” Dad asked. “A turkey isn’t good for anything if you don’t eat it. You can ride a horse. Cows give milk. You get wool from sheep. Dogs can watch your house and property. Chickens lay eggs. What good is a turkey? All it does is eat. Why keep Turkey Tom unless you can eat him?”
I thought for a minute and then said, “We could keep him for a friend. Your friends don’t lay eggs or give milk or wool or anything like that. They’re just your friends, and they make you feel happy. That’s why you keep them. Couldn’t we keep Turkey Tom for a friend, because he sure makes me happy?”
Dad rubbed his nose the way he does when he’s thinking hard, then shook his head and said, “I don’t think so, Aaron. If we didn’t want that turkey for Thanksgiving, we should have given him back to Brother Reeves. No, Aaron, we’d better have Turkey Tom come to Thanksgiving dinner and be the main dish. That’s what he’s for.”
I kept taking real good care of Turkey Tom, and he got bigger and fatter and prettier than ever. But I sure felt sad—I didn’t want anything to happen to my best friend. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to eat any turkey this Thanksgiving if it was Turkey Tom.
The day before Thanksgiving Dad told me that it was time to get Turkey Tom ready. When I asked him what he had to do, he said that he had to chop off his head, pull off all his feathers, put him into the oven, and roast him.
I felt rotten all that day, I couldn’t even listen when Miss Long read us a story about the Pilgrims. And when she gave us each a cookie shaped like a turkey, I gave mine to my friend Nathan. All I could do was think about Turkey Tom losing his head and all his fluffy feathers.
When I got off the bus that afternoon, I didn’t run into the house and change my clothes and hurry out to do my chores. There wasn’t any hurry to get my chores done, because Turkey Tom was gone, and I couldn’t play with him anymore. As I walked into the kitchen, I saw mom working on a great big turkey. It didn’t have a head, all of its feathers were gone, and it was hollow inside. It didn’t look like Turkey Tom at all, but I knew that it was.
Dad fed the chickens that night and the next morning because I just couldn’t go out to the chicken coop, knowing that Turkey Tom wouldn’t be there.
On Thanksgiving Day I just sat around and thought about Turkey Tom. I could smell all the good things Mom was fixing, but my mouth didn’t water like it usually did. The only water I felt was in my eyes.
Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Dan and Grandma came over to have dinner with us. They tried to make me happy, but it wasn’t any use. When we all sat down at the table, I couldn’t look at any of the food because right in the middle of it was Turkey Tom, all brown and ready to eat. Then just before we said the blessing on the food, Dad looked at me and said,” Aaron, I almost forgot to invite one of our friends to dinner. Wait a moment, and I’ll be right back.”
After just a minute the front door opened, and there stood Dad with Turkey Tom in his arms! I stared at Turkey Tom and then at the brown turkey on the table.
Dad had a big grin on his face, and he winked at me and said, “That’s one of Turkey Tom’s cousins. He’s not proud like Turkey Tom. He’s right happy to be somebody’s Thanksgiving dinner.”
I jumped up from my chair and ran to the front door and gave Turkey Tom a big hug. “Do we ever have to eat him?” I asked my dad.
He started to laugh so hard that Turkey Tom almost shook out of his arms. “Aaron,” he said, “yesterday I went out with the ax to fix Turkey Tom for dinner and he looked up at me as if to say, ‘How can you do this to your son’s friend?’ Well, that sure didn’t make me feel very good. So I put the ax away and asked Brother Reeves if he would sell us a turkey that we could eat.”
“And we don’t have to ever eat Turkey Tom?” I asked again. “Even if he doesn’t lay eggs?”
“I guess if he can be a friend, that’s good enough for me. I always told you that Turkey Tom was coming to Thanksgiving dinner, and here he is.”
That was my very best Thanksgiving. Mom’s food never tasted so good, especially the turkey, and when I was all fat and full, I went out to the barn and strutted around with my friend Turkey Tom.

Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

The water felt warm and smooth as I stepped into the font. Dad walked down the steps across from me, grinning. I looked around at all the people bunched up in front of the baptismal font: people who loved me and had come just for me! Dad said the baptismal prayer and lowered me into the water. I’ll never forget how I felt coming up out of the water—happy and clean. As I climbed out of the font, Mom was ready with a big towel and wrapped it around me in a warm hug.
I dried off and got dressed in the new white eyelet dress we had picked out for this day. Then I went back into the room where my family and friends were waiting. My dad, both grandpas, and my uncle put their hands on my head and confirmed me a member of the Church.
Afterward, everyone came up and hugged me or shook my hand. My home teacher said, “Right now you’re clean! You don’t have any sins!”
I hadn’t thought about that before. I realized that right then I was practically perfect. I decided to stay that way as long as I could.
Everyone went outside and sat on the big rolling lawn, talking, eating refreshments, and enjoying the view of the Potomac River.
After a while my cousins and friends and I got up to run around a little. “Be careful,” Mom called. “Remember you have on your new dress.”
We played hide-and-seek and chased each other around the trees. I loved how my dress billowed out when I spun around.
Then the worst thing happened. I slipped and fell into a mud puddle left by the morning’s rain. I heard a lot of gasps and a few giggles as I got up. My white dress was muddy! And worse, I had already done something wrong by ignoring Mom’s instructions. I ran inside to the bathroom, my tears starting before I got there. The dress had to come clean. I’d scrub until it did. I pulled my dress up into the sink, running the water over the mud. The dirt faded but the stain stayed there on the front of my new white dress.
I went out to the other side of the church and sat on the curb near the parking lot, watching the air above the blacktop waving from the heat. I heard the door open and close behind me. Mom sat down and put her arm around me.
“So you fell in the mud.”
I nodded.
“I’m sure we can wash it, and it’ll come out,” she said.
I shook my head. “I already tried that in the bathroom, and it didn’t work. I’m sorry. I don’t think it will ever come out. Will I ever be able to wear it again?” As I spoke, my tears started again.
I thought Mom was going to scold me for ruining a new dress, but she said, “I think you’ll remember this day even more now.”
That was true. Who could forget ruining her own baptism!
“You know, in your life, you’re going to make some mistakes,” Mom said. “We all do. And no matter how hard you try on your own, you won’t be able to completely erase them from your life. Do you know who can?”
“Jesus Christ?”
Mom nodded. “Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ want to forgive us. If we repent and ask humbly, Jesus can make us clean again—as clean as you were when you stepped out of the baptismal font. Christ’s Atonement is Heavenly Father’s greatest gift to us. And do you know what we can do every week to help us become clean?”
I nodded slowly. “Take the sacrament.”
“That’s right. When we partake of the sacrament we renew the covenants we made when we were baptized.” Mom leaned her hand on my knee and stood up. “I think a little bleach will make the dress white again. This isn’t our first mud stain, and I’m sure it won’t be our last.”
I sighed. It wouldn’t be my last mistake either. But I did understand a little bit more about what it meant to be baptized and confirmed. It wasn’t just taking away all my old mistakes. It would allow me to stay clean—not by being perfect all the time, but by repenting and trying harder.

“Have a soda, Marco,” Mike said.
I looked up, surprised. I was pretty sure he said my name funny on purpose, but it was nice of him to give me a soda. My family had just moved to the United States from Italy, and it was my first day at my new school. It had been OK, but I was glad to be on the bus going home.
“Shake it first,” Mike said. “It makes it taste better.” The boys sitting next to him giggled.
I wasn’t sure what was so funny about opening a can of soda. In Italy I had always drunk soda from a bottle. But things were different here. So I shook the can.
“Harder!” the boys yelled. I shook the can harder.
Then I lifted the tab.
Pffssssst!
Orange soda squirted all over! Everyone screamed as the soda shot into the air, hit the ceiling, and rained down on the seats around me. The bus driver slammed on the brakes. I couldn’t understand what he said as he marched toward me, but his face said I was in trouble. All I could do was hold up my dripping can of soda and point to the boys laughing at me. The driver yelled at them instead. Mike glared at me, and I sunk even lower in my seat.
Finally the driver sat back down and started driving. At last we reached my stop. I hurried off the bus, embarrassed and sticky. Soda trickled down my forehead as I ran up to our apartment. This had been a rotten first day.
“Why do kids have to be so mean?” I asked my mom as I wiped sticky orange soda off my bag. Mamma helped me dry off my wet books on the balcony.
“Usually it’s because they’ve been hurt.”
“But I didn’t do anything to them,” I said.
“When someone is mean to you, it’s easy to feel like being mean to others,” Mamma said. “It’s called a vicious cycle.”
“But I wasn’t the one being mean.”
“Maybe other people have been mean to those boys, and they decided to be mean too. But you can choose the right even if someone does something mean to you. You can start a good cycle.”
A few weeks later, my brother Tony had a birthday party with cake, ice cream, and soda. When my brother reached for his can of soda, I knew just the funny trick to play on him. “Shake it!” I said.
Tony shook his soda. “Now what?” he asked.
I was just about to tell him to open it. But then I pictured Tony and his birthday cake both covered in sticky soda. The trick didn’t seem so funny anymore. It hadn’t even been funny the first time.
“Don’t open it!” I said. “It will spray all over you.” I handed him a new can. I didn’t want to ruin his day.
Tony smiled as he opened the new can of soda. Then he cut a piece of cake and handed it to me.
This is a better cycle to start, I thought as I ate my cake.

Every year the Coopers love to see the Christmas lights in the town square.
Oooh! Wow! Sigh “Beautiful!”
Walking back to the car …
I love the lights that—
Watch out! Looks like there’s a puddle ahead.
Whoa! That’s actually a big hole! Without this light, one of us could have been hurt!
Home again.
Christmas lights make me feel happy and peaceful.
Light helps keep us safe too.
I think those are some of the reasons Jesus is called the Light of the World.
May the true Light of Christmas shine brightly in your life—now and always!
Love from the Cooper family and your friends at the Friend.

In the fall of 1978, Jeff, as we’ll call him, was very discouraged with life. He was born in the Church but had been mostly inactive. He had married a member but after a few years became disenchanted, and because of marital difficulties they had separated. In addition to that challenge, Jeff was suffering from severe health problems. He had diabetes, which caused partial blindness.
He worked as a night watchman in a chemical plant. His work associates were not members of the Church. Over the months they chided him saying, “Come on, Jeff, let’s go have a beer,” “One cigarette won’t hurt,” or “I’ve got some pretty friends we could have some fun with tonight.” Opportunities to break the commandments were presented, but he did not partake of any of those things.
On a Friday evening, discouraged and lonely, Jeff was invited to meet a friend in Las Vegas to have a wild time. With a feeling of desperation he decided that he would go. He thought to himself, “What does it matter? No one cares about me anymore. I’m miserable. I’ll go.” Thus, he boarded a bus to Las Vegas. Sitting on the bus he conjured up evil thoughts of the things that he would do. He would show his ex-wife, the Church, and everybody else. As this evil spirit about him persisted, he became more and more determined what his course of action would be.
Then a United States serviceman boarded the bus and walked down the aisle. He could have selected any number of seats, but he sat down by Jeff. The serviceman was a very cheerful young man, and as he talked to Jeff he let slip words like “family unit” and “the Church.” Jeff began to be suspicious, wondering if this young man might be a member of the Church. The serviceman then asked, “What would you think if I told you I didn’t smoke or drink coffee or alcohol either? And if I told you that at 26 years of age I’m morally clean?” Jeff pretended to be shocked and said, “Is that right?” The serviceman asked, “Do you think there is something wrong with that?” Jeff said, “No, every man has the right to choose what he wants to do.” Then the young man began to bear his testimony about the truthfulness of the gospel and in the process told him that he had had the privilege of baptizing 15 people in the last six years. As the bus pulled into the station where he was to get off, the serviceman again bore his testimony, got off the bus, and disappeared into the crowd.
Jeff was struck with amazement. He thought to himself, “Here I am wallowing in self-pity and this young man with as many problems as I have is out facing the world positively. Here I sit criticizing myself and everything around me.” Right then Jeff knew what he must do in Las Vegas. He kept saying over and over to himself, “I’ve got to take hold of myself. I must get out of this hole and off of the defensive. He arrived in Las Vegas and did meet his friend, but this time Jeff was in charge. He returned home with his faith strengthened and thankful that the Lord had provided a “man of the hour.”
Will that young serviceman ever know that he was talking to another member of the Church? Will he ever know that he was in tune with the Lord and, as an instrument in His hands, saved Jeff from most undesirable consequences?

“Missions are fine for some people, bishop, but not for me. I’ve been out with the missionaries, and all the good we did was to relieve some people’s frustrations by letting them slam a door in our face, and someone else threw a beer can at us. Now what good is that? If you ask me, bishop, I’ll do the world a lot more good by getting through school and becoming a doctor. Besides, if I went on a mission I would lose my scholarship.”
The bishop sat calmly through my whole speech. I don’t know how he could be so calm, because he had heard this speech twice before. He just leaned back in his chair, sighed softly, and said good naturedly, “You are stubborn, aren’t you? Well, I’ve done everything I can to help you understand how important a mission is, but the final decision is yours and I guess you have made it. If anything changes your mind,” he added with a smile, “be sure to tell me.”
“If anything can change my mind, you will be the first to know.”
I saw my friend Ted sitting underneath a tree in the middle of the church lawn as I walked outside. I walked over to where he was and sat down beside him. Neither one of us spoke for a moment, but then Ted said, “So, what happened?”
“It was just the same old speech by both of us. He told me to let him know if I changed my mind,” I said with a chuckle.
“Maybe you will.”
“Now come on, Ted. You know me better than that. Nothing could make me change my mind.”
“All I know is that the bishop is pretty inspired sometimes.”
“We’ll see,” I said confidently. “Come on, let’s go home.”
The early spring air was still a bit cool, but it felt good blowing through my hair. The budding maple trees on the side of the street disappeared behind us one by one as we passed by.
Ted and I had grown up together. We lived just a few houses apart on the same street. He had just recently decided that he was going to go on a mission. He would be leaving soon after graduation, which was in a few months. It really made me feel bad that we wouldn’t be rooming together at college like we had originally planned.
When we reached Ted’s house, we both sat down on his porch steps for a minute.
“Hey, Ted,” I said, “after you eat dinner do you want to go to the creek and see if any water snakes are out yet, just for old times’ sake?”
“I’d like to, but I’m going home teaching after dinner.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll see you at school in the morning.”
I jogged on up to my house and ran into the kitchen just in time to hear the “amen” of the blessing on the food. My mom and dad and little sister greeted me as I sat down. I knew they were all wondering how my talk with the bishop had turned out. Of course, I had discussed it with my parents before. They had encouraged me strongly to go on a mission but had always let me know that it was my decision. Just so they wouldn’t ask me any uncomfortable questions now at dinner, I hinted at what happened by remarking how I would miss Mom’s cooking while I was at college. I knew they were hurt and disappointed, but the bishop was right when he said I was stubborn.
After dinner I helped Mom with the dishes. Through the kitchen window I could see the hay fields behind the house and the creek which lay beyond. It looked so nice outside that I thought I would walk down by the creek even if Ted couldn’t go. After the dishes were done, I changed my clothes and started walking across the empty hay fields. The sun was warm on my back, and the air was cool and clean. It really made me feel good. When I got to the creek I lay down on my belly in a patch of tall grass. The bank where I was lying was about three feet higher than the creek and was eroded quite badly. I just lay there soaking in the sun and listening to the forlorn call of the mourning doves. The sound of the moving water lulled the thoughts of a mission and the bishop out of my mind. I had almost forgotten about my original idea of walking along the creek to look for water snakes and was almost asleep when I felt something wet and slippery slide up my pant leg. Now I know it isn’t manly to scream, but I’m no John Wayne, and I let out a yelp and leaped forward. The eroded bank gave way, and I tumbled into the creek. That water was really cold. Not wanting to impose on the snake’s territory, I quickly waded ashore and climbed back up the bank to level ground. I was surprised to see a girl my age with a concerned look on her face standing there watching me.
“Are you all right? Here, take my jacket. You must be freezing.”
Hesitantly I took her jacket, wrapped it around me, and then sat down in the sun to rest and dry off.
“I hope you will forgive me. I didn’t mean to scare you that bad.”
From the confused look on my face she must have gathered that I didn’t understand what she was talking about, so she went on to explain.
“I saw you lying there and I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know if you were asleep, so I touched your leg with this stick I pulled out of the creek. You were awake all right,” she said with a giggle.
My face went kind of red. “I thought it was a snake. There’s a lot of them around here, you know. Anyway, who are you?”
“I’m Susan Ward. My dad and I moved into that red brick house about a half mile up the road yesterday.”
“Just you and your dad?”
“My mom died a few months ago in a car accident. There were too many memories of her in the old house, so we moved.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. We both sat quietly for a moment. I threw a couple of rocks into the creek. Then I changed the subject.
“Are you in high school?”
“Yes, I’m a junior this year. I’m kind of nervous about going to school tomorrow. I don’t know anybody there.”
“I can understand that.” I thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound forward, but I would be happy to pick you up and take you to school tomorrow and show you around to your classes.” Then I added, “Just don’t tell anyone how we met.”
She smiled. “That would be nice, and I won’t say a word.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
We talked a little longer, and then because of my shivering I decided I’d better go home and change clothes, so we said good-bye and went our separate ways.
My family had a hard time finding out how I got all wet and muddy. When they finally pried the truth out of me they had a good laugh.
Later that night I was in bed reading when my little sister tiptoed into my room.
“Hi, Chad.”
“Hi, Sara. What are you still doing up?”
Sara is eight years old. She has sandy hair and blue eyes. And she and I are good buddies.
“I couldn’t sleep. Besides, I wanted to talk to you.”
“So, what’s on your mind?”
“Did you catch a cold or anything from falling in the creek?”
“Nope. I’m fine.”
Sara sat there playing with her toes for a moment. Then she looked up at me and asked, “What does Susan look like?”
I leaned back and thought for a minute, trying to picture her in my mind.
“Oh, Susan is a lot shorter than me. She has short, brown hair with threads of red in it. She has big brown eyes and a cute little nose.”
“She sounds pretty.”
“She is. Kind of spunky, too,” I added thoughtfully.
“Is Susan a Mormon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then are you going to convert her?”
Sara was looking me right in the eye when she asked that question. I don’t think I would have felt any more uncomfortable if it had been a General Authority who had asked me.
“Uh, well, maybe. What makes you think that Susan would be interested in the Church?” I was trying to put Sara on the spot just like she had done to me, but she answered quickly and sincerely.
“Don’t you think that she would like to be able to live with her family and Heavenly Father forever if she could, just like you and me?”
Now my bishop had given me all kinds of reasons for being a missionary and I had always been able to come up with excuses, but it was different coming from my little sister. All I could say to her statement was, “Yeah, I guess she would.”
“Well, I’m tired now. I better go to bed.” With that she reached over and gave me a hug and then disappeared out my bedroom door.
Leave it to my little sister to find my conscience. In her simple way she had made missionary work sound important. I didn’t sleep very well that night.
I picked up Susan a little early the next morning so I would have time to show her where her classes would be. It ended up that she was in my chemistry class. I have seminary last period in the seminary building across the street from the high school. Susan must have seen me come out of it after class, because when I was taking her home she asked me what class I had in that building. I told her that it was seminary, which is a religion class for my church. When I told her that, I remembered my talk with Sara last night and thought, “Here’s my chance to see if Susan wants to know about the Church.” It took a minute to build up nerve, but finally I asked, “Are you interested at all in religion?”
Susan stiffened up a little when I asked that question. She answered curtly, “No, I’m not. I used to believe in God until he took my mother away. But not anymore.”
I was embarrassed and scared to say anything else. Every time I do something to try to spread the gospel people get mad. It’s good I’m not going on a mission, I thought.
I continued to pick Susan up and take her to school for a week. By then she had made some girl friends and they took over. After that I didn’t see Susan much except in chemistry. We were lab partners, and we had a lot of fun working together. She never let me forget about the snake and the creek. I never forgot about the religion discussion we had in the car, but I never brought it up again.
It wasn’t long after that short discussion that Sara asked me if I had told Susan about the Church yet. I told her what happened in the car, thinking she would be satisfied with my attempt. All she said was, “You just approached her the wrong way.”
I was a little irritated that Sara thought she knew more than me. “Then show me how you would approach her,” I said.
“Okay,” she said, walking to the phone. “Tell me her number, and I will show you.”
Her seriousness surprised me. “No way. You just tell me how you would do it.”
“You are just a scaredy-cat,” she said accusingly. With that she stomped out of the room. I wanted to argue more with her, but I knew she was right. I was a scaredy-cat.
About three weeks before graduation, Ted and I decided to have a party at my house. We invited ten friends of ours and told them to bring dates. I had a hard time finding a date. I called a couple of girls from my ward, but both of them were busy that night. I didn’t know it, but my little sister was sitting outside my bedroom listening to me trying to get a date. After my second strike she stuck her head through the doorway and said, “Ask Susan.”
I usually get after Sara when she listens to me talking on the phone, but this time her suggestion caught my attention first. “Well, I guess I could.”
“Do it. Then maybe you could talk to her about the Church again.”
“Sara, this will be a party, not Sunday School.”
“But you never know what might come up …”
I cut her off. “Maybe, but I don’t want you saying anything about religion to her unless she asks. Okay?” I said that because I knew Susan wouldn’t ask.
“Okay,” my sister said with a shrug.
I didn’t trust her.
I did call Susan and was excited when she said that she would like to come.
The night of the party came, and so did all of my friends and their dates. We had a barbecue out back and then went down in the family room and played some games. After the games, Susan and some of the other girls went upstairs to the kitchen to fix some banana splits. Since I was the host, I went up after them to see if they could find all of the things they needed. When I got to the kitchen I found all of the girls working on the banana splits except Susan. “Where’s Susan?” I asked.
“I think she is in the front room with your little sister,” answered one of the girls.
“Oh no,” I thought as I walked to the front room. Sure enough, there was Susan sitting next to my little sister, who was in her nightgown. They had the big book on the temples in their laps. I was in the process of giving my sister a “You are in big trouble” look when Susan said in a serious voice, “I asked your little sister about that cross-stitch picture on the wall that says ‘Families are Forever,’ and she was just showing me these temples and telling me how families can get that way.”
Sara just smiled at me.
“Your sister was telling me that I could be with my mother again someday. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is,” I managed to say.
Susan sat there quietly thinking, and I stood there quietly wondering what to say next when Sara mouthed out the words, “The missionaries.”
I don’t know how I did it, but I heard the words coming out of my mouth, “Would you like to come back tomorrow night and talk to a couple of young men who could tell you a lot more about how families can be forever?”
I was getting ready for another rejection when Susan answered excitedly, “Yes, I would. Could my father come, too?”
I was too shocked to answer, but my sister spoke up. “Yes, that would be great!” I couldn’t believe this was happening. I don’t remember what happened the rest of the night except that when I got back from taking Susan home I found Sara lying asleep on my bed. I picked her up gently and carried her to her room. As I tucked her into bed I thought of the scripture, “Except ye … become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven” (Matt. 18:3).
I wanted to wake Sara up and tell her I was sorry for being so afraid of being a missionary, but instead I kissed her on the cheek and went to my own room.
Three weeks after Susan and her father had their first discussion, they were baptized. I had the honor and privilege of baptizing Susan, and my father baptized her father. My heart did a lot of changing during those three weeks. I guess while the Spirit was converting Susan and her father, it was also doing a little work on me. It wasn’t until I heard Susan’s father bear his testimony after his baptism that my heart was totally changed. This is part of what he said:
“I could become a millionaire, or I could become famous, but nothing greater could happen to me than to have the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ and know that I have the opportunity to live with my Heavenly Father and my family forever.”
Then I understood fully how 18 months spent on a mission could do more good than 50 years as a doctor. After the closing prayer my little sister came up to me, gave me a big hug, and said, “Missionary work is worth it, isn’t it?” A tear rolled down my cheek as I nodded. Then I said, “Let’s find the bishop. I have something to tell him.”

My wife, Jill, and I recently witnessed this truth in the faithful lives of Holly and Rick Porter, whose 12-year-old son, Trey, passed away in a tragic fire. With hands and feet severely burned in a heroic attempt to save her dear son, Holly later testified in ward sacrament meeting of the great peace and joy the Lord had poured out upon her family in their anguish, using words such as miraculous, incredible, and amazing.

This precious mother’s unbearable grief was replaced by surpassing peace with this thought: “My hands are not the hands that save. Those hands belong to the Savior! Instead of looking at my scars as a reminder of what I was not able to do, I remember the scars my Savior bears.”

Holly’s witness fulfills our prophet’s promise: “As you think celestial, you will view trials and opposition in a new light.”

When Jonathan K., 17, was helping to plan an upcoming high adventure activity with his Scout troop, he couldn’t get one young man out of his mind: his friend Mitchell F., a young man with spina bifida.
The group had some incredible—but physically challenging—country in mind they wanted to explore. They were planning on hiking through canyons and other wilderness areas around southern Utah.
Jonathan knew the rugged terrain they planned to visit could make it difficult for his friend to participate. However, he and the rest of his troop wanted to do all they could to allow Mitchell to join the adventure. “We wanted him to experience everything too,” Jonathan says.
As a solution, Jonathan used his Eagle Scout project to build a carrying device—the “Mitch Mobile,” as it came to be called—that would allow the young men to literally carry Mitchell throughout the journey.
There was no shortage of volunteers to help with building the Mitch Mobile. Friends and business owners from around town donated supplies to build the carrier and harness. Many people worked long hours to make sure the entire construction was safe, strong, and portable.
Of course, it was only after the carrier was completed that the true service began. After a few short trial runs around town, it was time to take the Mitch Mobile out on its true maiden voyage.
Ultimately, the high adventure outing was a huge success from start to finish. Jonathan and friends were able to carry Mitchell over every stretch of landscape and rough terrain they’d planned to see and explore. All of the young men gladly took turns wearing the harness. “I love taking him with us,” Jonathan says. They have since been on trips to many other backcountry locations.
“We’ve taken him everywhere,” Jonathan says. They’ve traversed slot canyons, cliffs, rivers, sand dunes, and steep hills. “He’s basically like a brother to me.”
As for Mitchell, he’s enjoyed the camaraderie with his friends every step of the way. He’s also enjoyed the amazing terrain they’ve visited together. One of his favorite activities was rappelling. “I’ve loved it,” Mitchell says.
The Mitch Mobile had yet another chance to shine when Mitchell’s older brother Spencer, along with Jonathan, carried Mitchell during a community parade. They marched with a large group of Latter-day Saint young men dressed as the 2,000 stripling warriors to carry the message of the gospel.
Mitchell wanted to ride in the harness rather than a wheelchair, because he thought it would be more accurate to Book of Mormon times. He loved being in the parade with so many other youth. “It was pretty powerful,” Mitchell says.
Even after all the young men have done with it so far, the Mitch Mobile is just getting started. The carrier will benefit others for years to come. The Mitch Mobile was donated to a local spina bifida organization, so while it remains stored permanently at Mitchell’s home, the carrier is also available for use by others who can benefit from it.
The lives of many people will be blessed because a small group of young men wanted to make sure one of their closest friends never had to feel left out.

“Brueder Missionare, warten Sie einen Moment!” cried Sister Schmiedl, hurrying out of the apartment house door into the cold January air. My companion and I dismounted our bikes and turned to her. “I’m glad I saw you. Sister Jonas is sick; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“When did this happen? What’s the matter with her?”
“Yesterday afternoon … something to do with the liver. Brother Wist said they don’t expect her to last the week at her age.”
“Terrible!”
“Ja! She wants very much to see you, and she asked to be administered to.” Sister Schmiedl had that desperate but firm Austrian look that told us we had better get over to the hospital as soon as possible.
We pedaled our way in silence through the snow-clogged streets toward our apartment. Elder Rogers and I weren’t regular companions. His companion was the district leader. My companion, Elder Smith, and the district leader had gone to Linz to work for the day. We often traded so we could get different ideas on how to approach people about the gospel and to gain experience working with various elders. That particular day didn’t seem much improved by the absence of our senior companions. You see, Elder Rogers and I were both junior companions with very little experience. Between the two of us, we had a total of six weeks in the field.
Warming our stiff hands over the coal stove in the landlady’s kitchen, we wondered what we were going to do. Or more precisely, how.
“Have you ever given a blessing to the sick?”
“No, Elder Rogers, I haven’t. Not even in English.”
“Well, comp., this could be tricky. Neither have I.”
We knew stalling wouldn’t do any good. Even if Sister Jonas’s condition hadn’t been so urgent, delaying until morning wouldn’t guarantee Elder Smith’s getting back to perform the ordinance. The wind was whipping the dusty snow into a regular gale outside, and trains all over central Europe were being halted. Winter 1970 was to become one of the worst winters in the history of the continent, and that’s a lot of history.
We decided not to take the bikes, preferring a long walk to a slide that might take us to the hospital rather than visitors. As we went, our breath came out in big puffs of white vapor that froze to the fibers of our scarves and collars and gave our eyebrows and noses a Frosty-the-Snowman appearance. Fortunately, the hospital was not too far away, and Wels is a small town in any case. The nun at the desk looked doubtfully at us when we introduced ourselves as ministers of the Church of Jesus Christ, but our identification papers convinced her, and we proceeded down the corridor, even though there were no visiting hours on Tuesday.
Sterbezimmer 319 is a room where patients with only a few hours or days to live are kept isolated from others. It was a reasonably pleasant room, despite its awful function, and the white lace curtains gave a feeling of hope, even when hope was long gone. Sister Jonas lay in a bed by the window; from there she could watch the storm’s progress. Outside the wind was still playing ball with the fallen snow, but it seemed a few rays of sunlight were trying to find a way through the clouds. As we entered, Sister Jonas looked and smiled.
A nurse was there. “Don’t be long,” she said and then left, assuming we had come to give the last rites.
“I’m glad you came,” whispered Sister Jonas.
“Don’t be afraid. Do you believe you can be healed?”
“Yes, now I do.”
Elder Rogers produced a vial of pale yellow oil, and, in a quavering voice, anointed her. Now it was my turn. I paused. How did they tell us to pronounce a blessing at the Language Training Mission? An instant’s hesitation, and, “Otilie Jonas, Im namen Jesu Christi … ”
My time in Wels was almost gone, and I expected to be transferred to another town in a few days. Elder Smith had long since been sent to Vienna, and Elder Rogers had followed him. I looked out on our little congregation in sacrament meeting and had difficulty holding back the tears. The hardy souls in these small and sometimes obscure branches mean a lot to the missionaries who labor there. When I left home to come to Austria, I knew I’d soon return, but I knew when I left Wels I would probably never see these people again.
It had been a long winter, and even in the spring it was still a bit chilly. Others felt it too, and in the back, a sister got up and stoked the little potbellied stove. It was Sister Jonas. When she finished, she returned to her chair, and I got up to walk to the pulpit—what could I tell these people?
I told them about Sister Jonas. I told them how much it had meant to us to be there when she needed a blessing, though we had been so inexperienced. I told them how the Lord had helped us when we didn’t know what to do. And I told them that if they would trust in Him, He would help them too.
Afterward, Sister Jonas came up to me with tears in her eyes. “That blessing saved my life,” she said. “I know the Lord healed me.”

I was playing at a friend’s house when another boy came over to play. The other boy began using bad language and not being nice. My friend asked the boy to stop. He didn’t, so my friend told him to go home. The boy refused. My friend called the boy’s mom on the phone, explained what was going on, and handed the phone to the boy. He hung up on his mom. My friend called her again, and this time the boy listened to his mom and went home.
This was a brave thing for my friend to do. I am thankful for good friends who are not afraid to stand up for what is right. I know that friends like that help me to choose the right.

I remember an experience I had on my mission. I was assigned to the mission home and received a call from a missionary newly arrived in the field. He indicated that he wanted to go home right then. The mission president and his wife were unavailable for a few days. I asked the mission secretary to go with me, and we drove down to the little Swiss village where the missionary was stationed. I went tracting with him while the mission secretary went tracting with his senior companion. We tracted farmhouses, and so we had a long time between houses to talk. After talking about missionary work and life in general, the missionary was feeling okay about staying on.

Our conversation turned to him. This missionary was different than most—he was much older because he was a convert. He was converted while he was a soldier in Vietnam, and then he went on a mission after he returned home from the war. He talked about his experiences, and at one point he talked about being on reconnaissance when shots were being fired. He and the soldiers in his patrol dove off the road to avoid the shots, and he heard explosions around him. The Viet Cong had placed land mines around and then used gunfire to get the soldiers to jump off the road. He talked about seeing one of his buddies literally blown apart. He became choked up.

There was silence, and finally I said, “I understand.”

I remember that he looked at me and said, “No, you don’t! There is no way you could understand. You had to be there. You had to feel it to understand.”

And you know, he was right.

Sometimes the Lord makes us go through difficult experiences because there is no other way to understand the truth. Sometimes we have to go through pain to understand pain. But it is the gospel that will provide us with the right attitude and perspective to understand. Without the gospel some people only learn bitterness or anger from these experiences. We have to be “of the truth” to understand the truth. We can have the same experiences, the same facts, but we have to be “of the truth” to understand the truth.

I knelt beside my three-year-old and listened to his scrambled bedtime prayer: “I’m thankful for Mommy and Daddy, snow and clouds. I’m thankful for Santa Claus. I’m thankful for pizza and my big brother. Thank you for food. Thank you for everything.”
I waited as he hesitated. With such a long inventory of blessings, I assumed he was deciding between continuing his list or jumping into his warm, inviting bed. After a long pause, he hastily added, “Oh, and please bless our dumb old cat.” He then finished his prayer with an emphatic amen.

When Elder Vaughn J. Featherstone was visiting our area for a conference, my wife and I wanted our family to know something about him and his family. So we read a story to our children about Elder Featherstone’s son, who hurt his leg in an accident.
The boy had wanted to compete in an upcoming track meet, but he couldn’t run in any of the events because of his hurt leg. However, at the meet he found an event he could enter—the sit-up contest. As the contest began, Sister Featherstone was worried when she saw how many sit-ups her son was doing. But he wouldn’t give up. He did 1,001 sit-ups, winning the blue ribbon.

It begins as a big, fleecy bundle. Ruth Kandler, 14, and her sisters, Helga, 17, and Petra, 11, are often waiting at the door when their father brings the wool home. He has traveled high into the Austrian Alps to purchase it from the shepherds, who have already sheared it from the backs of their flocks, washed it, and carded it to remove burrs and align fibers. Straightening the fibers allows the wool to be spun into yarn.
This time, there is a surprise. Along with the usual white and gray wool from the milk sheep, Brother Kandler has brought back a smaller bale of dark brown wool, the wool of the mountain sheep. The young ladies are excited, because even though the short black fibers are more difficult to spin, they add variety and color when the homespun yarn is knitted into clothing for school and work.
One of the most prized possessions in the Kandler household is an antique spinning wheel more than 100 years old. There are several other spinning wheels of varying ages to accompany it, enough so that everyone in the family can spin at the same time and still invite one friend to join in.
The spinning itself, once learned well, is not a difficult art. “I learned to do it in three days,” Petra says. Brother Kandler, watching his wife teach his daughters, learned the technique in just one day and seems to enjoy spinning as much as the rest of the family.
“It’s relaxing just to sit and spin,” Ruth says. “You can talk or just think and still be making something at the same time.” It’s also obvious the daughters enjoy spending a little time occasionally practicing the craft with their parents. They smile, laugh, and tell jokes. When Petra’s yarn doesn’t seem to wind quite right, her older sisters help her remedy the problem as Sister Kandler nods her head approvingly.
Electricity is expensive in the small town of Eugendorf where the Kandlers live, so the work is done by the sunlight that filters through the windows and reflects from the walls, setting the room aglow. Helga strums her guitar as the others pump foot pedals up and down and carefully twist the wool through their fingers, guiding it onto spools. Her chord patterns and clear voice seem infinitely more appropriate than a blaring radio or a chatty television set. “We share the real experience of doing things together,” Brother Kandler says, “We don’t have a T.V.” Sometimes friends, like 11-year-old Michele Make who lives nearby, come over to join in the fun.
Today, because it’s a special occasion (a photographer has come to take their picture), the entire family has put on costumes typical of their region. Like most Austrians, they wear the traditional clothing from time to time during the year as part of their regular wardrobe. But it is fairly rare to find all of them in costume on the same day. Helga says that having the costumes is practical, “It’s handy, because they never go out of fashion,” she adds. “Teenagers, children, parents—everyone wears them. But we wear other things, too, like dresses and jeans.”
The wool is for making sweaters, gloves, mittens, and stockings. Helga says it’s enjoyable to be able to wear homemade clothing to school, “Most of the other children are enchanted by it,” she says. “They go home and try to make theirs in the same way.” Sister Kandler, who began spinning just a few years ago (she learned how from friends), says hand-knit clothing is popular throughout Austria, but buying it in the stores is much too expensive. (It costs about 2,000 shillings, or $150, to buy a handmade sweater in a store. Brother Kandler buys an entire kilo of wool in the mountains for 500 shillings.) The Kandler’s make their yarn from pure, natural wool (it’s not dyed, so the lanolin, which waterproofs the fiber and makes it a good insulator, is preserved). Add to that the fact that the clothing they make serves as a constant reminder of hearth and home, and it becomes nearly priceless.
Helga says the Kandlers have found that their talent has helped them make friends and fellowship Church members in the Salzburg (Austria) Ward, Germany Munich Stake, where they attend church, and elsewhere. During the winter, which is the season when most of the spinning is done, a group of Church families from Germany and Austria (Eugendorf, near Salzburg, is about 30 kilometers from the German border) gathers for instruction and for the pleasure of working together. “Many people return home with a new skill and with a more valuable way to spend their spare time,” Helga says. Sister Kandler also features spinning instruction as part of her Relief Society homemaking lessons, and her daughters help her demonstrate.

There is an interesting example in the history of the Church that illustrates the difference between doubting—which often leads to darkness and uncertainty—and patient and intelligent inquiry—which leads to understanding and spiritual confirmation. When the Prophet Joseph Smith received the vision concerning the three degrees of glory, which is in section 76 of the Doctrine and Covenants, many members of the Church, including Brigham Young, initially had a difficult time accepting it as a revelation from the Lord because it departed significantly from the mainstream Christian view of one heaven and one hell. However, listen to how Brigham chose to respond: “My traditions were such, that when the Vision came first to me, it was so directly contrary and opposite to my former education, I said, wait a little, I did not reject it, but I could not understand it.”

Brigham decided to exercise patience, to pray, to ponder, and to seek clarification from the prophet. But while he sought further understanding, he did not let go of what he had come to love in the restored gospel. And soon, he obtained his own witness from the Holy Ghost.

Did you ever have to take care of a grown-up? I’ve done it many times. Every Saturday my sister and I take turns going to my grandmother’s house. Grandma has dementia, which means she forgets a lot. Because her condition has been getting worse, she can’t be left alone. A few years ago, she was taking me to the store. Now I take her. But I don’t mind. I love Grandma, and we still have a lot of fun together.
Today was my turn to be with Grandma. She shuffled into the living room. “How do I look?” she asked. “You didn’t have to help me get dressed today.”
Grandma’s red jacket didn’t really match her bright pink blouse and brown pants, but I was happy she had been able to dress herself. “You always look good to me, Grandma.”
Grandma smiled. “So, where are we walking today?”
“The shoe store. Mom said you need new walking shoes.”
“Oh,” she said. “Can we go to the doughnut store too?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. Going to the doughnut store was the one thing Grandma never forgot to do.
Half an hour later, Grandma sat patiently as the shoe salesman helped her try on her new shoes. When the salesman went to find a different size, Grandma whispered, “You know, Noreen, I think these shoes are ugly.”
“You’ve never complained about them before, Grandma.”
“Well, they’re not as pretty as those,” she insisted, pointing to a pair of high-heeled shoes on display.
“We are supposed to buy walking shoes,” I reminded her. “You can’t wear high heels to go walking.”
Grandma lowered her eyebrows and scrunched her nose, but she didn’t say anything else.
When the salesman returned, Grandma tried on the shoes, stood up, and walked around. “Ah,” she sighed. “My feet feel wonderful in these shoes.”
“So you like them?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t I always like these shoes?”
Sometimes Grandma contradicts herself. But it doesn’t upset me. I know she can’t help it.
After the salesman boxed up the new shoes, he walked to the cash register. I opened my wallet to find the money Mom had given me. “I’ll go pay now, Grandma. I’ll be right back,” I said.
The salesman was very busy, and I had to wait several minutes before I could pay. When I walked back to Grandma’s seat, she was gone. Her old shoes were still lying on the floor. I quickly scanned the store, but I couldn’t see her. I started feeling very nervous. “Has anyone seen my grandmother?” I yelled.
“A woman with a red jacket walked out the door a few minutes ago,” someone said.
I darted out the door. I hoped I’d find Grandma looking at the pretty shoes in the store window, but she wasn’t there. Just then I saw Grandma walking toward me.
“Grandma!” I cried. “Why didn’t you wait for me? I was so worried!”
“I’m sorry, Noreen. You know, I did the silliest thing! Please don’t be angry, dear.”
“I’m not angry,” I said. “I was just scared.” I sat down on a nearby bench.
Grandma looked off in the distance. “After I got outside, I realized I didn’t have any shoes on,” she explained.
“I’m just glad I found you,” I said.
We went back inside for her shoes. As we walked home, I noticed Grandma’s shoulders were slumped and her head was down. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everything! I hate all this forgetting business,” she said. “But I just can’t help it.”
“You’re doing all right,” I said. “Everybody forgets now and then.”
“Not like this! Forgetting my shoes, forgetting this, forgetting that!”
“You could be doing much worse, you know. For instance, what do you always put on first, your blouse or your jacket?”
Grandma glanced at me with her bright eyes twinkling. “You’re being silly.”
“No, I’m not! Can you imagine if you put your blouse on top of your jacket?”
“Then I’d really be in bad shape, I guess,” Grandma said as she gave my arm a playful nudge.
“Would you like to go for a walk in the park today?” I asked.
“Sure, but can we go to the doughnut store too?”
“Of course.” I held her hand to cross the street. “Don’t we always?”
Like I said, I don’t mind taking care of Grandma. Sometimes it can get a little interesting. But most of the time, we just enjoy each other’s company.

My best friend Brad and I sat in his front yard, lost in conversation. He had just found out that his parents were getting a divorce, and we had spent the last several hours talking about the problems he was facing.
Then I looked down at my watch. It was past 1:00 A.M. “Oh no,” I said as I jumped to my feet, “I was supposed to be home by midnight. My dad’s gonna kill me.” I wished Brad luck in the coming days, said good-bye, and jogged the five blocks to my house.
The front porch light was still on—a bad sign. It meant Dad was waiting up for me.
I opened the front door cautiously and stepped inside. “Do you know what time it is?” boomed his voice from the living room.
“Dad, I’m really sorry. See, Brad just found out …”
“It’s after 1:00. Didn’t I tell you to be home by midnight?”
“Yeah, but …”
“There are no ‘buts’ about it. You’re more than an hour late.” He was shaking with anger. “You won’t be going out for a while, young man.”
I didn’t like being convicted without a trial. “That’s not fair. At least give me a chance to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” he snapped. “You’re late. That’s all there is to it. Now get to bed.”
“C’mon,” I argued, “it’s not fair.”
Our conversation deteriorated from there as Dad and I traded accusations. He never listened, I said. I had no respect, he said. And so it went.
By the time I finally did go to bed, I was too upset to sleep. I was worried about Brad, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t talk to my dad about it. I wished things were different, that I could have come home and told him about Brad’s parents. But instead of talking, we only argued about my curfew for the hundredth time.
I really wanted to be able to communicate with my dad, and sometimes I sensed that he felt the same way, but for some reason, we were never able to connect.
It’s not always easy to talk to parents. Some kids, and you may be one of them, have a great relationship with their parents. These kids can talk, without fear or awkwardness, about anything and everything with their parents. But not everyone is so lucky. As a kid, I always wanted to have meaningful talks with my mom and dad, but I wasn’t able to. We had a good relationship, but we never really talked. Looking back, I realize that I expected my parents to make all the efforts at establishing communication. That’s where I was wrong. There are things kids can do to improve communication between themselves and their parents.
The first thing you can do is talk to them. It may not be easy at first, but it will be worth it. “My dad and I talked,” says a high school student I know, “but we never really sat down and had serious talks about what’s going on in my life, about problems I had, or things I wanted to accomplish. As a matter of fact, the first time I ever had a serious talk with my dad was when he was bishop and had to interview me on my birthday.
“That interview really helped me see that I could improve our communication if I met him halfway. Things didn’t change overnight, but since then, he and I both have tried harder to find the time to sit down together once in a while and talk.”
One girl I know interviews her parents about once a week. “I don’t really ‘interview’ them,” she says, “not in an obvious, formal way. But I do catch them when they’re not busy and ask them questions about their childhood, their high school days, that kind of stuff. Once they start answering, I just sit back and listen. It’s amazing what I’ve learned about my mom and dad that way.”
The more you talk to your parents in everyday situations, the easier it will be to talk to them in times of crisis and emotion. Meaningful communication doesn’t just happen—it takes practice, practice that you can often initiate.
Sometimes it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”
If time is a problem for you and your parents, use your imagination to find the time to be with them. For example, you might meet them at work and have lunch with them. Or at home, get up early or stay up late so you can talk without any interruptions. You can even make an appointment with them, write down a specific time and place, to talk about things. If you put your mind to it, you can come up with other ways to help you and your parents find the time to talk.
Of course, sometimes you’ll want your mom and dad to listen, not talk. As you’ve probably noticed, many adults suffer from acute Advice-Giving Syndrome. I know I do. My daughter Christy will often start to tell me about a problem she’s having at school or with friends, and immediately I stop listening and start telling her what she should do. I know that Christy wants to express herself more than she wants my advice, but sometimes I just can’t help myself.
A student of mine has a good approach to use on parents (or any other adult, for that matter) who tend to give advice when they should be listening. “My parents love to give me advice,” he says, “and lots of times, I don’t mind. But sometimes I really want them to listen to what I have to say, so I’ll tell them, ‘Mom and Dad, I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen—without talking—until I’m finished. I really want to tell you this, but if you’re not going to listen, I’m not going to tell you. If you’ll listen to me, then I’ll listen to what you have to say.’ That usually works.”

Some weeks ago a bewildered father asked, “Why is it I seem to be able to communicate with everyone except my own son?”
I responded with, “What do you mean you can’t communicate with your son?”
“It’s just that whenever I try to tell him anything, he tunes me out,” he replied.
During our private discussion which followed, and very often since, I have concluded that perhaps one of the principal reasons we fail to relate appropriately with family members is because we fail to apply some basics of personal communications. In Hebrews 13:16 we read, “But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” Communications in the family will often be a sacrifice because we are expected to use our time, our means, our talent, and our patience to impart, share, and understand. Too often we use communication periods as occasions to tell, dictate, plead, or threaten. Nowhere in the broadest sense should communication in the family be used to impose, command, or embarrass.
To be effective, family communication must be an exchange of feelings and information. Doors of communication will swing open in the home if members will realize time and participation on the part of all are necessary ingredients. In family discussions, differences should not be ignored, but should be weighed and evaluated calmly. One’s point or opinion usually is not as important as a healthy, continuing relationship. Courtesy and respect in listening and responding during discussions are basic in proper dialogue. As we learn to participate together in meaningful associations, we are able to convey our thoughts of love, dependence, and interest. When we are inclined to give up in despair in our efforts to communicate because other family members have failed to respond, perhaps we would do well not to give up, but rather to give and take in our conversations. How important it is to know how to disagree with another’s point of view without being disagreeable. How important it is to have discussion periods ahead of decisions. Jones Stephens wrote, “I have learned that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow.”
Let me share with you seven basic suggestions for more effective family communication.
A willingness to sacrifice. Be the kind of a family member who is willing to take time to be available. Develop the ability and self-discipline to think of other family members and their communication needs ahead of your own—a willingness to prepare for the moment—the sharing moment, the teaching moment. Shed the very appearance of preoccupation in self, and learn the skill of penetrating a family member’s shield of preoccupation. Sad is the day when a daughter is heard to say, “My mother gives me everything except herself.”
Too early and too often we sow the seeds of “Can’t you see I’m busy? Don’t bother me now.” When we convey the attitude of “Go away, don’t bother me now,” family members are apt to go elsewhere or isolate themselves in silence. All family members on some occasion or other must be taken on their own terms so they will be willing to come, share, and ask.
It takes personal sacrifice to communicate when conditions are right for the other person—during the meal preparation, after a date, a hurt, a victory, a disappointment, or when someone wants to share a confidence. One must be willing to forego personal convenience to invest time in establishing a firm foundation for family communication. When communication in the family seems to be bogging down, each individual should look to himself for the remedy.
If we would know true love and understanding one for another, we must realize that communication is more than a sharing of words. It is the wise sharing of emotions, feelings, and concerns. It is the sharing of oneself totally. “Who is a wise man and endued with knowledge among you? let him shew out of a good conversation his works with meekness of wisdom.” (James 3:13.)
A willingness to set the stage. The location, setting, or circumstances should be comfortable, private, and conversation-conducive. Effective communications have been shared in a grove of trees, on the mount, by the sea, in family home evening, during a walk, in a car, during a vacation, a hospital visit, on the way to school, during the game. When the stage is set, we must be willing to let the other family member be front and center as we appropriately respond.
Months and years after the score of a baseball game is long forgotten, the memory of having been there all alone with Dad will never dim. I’ll not soon forget a ten-year-old girl excitedly telling me she had just ridden in the car with her daddy all the way from Salt Lake to Provo and back. “Was the radio on?” I asked. “Oh, no,” she responded, “all Daddy did was listen and talk to me.” She had her daddy all to herself in a setting she’ll not soon forget. Let the stage be set whenever the need is there. Let the stage be set whenever the other person is ready.
A willingness to listen. Listening is more than being quiet. Listening is much more than silence. Listening requires undivided attention. The time to listen is when someone needs to be heard. The time to deal with a person with a problem is when he has the problem. The time to listen is the time when our interest and love are vital to the one who seeks our ear, our heart, our help, and our empathy.
We should all increase our ability to ask comfortable questions, and then listen—intently, naturally. Listening is a tied-in part of loving. How powerful are the words, “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath:
“For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.” (James 1:19–20.)
A willingness to vocalize feelings. How important it is to be willing to voice one’s thoughts and feelings. Yes, how important it is to be able to converse on the level of each family member. Too often we are inclined to let family members assume how we feel toward them. Often wrong conclusions are reached. Very often we could have performed better had we known how family members felt about us and what they expected.
John Powell shares this touching experience: “It was the day my father died. … In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when … my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I … told my mother … :
“‘It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.’
“She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: ‘Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.’
“Somehow I knew … that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
“Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her:
“‘I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he was proud of me. He never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied of his heart, but he never told me.’” (The Secret of Staying in Love, Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1974, p. 68.)
How significant are God’s words when he took the time to vocalize his feelings with, “This is my beloved Son,” yes, even the powerful communication, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” (Matt. 3:17.)
Often parents communicate most effectively with their children by the way they listen to and address each other. Their conversations showing gentleness and love are heard by our ever-alert, impressionable children. We must learn to communicate effectively not only by voice, but by tone, feeling, glances, mannerisms, and total personality. Too often when we are not able to converse with a daughter or wife we wonder, “What is wrong with her?” when we should be wondering, “What is wrong with our methods?” A meaningful smile, an appropriate pat on the shoulder, and a warm handshake are all-important. Silence isolates. Strained silent periods cause wonderment, hurt, and, most often, wrong conclusions.
God knows the full impact of continuing communication as he admonishes us to pray constantly. He, too, has promised to respond as we relate to him effectively.
A willingness to avoid judgment. Try to be understanding and not critical. Don’t display shock, alarm, or disgust with others’ comments or observations. Don’t react violently. Work within the framework of a person’s free agency. Convey the bright and optimistic approach. There is hope. There is a way back. There is a possibility for better understanding.
Let a common ground for personal decision be developed. “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more” (John 8:11) are words that are just as gentle and effective today as when they were first uttered.
Avoid imposing your values on others. When we can learn to deal with issues without involving personalities and at the same time avoid bias and emotions, we are on our way to effective family communications. When a family member makes a decision which may be inadequate or improper, do we have the ability and patience to convey the attitude that we don’t agree with his decision but he has the right of choice and is still a loved member of the family?
It is easy to point out mistakes and pass judgment. Sincere compliments and praise come much harder from most of us. It takes real maturity for a parent to apologize to a child for an error. An honest apology often makes the son or daughter feel surprisingly warm toward the mother or father or brother or sister. “For in many things we offend all. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.” (James 3:2.)
A willingness to maintain confidences. Be worthy of trust even in trivial questions and observations. Weighty questions and observations will only follow if we have been trustworthy with the trivial. Treat innermost trusts and concerns with respect. Build on deserved trust. Individuals who are blessed to have a relationship with someone to whom they can confidently talk and trust are fortunate indeed. Who is to say a family trust is not greater than a community trust?
A willingness to practice patience. Patience in communication is that certain ingredient of conduct we hope others will exhibit toward us when we fail to measure up. Our own patience is developed when we are patient with others.
“Be patient; be sober; be temperate; have patience, faith, hope and charity.” (D&C 6:19.)
“I get sick and tired of listening to your complaints” and “I have told you a thousand times” are but two of many often-repeated family quotations that indicate patience is gone and channels of communication are plugged.
It takes courage to communicate patiently. We constantly need to express pride, hope, and love on a most sincere basis. Each of us needs to avoid coming through as one who has given up and has become totally weary in trying.
The correction of family members in front of others is to be avoided. Much more notice is taken in quiet, private conversation. Calm endurance is a priceless virtue in one’s relationship with all family members.
When family members tune each other out, communication is not taking place. Words spoken are unheard, unwanted, and resisted when we fail to understand the basics for proper interchange. Each must be willing to do his part to improve, since the family unit is the basic foundation of the Church. Proper communication will always be a main ingredient for building family solidarity and permanence.
I pray our Heavenly Father will help us to communicate more effectively in the home through a willingness to sacrifice, a willingness to listen, a willingness to vocalize feelings, a willingness to avoid judgment, a willingness to maintain confidences, and a willingness to practice patience. “How forcible are right words!” (Job 6:25.) Yes, how forcible are right words shared at the right moment with the right person.
May our gracious and kind Heavenly Father help us in our needs and desires for more effective family communication. Communication can help build family unity if we will work at it and sacrifice for it. For this goal, I pray in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

When I was a little girl, comic books were treasured items. When we went on a family vacation my mother allowed us each to buy a new comic book to take along. I always chose either an Archie and Veronica or an Uncle Scrooge. Although Uncle Scrooge (Donald Duck’s rich uncle) was the prototypical tightwad, I loved the frames that showed him diving into his coins. Does anyone here remember the artist’s rendition?

At least once—and usually on the last page, he would go into a room that was essentially an indoor swimming pool, but instead of water, the pool was filled with his money. With an expression of absolute delight and happiness Uncle Scrooge would bounce on the end of the diving board and then dive into the money, swimming around in it—loving the absolute abundance of it all! That’s the way I feel about my blessings. There are so many we all revel in. Abundance with a capital “A.” Remember that in God’s world there is enough and more for everyone. Ultimately we can each inherit all that the Father has. Interesting math, isn’t it? That we each get everything that He has.