Gospel Story Finder

On Tuesday, April 26, members of the Coalinga Ward welfare committee met with other welfare leaders of the Hanford Stake in an emergency preparedness training seminar. Each ward was given a hypothetical disaster and assigned to come up with a plan of action for dealing with that situation. The scenario for the Coalinga Ward read: “A severe earthquake has caused major damage to the city of Coalinga and surrounding area. Power and communication by telephone are out. Fires are burning in some areas of the city. Many homes and public buildings are partially or totally destroyed.”
As Coalinga Ward leaders discussed their plan of action that Tuesday night, no one suspected that in less than a week they would actually be putting it into effect. Bishop Fowkes, a geology professor, conducted the session. “It’s not very likely that we’ll see a major earthquake in Coalinga,” he began. (Coalinga’s location in relation to the San Andreas fault made a large earthquake seem unlikely.) “But we’ll go ahead with this exercise and come up with a plan anyway,” the bishop continued.
The following Monday, May 2, at 4:43 P.M., an earthquake measuring 6.5 on the Richter scale hit just outside of Coalinga on an unknown fault. The downtown area was devastated, buildings caught fire, power was disrupted, and several homes were knocked off their foundations. Nearly every home sustained damage of some kind. It was time to implement the plan.

More than a hundred years ago President Brigham Young sent a family to a small, remote place in Arizona to make peace with the Indians.
The father of the family was away on Church business when an impression came to him that something was wrong at home. He headed there at once, arriving about four o’clock in the morning. He found his wife gently cradling their little baby daughter in her arms. The baby had fallen into an open fireplace and was severely burned.
The father took their infant in his arms and gave her a blessing. He promised her that she would live, that she would not be disfigured, and that she would sing before the prominent people of the world. The baby girl did live. She was not disfigured, and she grew up, raised a family, and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. The powers of heaven gave life back to that tiny child. And that sweet baby girl, who owed her life to the power of prayer, grew up and gave me life. She was my mother.

Saturday morning, when Dad said he had to cut Brother Ballard’s hay, I told him that I could take care of things at home. Ever since I had turned nine, I had been bragging that I was almost a man and could handle things on the farm about as well as Dad could. “I’ll be all right,” I insisted as Dad headed for the tractor. “Just let me look after the farm.”
“What about taking the cows and the General to the meadow?” Dad asked. “Can you do that all by yourself?”
I swallowed hard. The cows were no problem, but I’d forgotten all about ornery old General.
“I can help Jacob drive the General down the lane to the meadow,” Mom spoke up from the steps. She knew I was a little afraid of our big roan steer, and she’d always been the one to drive him to the meadow when Dad wasn’t around.
“I don’t need any help,” I insisted. “A man doesn’t need his mom herding the cows for him.”
“The General isn’t mean or anything,” Dad pointed out, “but he does have a mind of his own.”
I nodded. I knew all about the General. I was the one who had practically raised him. I’d fed him from a bottle and later taught him to drink out of a bucket. And when he got older, I brought him lots of grass and grain. What he liked best, though, was carrots, so I often got a handful of carrots from the cellar and let him eat out of my hand. He’d close his eyes and munch on those long, crisp carrots like they were orange candy bars.
When the General was still a calf, he even let me ride him. But then he grew to be almost a thousand pounds. …
I still liked him, but I liked him from a distance, and I always wanted a fence between him and me. Even so, I said, “I’ll be able to handle the General.”
Dad nodded. “I know you can do it. You’re a good worker.” He started the tractor, then called to me, “Now, remember, Jacob, after you take the cows to the meadow, make sure that you close the gate at the top of the lane. I don’t want those cows in the alfalfa. They’d bloat for sure from eating it, and we could lose every one of them.”
“I know,” I said.
I fed the calves their grain and hay. I carried slop to our three pigs, Dandy, Pandy, and Mandy. I gathered the eggs from the chicken coop and gave the chickens their grain. I scattered fresh straw in the shed so that the cows would have a soft bed that night. Then I opened the corral gate so that I could herd our seven milk cows and the General to the meadow.
About that time the General decided that he wanted a drink from the water trough, so every one of those old cows decided she wanted a drink too.
Those cows always did everything he did. I yelled at them and waved a stick and threatened to throw a rock at them, but they didn’t care. They just followed the General. I had to just wait until that stubborn old steer decided he wanted to go to the meadow.
He sniffed at every clump of grass, every fence post, and every rock between the corral and the lane. And what did the cows do? Why, they sniffed at every clump of grass, every fence post, and every rock too.
Since I couldn’t hurry those cows and the General along, I started day-dreaming. Then a big old green frog came jumping through the tall grass and landed right in front of me. Well, I never let a good frog get away, so before long I had it in my hands.
I was looking for something to put my frog in, when right there, sunning itself on a flat rock, was the biggest water snake I’d ever seen. I dropped the frog and grabbed the snake right behind its head. It wrapped itself around my arm and stuck its red forked tongue out at me, but I just smiled and headed back to the barn for a bucket to put it in. The General and the cows were starting down the lane toward the meadow, so I decided to look after my snake then and close the gate later.
I didn’t think I was gone very long. I did stop for a drink at the water trough and let my snake take a swim, and I checked on our cat and her four kittens. That just took a few minutes, though. But when I got back, that ornery old steer had decided that he didn’t want to go to the meadow after all. Partway down the lane he’d turned around and headed toward the alfalfa field, and the seven cows had followed.
When I saw the General out wandering, I dropped the bucket. My snake slithered out of it and off through the grass, but by then I was galloping for the gate.
I was too late. The General and the cows were through it and wandering along the ditch bank that led to the alfalfa field. Luckily he wasn’t in a big hurry. He’d sniff at fence posts, munch clumps of grass, and swish the flies from his back with his tail. I knew, though, that if he ever made it to the alfalfa field, he’d never leave. He’d stay until his belly was clear full; then he’d lie down and bloat. And those silly cows would eat and bloat right with him.
I found a big stick and filled my pockets with rocks. Then I circled around in front of the General. I waved the stick over my head and stomped my feet. I tried to shout to get his attention, but my throat was so tight that all I could do was squeak.
Digging into my pocket, I pulled out a good throwing rock, reared back, and let it fly. It hit that old steer right on the nose. His head jerked up, and he shook his stubby horns and blew angrily through his wet nose.
I didn’t figure there was any need to get myself killed trying to keep those crazy cows out of the alfalfa. I dropped my stick, jumped the ditch, sprinted to the fence, flopped on my belly, and scrambled underneath the bottom strand of barbed wire.
When I finally opened my eyes, I expected to see the General on the other side of the fence, snorting and pawing. But he wasn’t anywhere around! He was still along the ditch bank, ambling closer and closer to the alfalfa field.
I thought of running to the house to ask Mom to help me, but after telling Dad that I was man enough to take care of things around the place, there was no way I could do that.
Then I thought about praying. Heavenly Father would help me out! I dropped right to my knees and asked Heavenly Father to get that stubborn steer straightened out and headed back to the meadow so that he and the cows wouldn’t bloat in the alfalfa field.
When I finished my prayer, I figured I’d just wait until Heavenly Father had a chance to get the job done. When I thought I’d waited long enough, I looked toward the meadow. There wasn’t a single cow in it. I looked up and down the lane. No cows. I looked along the ditch bank. And there they were, moseying along toward the alfalfa field behind that ornery steer.
I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t Heavenly Father heard me? Wasn’t He going to help me out? Maybe I prayed for the wrong thing, I thought. I dropped to my knees again. This time I prayed that Dad would finish Brother Ballard’s hay and get home before the cows were bloated and dead.
It was a pretty long prayer. I wanted to make sure that I didn’t leave anything out. When I finished, I waited on my knees and counted to two hundred to give Heavenly Father plenty of time to get the message to Dad.
As I got to my feet, I listened for the growl of Dad’s tractor, but I couldn’t hear anything. And all I could see coming down the road was a truck. I waited and waited, but Dad didn’t come. And the General and the cows were almost to the alfalfa field.
Tears were running down my cheeks as I ran past the barn, looking for a place to hide so that I wouldn’t have to watch the General kill himself. There was only one place I could go—I dashed down the cellar steps.
Once more I knelt down. This time, though, I just prayed that Heavenly Father would help me to know what to do and to be brave enough to do it.
When I finished praying, I sat down on a sack of carrots to think. I pulled one of the carrots out of the sack and absent-mindedly wiped it off on my pants and started chewing on it. Then it came to me—I could turn the General around with carrots!
I hurriedly emptied the rocks from my pockets and stuffed carrots in their place. With my arms full of carrots, too, I raced up the cellar steps, past the barn, and over to the ditch. The General was still munching along the ditch bank a little way from the alfalfa, and the cows were munching right behind him.
I said one more quick prayer, then marched right up to the General and dropped the biggest, fattest, orangiest carrot under his nose. That old steer didn’t even look up at me. His big long pink tongue just wrapped around the carrot and popped it into his mouth. That carrot gone, he looked to me for another one. I held one out and started walking backward toward the gate in the distance. The General watched me slowly walk away. At first he didn’t move. Then he took a long look at the alfalfa field and a long look at me, and then he came.
My heart was thumping a hundred miles an hour, but I kept moving closer to the open gate and dropping a carrot every few steps or so. Like always, those silly cows stayed right behind the General.
I don’t know how long it took me to get to the lane, but by the time I got there, I was so worn out that I could hardly walk. As soon as the seventh cow went through the gate, I dropped the last two carrots and ran and closed it and even tied it with a piece of wire. Then I knelt right there and thanked Heavenly Father.
That night at suppertime, I didn’t brag about being the man of the house and taking care of everything. In fact, I just sat quietly and ate. When Dad asked me how things had gone that day, I mumbled something about getting along pretty well, then asked for another slice of bread to change the subject.

In 1982, Elder Hugo E. Martinez and his wife, Sister Nuria Alvarez de Martinez, were both in their medical residency training in Mississippi, USA, when an unexpected knock came at their front door.
There stood two Mormon missionaries.
“We opened our home to them, but we knew nothing about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We didn’t even know about the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,” Elder Martinez says, smiling.
Still, the gospel lessons shared by the elders immediately resonated with the young couple. They soon accepted the missionaries’ invitation to be baptized.
“And we have not looked back ever since.”

The group recently participated in a service project they called a “heart attack.” The group chose three people at their school, including the principal, to “attack” with large paper hearts, a Book of Mormon, and a plate of cookies. One evening after they had eaten dinner, the students tiptoed out of their dorms to the homes of the people they had chosen. Although it was cold and the ground was icy, the group was able to tape several red paper hearts to the outside of their “victims’” homes, set the cookies and the Book of Mormon on the doorstep, and leave undetected.
“It was during the winter and it was hard because there was snow on the ground which made it slippery, so most of us fell, but it was fun,” says Jill Henderson.
“All of us tried to come quietly out of the dorms, but we couldn’t hear ourselves, so we couldn’t tell if we were quiet or not,” says Jennifer.

Working in my father’s blacksmith shop as a young boy, I was given a small steel bar drilled with three holes to use as a pattern. Carefully I began drilling the three holes in several blank bars. Anxious to please my father, I drilled each hole with exactness. He came over to inspect my work, measuring the holes. Looking at me a bit puzzled, he said, “Son, these holes are not as accurate as they should be. Show me what you are doing.” Picking up a blank bar of steel, I placed it under another bar in which I had already drilled three holes, matching the edges precisely. At that moment my father said, “Son, I know where the problem is. You must always drill through the original pattern I gave you.”
Even being as careful as possible, unless I used the original pattern given to me by my father, the holes became a little more distorted each time a different pattern was used.

One of the hardest things for many of you is modesty. How can we apply the spiritual power of our baptism to the principle of modesty? We hope one of the things that makes you different from the world is the way you dress. Marcie Matthews, a Laurel from Chicago, Illinois, shares her story:
“1998 was a year that I was able to see the results of many Young Women lessons, talks, and advice come into play. I am an average Mormon girl. Being able to keep my life this steady and strong has not been easy. I make goals all the time to help strengthen my testimony and my standards.
“Recently we had a Mutual activity on the importance of modesty. Every lesson before I felt like I was a modest dresser, but I knew there was still something I could change—my shorts and the length of my skirts. It was the one weakness that I knew I had but had placed far behind in my head. Everyone wore short shorts, Daisy Dukes, and miniskirts, and I had bought mine with my own money. Then I heard the lesson on modesty. I went home wanting to go straight to my closet and throw away everything that was not modest so it wouldn’t be there to tempt me. After, I told my parents. I guess I was looking for them to tell me that there was no problem in the way I dressed and then let me go.
“Later that night my dad told me he was proud of me and that he would like to buy me a couple of knee-length dresses for church. The next step was to go through all my clothes and give away everything. It was hard for me to part with my favorite skirts and the shorts that I loved so much, but I did. You will never see me in short shorts or short skirts again.
“I have never felt better about myself. I love being able to walk into the temple and church and feel like I am a child of God and am representing Him … by the clothes that I wear.
“I challenge every young woman to take this step. It will help you find out who you are and what you stand for. When we have to give up something that is a part of us, the blessings will pour in more than you can imagine” (letter in possession of Young Women office).
Marcie’s great example epitomizes our Young Women theme. You know, the part that says, “We stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things”—and in all prom dresses.

Four days later a winter storm dumped eighteen centimeters of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and told me to clear the snow away from the house. He thoughtfully reminded me that I would have to hurry to get to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Watts’s direction. The house was dark; the snow around his house was undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began shoveling the snow from Brother Watts’s house.
“What are you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the job.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Watts standing at his front door. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his old jacket, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just shoveling a little snow to stay in good shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I clear my own snow. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I answered, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned back into the house. I went on clearing the snow. As I worked, I wondered what made Willard behave the way he did. I soon finished clearing the snow, put the shovel over my shoulder, and headed for home.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Watts called to me from the front door. He came down the steps and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You’re Tom Jordan’s son, aren’t you?”
I nodded yes.
“Did he tell you to do this?”
I shook my head and said something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off the snow in front of Brother Watts’s house. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and held them out to me. Each time I politely refused them.
The last time I cleaned off the snow was the end of March after a storm had dumped quite a bit on the ground. He came out with a twenty-dollar bill. “Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m doing this to get myself in good physical condition,” I said.
“Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Watts, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to end. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. It was possible that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just thought you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better be going,” I mumbled. “Don’t want to be late for school.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”

One night not too long ago, Joshua Mana, who would soon turn 18, was talking with his parents about the years their family spent in refugee camps.
“The camps are not where you would wish to live,” his father Fredrick said, “because of the hardship.”
The first camp was on the eastern border of the Democratic Republic of Congo. The family, fleeing war and genocide to the west, lived there for two years. Shelter was poor, food scarce, and illness common.
“That is where your brother Patric died when he was just 11 years old,” Fredrick said. “We were sad in that place.”
The second camp was south across the border, in Zambia.
“That’s where you were born,” his mother Esperance said. “We named you Joshua, like the righteous prophet in the Bible. To me you will always be Joshua, a gift from God, because even in the camps God was with us.”
In the second camp, life was no easier. “Sometimes we were able to find jobs, but only as volunteers,” Fredrick explained. “Maybe they gave you food, maybe a little bit of money at the end of the month. But in a refugee camp, even that is a lot. With a few friends, we worked together, and some were able to leave for France, Canada, and other countries.” And Joshua’s family—his mother and father, two older sisters, and himself—were able to move to a one-room apartment in Lusaka, where they scraped by.
“We knew there was a resettlement program,” Esperance said. “But we had no hope. People will take your application, but if you don’t have money to give them, they just trash it. We were poor. We were desperate. All we could do was pray.”
Photograph from Getty Images
“In the second camp, life was no easier. … We were poor. We were desperate. All we could do was pray.”
A friend in France kept writing letters and making appeals on their behalf. Then one day, after four years of waiting, their names showed up on a list of those approved for resettlement. It was a miracle!
There was just one catch. “We would be going directly to Salt Lake City, Utah, USA,” Esperance said. “We knew a little about big cities like New York, but we didn’t know Salt Lake City. ‘Are you sure this is in the USA?’ we asked. ‘Yes, yes,’ the official said. ‘Somewhere in USA.’”
“We didn’t expect any help when we got to Utah,” Fredrick said. “But that’s not what happened.”
“The first person we met made us feel welcome,” Esperance recalled. “She came with her family to visit our apartment. They saw how we ate, how we slept, what we worried about. It was the first time someone was concerned about how they could help.”
“She and her husband were like parents to us,” Fredrick said. “They helped us learn about the customs of this new country. They helped us find work.”
“We could tell they were Christians, and we were Christians, too,” Esperance said. “We asked if we could learn about their Church.”
And learn they did. Soon they were meeting regularly with the missionaries. “Each teaching made sense to us, especially what they called the great plan of happiness,” Esperance said. “I cried and cried when they told us we could be together as a family in eternity, and that we would see Patric again. We knew it was true.”
Fredrick and Esperance were baptized and confirmed. Joshua was baptized when he turned eight. And Joshua and Patric have been sealed to their parents, giving them the opportunity to be together when this life is through. Other family members are still learning about the gospel.
As a member of the Church, Joshua was particularly impressed with a certain group of young adults. “At first, I wasn’t sure what an ‘RM’ was. But the more I watched returned missionaries, and whenever I spent time around one of them, I knew I wanted to be one too,” he recalls.
Year after year, the returned missionaries impressed him. When he came of age, Joshua met with his bishop, submitted his application, and waited to receive his mission call.
“The more I watched returned missionaries … I knew I wanted to be one too.”
That’s when, one Sunday, half a dozen refugees who are returned missionaries—and also friends with Joshua—gathered in the cultural hall after church to counsel with him.
One of them, Madelaine Lamah, who served in the New York New York South Mission, said her mission motto was “Forever Changed.” She reminded Joshua that joining the Church changed his family’s life and that he would be an instrument of change for others as he shared the gospel with them.
Jean-Pierre Benimana, who served in the California Los Angeles Mission, reminded Joshua that “the happiest people on earth are those who live the gospel of Jesus Christ with all their hearts.”
The returned missionaries were refugees from countries like Burundi and Rwanda, in Africa, and Burma, in Asia. They have served in places like Los Angeles, California, and Birmingham, Alabama, in the USA, and in western African countries like Benin and Côte d’Ivoire. They were blessed to receive the gospel, and they were equally blessed to share it. Now they explained to Joshua that he was about to become a part of that legacy.
A few weeks later, a big, white envelope arrived in the mail. Another group gathered, this time at Fredrick and Esperance’s home. The group included family, LDS friends and neighbors, and some friends from other faiths.
Joshua, dressed in a white shirt and tie, stood up, opened the envelope, and read, “Dear Elder Mana: You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Brazil Porto Alegre South Mission …”
There were cheers, tears, hugs, but most of all, joy. Then there was a brief moment for Elder Mana to speak.
He quoted a scripture he has learned to love: “Freely ye have received, freely give” (Matthew 10:8).
Then he shared his testimony: “The gospel has changed my life so much because it helps me to know that Father in Heaven has a plan for us, and if we follow His commandments we can go back to Him again one day. Every day I follow the Holy Ghost. He prompts me what to do, because there’s lots of work that Father in Heaven needs me to do to build His kingdom.
“Being a missionary is part of that, as well. My purpose in going on a mission is to bring people to Christ and give them the gospel.”
It’s a testimony he will share freely, and often, with the people of Brazil.

Vanderlei Lira of Brazil served for six years as a branch president, helping his branch grow from 18 to 110 active members, while working as a laborer because he lacked education. When PEF was announced, he was able to study occupational safety and find new work, which helped him increase his salary and quickly repay his loan. He continues to serve in the Church today. His stake president describes him as a great leader and father, “a giant liberated by opportunity.”

Jaslyn Simpson took a leap of faith in a Beehive class of only two girls in Wellington, New Zealand. The Beehive teacher of the Crofton Downs Ward challenged the girls, as part of their lesson on missionary work, to invite a friend to church. And Jaslyn decided she’d do it.
“I knew there was something missing in Amy’s life,” Jaslyn says, “so I knew I should introduce her to the gospel.” Jaslyn’s small action of love caused a major reaction in the life of her best friend, Amy Valentine. Amy came to church with Jaslyn at the first invitation and then kept coming to Sunday meetings and youth activities for the next two months, until Jaslyn and her family moved to Sydney, Australia.
“I’ve never really had a Christian background. I had no idea how to pray or anything,” Amy says. “But before they left, I decided I was going to keep going to church without them. By then, I sort of knew some other people at church.”
One of those people was Michelle Broczek, the other Beehive in the Crofton Downs Ward. Michelle invited Amy to take the discussions in her home and, with her parents’ approval, Amy was baptized when she was 13.

Mine are typical parents. They wouldn’t let me date until I was 16 years old. I guess it was good, because even though I hated to admit it to my most secret self, no boy had ever asked me for a date. I was confident that when I reached 16, everything would change. For years I’d looked forward to it, and both Mom and Dad had solemnly promised that I could date when that time came. As my 16th birthday approached, my family made little remarks to let me know they were aware of its importance.

Mom said, “You’re becoming a fine young woman, Wendy. You’re not so shy as you were a year ago. You’re ready to handle most situations.”

My grandparents smiled and said, “Sooooo, you’re nearing 16, are you?”

My Aunt Maudie looked me up and down and said, “Well, I’d hoped you’d fill out a little by the time you were 16. You’re still built like a beanpole.”

My three younger sisters followed me around the house and kept saying things like, “Wendy, are you going to get married when you’re 16? The girl across the street did.”

And Dad said, “I can’t believe my little Wendy, grown up and ready to date boys!”

So you see what I mean when I say that turning 16 was such a big thing. I had a feeling that being 16 would change me from a shy, skinny kid to a sophisticated society girl. Whenever I thought about that day, I saw “SIXTEEN” in giant red lights flash to the whole world that I was ready. I saw a new telephone hastily installed in my room to handle the flood of calls. I saw myself frantically shopping for clothes for my hectic social life. But most of all, I saw practically every boy at school clamoring for my attention.

By the time the big day arrived, I’d memorized a dozen imaginary conversations for different types of boys. Each time the telephone rang, I mentally flipped through the snappy dialogues.

I was ready.

My birthday came. That morning I wore my new, faded-denim jeans and yellow, Calcutta-cloth shirt. My long, sun-streaked blonde hair was smooth and gleaming. It swung casually at every turn. The faintest flick of green eye shadow made my green eyes glow greener. With my brown bag over one shoulder and an armful of books, I bounced eagerly down the street toward the school.

“Get ready, all you people,” I thought. “Here comes 16-year-old Wendy!”

And then do you know what happened? Nothing—absolutely nothing.

My new, faded-denim jeans; my new, yellow, Calcutta-cloth shirt; my shining, swinging hair; and my faintest flick of green eye shadow were wasted. Even my whole, newly glowing self was wasted. I must’ve sparked as much excitement as an old-style math book. None of the boys said more than hi. For all they cared I might’ve been a wall map or a library table.

My family birthday dinner that night didn’t help much. Grandpa teased, “Well, here’s little miss 16-year-old and never been kissed, I’ll bet.”

“Grandpa,” I said coldly, “I never intend to be kissed. I’m going to devote my life to a great cause.”

For about three weeks no one mentioned that I’d had an important birthday. I knew my sisters were itching to say something, but somehow, Mom silenced them. I kept busy daydreaming about the honorable, sacrificing career I’d have. I also tried to ignore the complete lack of telephone calls from boys.

Then one evening as we were eating dinner, the phone rang. My ten-year-old sister knocked over her chair trying to reach the phone before it rang again.

“Hello,” she said. “Yes, just a minute.”

She dragged the phone toward the table and screeched, “Wendy, it’s for you! It’s a boy!”

“You don’t have to scream so,” I hissed. “He’ll hear you!”

“But it’s a boy! He wants you! Maybe you’ll have a date now,” she said.

I picked up the phone. “Hello? … This is Wendy. … Okay. … Okay. … Fine. … Fine. … All right. … (Heaven help me! Where were those clever replies I’d memorized?) Yes. … Of course. … Just a minute, I’ll see.”

“Does he want a date, Wendy? Does he want a date?” My 13-year-old sister asked.

“Mom, Dad, it’s a guy from school. He wants me to go to the community concert with him Friday night. His parents can’t go, and they gave him their tickets.”

“Do you want to go?” Mom asked.

“Oh, I guess.”

“Who’s the boy?” Dad asked.

“His name’s Norris Elkington. He’s in my science class.”

“Is he the right kind of a boy?” That was Mom asking that.

“He’s okay. Nothing too cool.”

“But he’s a boy!” My 13-year-old sister exulted. “You’ve got a date at last!”

Mom looked at Dad. “Well, I suppose it’s all right, Wendy, if you’re sure he’s a nice boy.”

For a minute I hesitated. The community concert wasn’t my idea of a super date, but … “Norris,” I said into the phone, “it’s okay. What time on Friday? … Oh. … Oh. … Well, that’s fine, I guess. … Oh. … Yes. … (There’s that sparkling conversation again.) Tell your mother thanks. See you. … Bye.”

“Well now, that’s a nice beginning,” Mom said brightly when I sat down again.

“His mother’s also giving him their Diner’s Card, so we can go to dinner first,” I said.

“That’s a big evening for a first date,” Mom said. “I hope it works out.”

As Friday approached I became more jittery. I didn’t want to go to the community concert. I didn’t want to eat dinner with Norris. I didn’t even want a date. I thought, maybe I’ll fall and break a leg. (I could see my hospital room crammed with red roses.) Or maybe Mom and Dad will look me straight in the eye and say, “No dating until you’re 17!” (Don’t think of that; it might give them ideas.)

Well, Friday came and so did Norris—promptly at 6:30. I sneaked one last look at myself and knew that I was as scrubbed, sprayed, polished, brushed, and scared as I ever would be.

My eight-year-old sister snuggled up to me and said to our mirrored reflections, “Gee, Wendy, you look beautiful. I’ll bet Norris’ll want to marry you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said. “I won’t be dating him again.”

Norris surprised me. He looked better than I’d hoped. He’s taller and skinnier than I am, but he has the same sun-streaked, blond hair and greenish eyes. As he shook hands with my parents, I could see that he was as scrubbed, polished, and brushed as I was.

Mom and Dad and all three sisters stood at the front door and watched Norris help me into his family car. How thankful I was that Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Maudie hadn’t come as they’d threatened to! I felt like the number one exhibit.

Norris sat rigidly, with both hands on the steering wheel. I sat rigidly over on my side. Both my hands clutched my brown bag. As we drove down the street, our conversation went about like this:

“Well, it’s a real nice night,” Norris said. “Not too cold, just nippy.”

“Yes, it’s very nice. I like nippy weather.”

Silence.

“I bought a tankful of gas,” he said. “I’d sure hate to run out.”

“Oh, yes, it’d be terrible to run out.”

Silence. Horrible, silent silence.

“My mother says she’s sure we’ll like the food at the Broiler,” he said. “I hope it’s okay with you.”

“If your mother says it’s fine, I’m sure it’s good.”

“Of course, if you’d rather go some other place, just say so.”

“Oh, no, no. The Broiler sounds great.”

Well, I thought, we’re improving. We each made two statements on that subject.

“What’s your favorite subject in school?” I asked.

“Math.”

“Math? Oh, how nice. What do you like about it?”

“Don’t know. Just like it.”

And that ended that subject.

About then we came to the Broiler, and getting out of the car and being seated took a few minutes. As I picked up the enormous gold and red menu and scanned the price list, I remembered Mom’s advice.

“The thing to do,” she said, “is to order what he does. Then you won’t be out of line.”

So I waited for Norris to say something. He said, “What would you like?”

“Oh, I haven’t decided yet. What’re you having?”

“I don’t know. My mother says the roast beef is very good. But I’ll get what you get.”

Oh, no, I thought. Why doesn’t he make up his mind? Why couldn’t we have gone to Gino’s Pizza Palace?

“Norris,” I begged, “surprise me. Order for me.”

“Really?” He looked pleased. “Well, let’s have the roast beef. We know that’s good. My mother said so.”

It was good, too. But I wished his mother hadn’t practically ordered it for us.

There wasn’t much talk during dinner. Norris looked at me twice and both times said, “This is great, isn’t it?”

Then there was the concert. I sat there feeling sorry for myself. What’s so great about having a date? And with Norris—he’s about as exciting as a bowl of melted lemon jello. And this boring concert, yuck! Who wants to listen to that guy up there screeching back and forth on that violin? And I was tired of saying, “Oh, yes, nice. I’m really enjoying myself. Oh, yes, really!” Well, Norris didn’t inspire me with anything else.

Most of the time he sat there with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and stared at the floor. He and his idea of a date were just out of it, completely out of it.

After the concert, we got into the car and drove off. Now this was the time I’d dreaded most for days. What if he tried to put his arm around me? Or worse, what if he tried to kiss me? I sat stiffly on my side of the car and noticed with relief that both of Norris’s hands seemed to be cemented to the wheel. The big tales I’d heard at school about guys driving around and parking somewhere and expecting a girl to get really friendly ran through my mind. That’s when I wished for the tenth time that I was home with my three little sisters watching the Friday night movie on TV.

And then Norris said, “How’d you like to take a little drive, Wendy, up around Red Hill Loop?”

“No, no, I’ve got to hurry home. I really do.”

“Anything you say, Wendy.” He turned the car toward home.

The next hurdle was the front porch. We walked up the front steps, and for the first time in my life I was grateful for Edison’s invention of the electric light and the big, lighted globe at our front door. Mentally, I thanked Mom and Dad for turning it on.

I put one hand on the door knob and said, “Thank you for a very interesting evening, Norris.”

“I’m glad you thought it was interesting,” he said. “Maybe we can do it again, sometime.”

And then he held out his right hand, and without thinking I reached out and we shook hands! We actually shook hands! Then Norris ran from the circle of light, slammed the car door, spun the wheels, and was gone.

There I was. He hadn’t even tried to put his arm around me! I didn’t even have a chance to brush him off. That’s one tale I wouldn’t tell at school. Imagine, he shook my hand!

Naturally it wasn’t very late, so the whole family was up watching TV when I came in. There were eager questions from them and reluctant answers from me.

After a few minutes Dad said, “Doesn’t it occur to you, Wendy, that Norris might’ve been just as unsure about the evening as you were?”

“Why should he be?” I asked.

“I’ll bet it was his first date, too,” Dad said. “And remember, he found the courage to ask you. That’s a difficult thing to do the first time.”

“Maybe his mother made him do it,” my 13-year-old sister said.

“Maybe he worried more about it than you did,” Mom said.

“Do you really think Norris was jittery, too?” I asked.

“You think about it, Wendy,” Dad said.

I did think about it while I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Three things kept coming back in my mind: how Norris had sat at the concert with his head in his hands, how quickly he’d brought me home when I turned down the ride, and how he’d run into the dark after shaking my hand.

Oh, no, I thought. All I had cared about was how unhappy and bored I was. I hadn’t thought about how he felt.

As I switched out my bedroom light, I realized that turning 16 hadn’t changed me really. I was still a shy, skinny kid, and, I hated to admit it, a selfish, self-centered brat.

There was a knock on the door. “Wendy, are you asleep?” Mom called. “The telephone—for you.”

It was Norris.

“No,” I told him, “you didn’t wake me. … Speak louder, I can’t hear you. … Oh, you don’t want to wake your parents. … What? … Thank you. I’m glad you liked my hair. … What? You thought the concert was yucky? … I can’t help laughing. You say such funny things. … You mean it? You wish we’d gone to Gino’s Pizza Palace? You do, honest? … Tomorrow, sounds really neat. I’d love it. … Okay. … Okay. … See you. … Bye, Norris.”

As I switched out my bedroom light once more, I wondered what to wear the next day when Norris and I went bike riding. I’ll wear my new, faded-blue jeans. No, I’ll wear my … hey, wait a minute, brat. What would Norris like? I wonder what his favorite color is?

I thought back to last year at Thanksgiving time. My whole family was at Grandfather’s, and after the meal, we children played behind the house.
During an exciting game of hide-and-seek, some of us had gone into Mr. Jenkins’s yard to hide. His house looked empty and lonesome, and we were sure that nobody was home. But he came out, waving his cane in the air and shouting for us to leave! He even called me a scalawag!
“Grandfather,” I asked now, “why are we in this yard?”
“Why, this is where we will build our bridge!” When I looked at him with questioning eyes, he said, “Do you trust me, Grandson?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“And if I ask you to do something, will you do it?”
“I will, Grandfather.”
“Good!” He handed me a pair of gloves and asked me to go down to Mr. Jenkins’s big garden. “Do you see those pumpkins?”
Of course I saw them! There were lots of bright orange pumpkins scattered all over the ground, surrounded by their withered vines from the last frost.
“I would like you to pick them and put them in a pile over by the house. Be very careful, and don’t carry them by the stems!”
“OK, Grandfather.” I went to the task. I had never seen so many pumpkins! Some of them were skinny and tall. Others were round and fat. They were all heavy! I worked very hard for a long time. After I got that done, Grandfather asked me to rake the fallen leaves in the yard.
I told him I would, but when I looked around, I was stunned! There must have been thousands of leaves surrounding me! The huge cottonwood trees in the backyard had certainly had a lot of leaves that year! It took me two hours to rake them. All the while, I kept thinking, Maybe when I’m done with this, we will build a bridge.
Grandfather was busy too. He had brought a shovel, and he dug up all the potatoes in the garden, put them into the buckets, and carried them to the porch. When he noticed that one of the stairs leading to the porch was sagging, he set to fixing it. Then he helped me bag the leaves.
Well, when we were finished with Mr. Jenkins’s yard and garden, it looked great! It felt nice to look at it and see what a good job we had done. I knew Mr. Jenkins saw what a good job we had done, too, because once I saw him peeking through a window—and he wasn’t scowling!
By this time, I felt hungry. I was glad when Grandfather said, “How would you like it if we went home now and made some of my famous potato soup?”
“Hurrah! I love your potato soup!”
We went into the house and made a great big batch of it. And as we were cooking it, I thought that maybe after lunch we would start building that bridge.
The soup was delicious, and we had a fun time eating and talking. Grandfather told me interesting stories that made me laugh. When we were all done, there was a lot of soup left. Grandfather put it in a big bowl and said, “Now, Grandson, I want you to take this over to Mr. Jenkins.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “I can’t do that! He’s mean, and he doesn’t like me.”
Grandfather just looked me in the eyes and said, “Please.”
So I got all my courage together and walked over to Mr. Jenkins’s front door with a bowl of warm soup in my hands. I rang the doorbell and waited a long time. Finally he came to the door. He had a broken leg and was on crutches!
“Hello, young man,” he said. He didn’t look mean at all—in fact, he even smiled at me!
“My grandfather asked me to bring this over to you.”
“I thank you for it. Tell me, could you carry it just a wee bit farther and put it on my table?”
“Sure.” As I walked through the house, I noticed that it was very messy. I suspected that he couldn’t get around well enough to take care of it. I put the soup on the table and told him I had to go. As I was leaving, I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
“Young man, you don’t know what you and your grandfather did today means to me! Thank you, from the bottom of a cranky old man’s heart!”
I smiled big and said, “You’re welcome!” Then I went back to Grandfather’s house. When I told him what had happened, he seemed very pleased. Then I asked him if we could build our bridge.
“Why, Grandson, we have already built it!”
“We have? Really?”
“Yes indeed! We built a very wonderful bridge today: the bridge of friendship, my boy. Mr. Jenkins may be a cranky old fellow sometimes, but as you could see, he needed some help. And he was glad to get it. All it took to warm his old heart was just being a good neighbor and friend. Our helping him showed him that we were his friends. Building bridges between people and making friends is one of the strongest bridges we could ever build!”
Well, it took me a minute to understand what Grandfather had said. But once I realized that we actually had built a bridge, I couldn’t help but smile. Then I remembered how Mr. Jenkins’s house was so messy, and it gave me a great idea. “Grandfather? Do you think we could add a little bit to that bridge today?”
Grandfather smiled, winked at me, and said, “Yes, Grandson, I believe we could!”

Esi liked to sing. Singing in Primary made her happy. She knew that Jesus loved to hear her sing.
One day Mama and Baba were singing a hymn in sacrament meeting. Esi wanted to sing too, but she didn’t know the words.
“Why are you sad?” Mama asked Esi.
“I don’t know the words,” Esi said.
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Next week when we sing, you can hum along.”
Esi felt much better. She liked to hum.
The next week Esi hummed while Baba and Mama sang the hymns. Esi felt happy. She knew that Jesus loved to hear her hum.

One woman who came to this realization wrote:
“Right after my divorce, I determined that I was going to give my children the best of everything. … I would provide well for them. … I would substitute in every way for their father. I would take them on picnics, build them a tree house, and play baseball with them. I would not allow them to suffer because of our divorce.
“I baked, sewed, ran, played, wrestled. I cleaned, I ironed. I was busy being both mother and father for them.
“One evening I put the three of them in the bathtub together while I finished a chore. Then I came back, soaped the youngest, rinsed him, lifted him from the tub, and stood him on a bath mat while I wrapped a towel around him. Then I carried him off to the bedroom to put his pajamas on and tuck him into bed. I repeated the process with his brother and then his sister.
“As I bent down to kiss them goodnight, my older son said, ‘Sing us a song, please.’
“‘Which one?’ I asked.
“‘“Rudolph”!’ said the youngest immediately.
“‘No, “Johnny Appleseed,”’ said his brother.
“Then their sister said, ‘Sing, “Stay Awake.”’
“‘I can see if I stay to sing one song, I’ll be singing for an hour, and I don’t have an hour to spare. So goodnight.’ I turned off the lights.
“‘Please sing just one song, mommy. You can choose the song.’
“‘What about our prayers?’
“Firmly, I replied, ‘I said goodnight and I mean goodnight.’
“As I walked back to the bathroom to tidy up, I thought of how grateful they would be someday when they were old enough to understand how much I had done for them!
“As I entered the room I stopped short. There on the bath mat were three perfect sets of damp footprints. For one brief moment I thought I saw standing in the footprints the spirits of those precious children I had just tucked into bed. In that instant I saw the foolishness of my ways. I had been so busy providing for the physical needs of their mortal bodies that I was neglecting their spirits. I knew then that I had a sacred obligation to nourish both. If I were to clothe them in the latest fashions and give them all that money could buy and fail to tend to their spiritual needs, I could not justifiably account for my awesome responsibility as their mother.
“Humbled, I went back to their bedroom. We knelt together in prayer. We all four climbed up on the boys’ big bed and sang song after song until I was the only one awake to sing.”

The pulpit in the Conference Center has a unique story. Following is President Gordon B. Hinckley’s account:
“I love trees. When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the summer, a fruit farm. Every year at this season we planted trees. I think I have never missed a spring since I was married, except for two or three years when we were absent from the city, that I have not planted trees. …
“Some 36 years ago I planted a black walnut [tree]. It was in a crowded area where it grew straight and tall to get the sunlight. A year ago, for some reason it died. But walnut is a precious furniture wood. I called Brother Ben Banks of the Seventy, who, before giving his full time to the Church, was in the business of hardwood lumber. He brought his two sons, one a bishop and the other recently released as a bishop and who now run the business, to look at the tree. From all they could tell it was solid, good, and beautiful wood. One of them suggested that it would make a pulpit for this hall. The idea excited me. The tree was cut down and then cut into two heavy logs. Then followed the long process of drying, first naturally and then kiln drying. The logs were cut into boards at a sawmill in Salem, Utah. The boards were then taken to Fetzer’s woodworking plant, where expert craftsmen designed and built this magnificent pulpit with that wood.
“The end product is beautiful. I wish all of you could examine it closely. It represents superb workmanship, and here I am speaking to you from the tree I grew in my backyard, where my children played and also grew.
“It is an emotional thing for me. I have planted another black walnut or two. I will be long gone before they mature. When that day comes and this beautiful pulpit has grown old, perhaps one of them will do to make a replacement. To Elder Banks and his sons, Ben and Bradley, and to the skilled workers who have designed and built this, I offer my profound thanks for making it possible to have a small touch of mine in this great hall where the voices of prophets will go out to all the world in testimony of the Redeemer of mankind.”

A few years ago a faithful family exemplified for members of our ward that same trust in the Lord. Arn and Venita Gatrell were living a happy life when Arn was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. The prognosis was devastating—he had just a few weeks to live. The family wanted to be together one last time. So all the children gathered, some from distant locations. They had only 48 precious hours to spend together. The Gatrells carefully chose what mattered most to them—a family picture, a family dinner, and a session in the Salt Lake Temple. Venita said, “When we walked out of the temple doors, it was the last time we would ever be together in this life.”
But they left with the assurance that there is so much more for them than just this life. Because of sacred temple covenants, they have hope in God’s promises. They can be together forever.
The next two months were filled with blessings too numerous to recount. Arn and Venita’s faith and trust in the Lord were growing, as evidenced in Venita’s words: “I was carried. I learned that you can feel peace in the midst of turmoil. I knew the Lord was watching over us. If you trust in the Lord, truly you can overcome any of life’s challenges.”
One of their daughters added: “We watched our parents and saw their example. We saw their faith and how they handled it. I would never have asked for this trial, but I would never give it away. We were surrounded with God’s love.”
Of course, Arn’s passing was not the outcome the Gatrells had hoped for. But their crisis was not a crisis of faith. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not a checklist of things to do; rather, it lives in our hearts. The gospel “is not weight; it is wings.” It carries us. It carried the Gatrells. They felt peace in the midst of the storm. They held fast to each other and to temple covenants they had made and kept. They grew in their ability to trust in the Lord and were strengthened by their faith in Jesus Christ and in His atoning power.

I still remember how anxious I was as I prepared to see my bishop about serving a mission. I wondered if I was good enough. Like the Prophet Joseph Smith, I wasn’t “guilty of any great or malignant sins” (Joseph Smith—History 1:28), but I was nervous just the same.

I was nervous because I couldn’t help but think about my friend Danny.* For months Danny had been talking about how much he looked forward to serving a mission. But that changed after he met with the bishop.

Because Danny had engaged in unworthy behavior with several young women, he later told me, he had disqualified himself from full-time missionary service. He was no longer free to choose a mission.

Danny, in the words of President Boyd K. Packer, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, had fallen to Satan’s temptation “to misuse [his] moral agency.”1

True freedom, as For the Strength of Youth teaches, comes when we use our agency to choose obedience. Loss of freedom, as Danny learned, comes from choosing disobedience.

“While you are free to choose your course of action, you are not free to choose the consequences. Whether for good or bad, consequences follow as a natural result of the choices you make.”2

Because the scriptures teach that we are “free to choose,” “free to act,” and free to do things “of [our] own free will” (2 Nephi 2:27; 10:23; D&C 58:27; see also Helaman 14:30), we often use the term “free agency.”

But did you know that the phrase “free agency” does not appear in the scriptures? Instead, the scriptures teach “that every man may act in doctrine and principle … according to the moral agency which I have given unto him, that every man may be accountable for his own sins” (D&C 101:78; emphasis added).

Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has taught: “The word agency appears [in scriptures] either by itself or with the modifier moral. … When we use the term moral agency, we are appropriately emphasizing the accountability that is an essential part of the divine gift of agency. We are moral beings and agents unto ourselves, free to choose but also responsible for our choices.”3

President Packer adds, “Agency is defined in the scriptures as ‘moral agency,’ which means that we can choose between good and evil.”4 This God-given gift means we are “free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil” (2 Nephi 2:27).

Because moral agency plays an important role in the plan of salvation, Satan sought to destroy it in the premortal world. He was cast out for his rebellion and now seeks “to deceive and to blind men, and to lead them captive at his will” (Moses 4:3–4).

Satan wants us to make choices that limit our freedom, lead to bad habits and addictions, and leave us powerless to resist his temptations. The beauty of the gospel is that it makes us aware of our choices and the consequences of those choices. Wise use of agency keeps our choices open and improves our ability to choose correctly.

When the plan of salvation was presented in the Grand Council in Heaven, the Savior showed us how to use our moral agency correctly. He said, “Father, thy will be done, and the glory be thine forever” (Moses 4:2). Because He was willing to do the will of the Father then and later in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross (see Matthew 26:39; Luke 22:42), Jesus paid the price for our bad choices and provided a way for us to be forgiven through repentance.

If we follow the Savior’s example, instead of saying, “I do what I want,” we will declare, “I do what the Father wants.”5 Using our moral agency this way will bring us freedom and happiness.

As I went to see my bishop for my first mission interview, I was grateful I had made good choices. A few months later I was serving the Lord in Guatemala—teaching others the plan of salvation and the vital role moral agency plays in that plan.

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board, There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling, beautiful girl who was close to crying.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and left. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your words mixed again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that talk about life after death is not true. You go on a mission and what happens. You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. 3,200 kilometers away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Be strong, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t confused his words at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his death, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college now became hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the difference in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “l’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find that I become depressed or unhappy. I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head. “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

I have been persuaded, almost against my better judgment, to tell a story. I ask for your indulgence and forgiveness because it involves my experience. Hopefully, the lesson I learned from it might be of some help to you.
In the fateful war year of 1942, I was inducted into the United States Air Force as a private soldier. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, shivering, and at the same time trying to stay awake, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions.
I was engaged to be married, and knew that I could not support a wife on a private’s pay of $50 per month. I felt I needed to become an officer. In a day or two, following my all-night vigil, I filed my application for officer’s school. Shortly thereafter, on the appointed day, I was summoned, along with some others, before the Board of Inquiry looking into my qualifications and aptitude. My qualifications were sparse, but I had had two years of College and had finished a mission for the Church in South America. I was twenty-two years of age and in good physical health. Possessing only these few qualifications, I was grateful to be able to put on my application that I had been a missionary for the Church.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ Board of Inquiry took a very surprising turn. Practically all of the questions centered upon my missionary service and my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer propounding these last questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he had prayed very often. I pondered, “Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? Should I give a non-controversial answer and simply say that prayer is a personal matter?” I wanted to be an officer very much so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and k.p., but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided not to equivocate, and responded that I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I added that officers at appropriate times should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came from my examiners. “In time of war should not the moral code be relaxed?” one high-ranking officer asked. “Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
Here was a chance to equivocate, to make some points and be really broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I tried to live by, had been taught, and myself had taught. I thought to myself, “Here go my chances to become an officer.” The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could still be faithful to my beliefs and respond by saying that I had my own beliefs on the subject of morality but did not wish to impose my views on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. I knew perfectly well what the scriptures say about fornication and adultery.
I could not delay my answer any longer, and responded to the question about the double standard of morality simply by saying, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
There were a few more questions, I think about whether or not I was trying to live and behave as we of our faith represent to the world. I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers who had asked these questions concerning our beliefs would not like the answers I had given, and surely they would score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my complete astonishment the score opposite my name read “95 percent.” I was amazed. I was in the first group taken for officers’ school, and had to be promoted to corporal to get into the school. I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we lived happily ever after.
This was one of the most critical crossroads of my life, one of very many times when I have had to stand up, search my soul, and like all of you, be identified. Not all of the experiences in my life when I have had to stand up and be counted turned out the way I wanted them to, but they have always strengthened my faith and helped me adjust to the other occasions when the result was different.
From that and many other experiences, I learned that even though others do not share your beliefs, in fact may be hostile to them, they will respect you if you are willing to stand up and be counted.