Gospel Story Finder

This was well illustrated in my father’s patriarchal blessing. He was told in his blessing that he would be blessed with “many beautiful daughters.” He and my mother became the parents of five sons. There were no daughters born to them, but of course they treated the wives of their sons as daughters. This last summer when we had a family reunion, I saw my father’s granddaughters moving about tending to the food and ministering to the young children and the elderly, and the realization came to me that Father’s blessing had been literally fulfilled; he has, indeed, many beautiful daughters. The patriarch who gave my father his blessing had spiritual vision to see beyond this life. There was a disappearance of the dividing line between time and eternity.

“Brother Ng,” the man’s voice began. Being addressed as “brother” by a gwailouh (foreigner) caught Ng Kat Hing’s attention. A group of clean-cut Americans wearing dark suits had wandered into the furniture store where he was employed, and their unusual appearance fascinated the 25-year-old Hong Kong native. But he was even more intrigued by being called “brother.”
When Ng Kat Hing questioned them about the title, one of the Americans, who wore a name tag identifying him as President Heaton, asked, “Do you believe there is one Father in Heaven?”
When he nodded, the man continued, “Then we are brothers, and I will call you that.”
Forty-three years later, Brother Ng still recalls his response. “I was touched, and in that moment, a little bit of the restored gospel was manifest to me. I wondered about it all that day and through the night. Four days later when the man called back to confirm the furniture order, I knew I wanted to know more.”

I was puffing as I ran my third lap around the track, but I was determined to finish at least one more. My friend Jennifer had pulled ahead of me as usual, nearly half a lap ahead and still gaining. It didn’t bother me that she was faster. I admired her for it. I admired her for a lot of things.
We had been friends since fifth grade, and I remember that she struggled with math so much she had to get extra help. Now she was on the honor roll. Athletics were easier for her, but she had to work hard at that, too. That’s why we were running the track together. She needed the athletic conditioning; I needed the exercise.
It was hard not to like Jennifer; her outgoing personality made her cheerful and friendly. She seemed to have it all and do it all. Her life was an endless round of activities, all of them wholesome and productive.
I was busy, too. I always had more to do than time to do it in. In fact, I had to schedule my time very carefully. I thought about Jennifer’s schedule—which was busier than mine—and wondered how she accomplished all she did.
About then I noticed a younger red-haired girl standing by the track watching us. She was a handicapped student at our small school. I said a polite hello as I ran by her, but I couldn’t afford to slow my pace to say much more. She watched as I rounded the track.
Jennifer seemed to be behind me now, even though I knew she was already a lap ahead and about to pass me again soon. She would finish before me, I was sure, and move on to the other important activities she must have planned.
I looked ahead to the next turn and then looked back to see where Jennifer was. She had slowed to a snail’s pace, and the red-haired girl was holding her hand and running beside her. The busiest girl in school had time to help someone else, and I didn’t. I thought about the Savior as I watched the two of them running together.
I was the only onlooker. Only the Lord and I would ever know about that small kindness. Jennifer didn’t do it for recognition; it was just the way she was. That day she became my hero, not because of all the great things she was known for but because of that simple act of kindness when no one was around but me.

I am a Boy Scout. At one meeting, a boy in my patrol wanted to bet me a dollar that I would not make a hoop on my next shot. I know betting isn’t good, so I told him that I don’t bet. Lucky for me, he didn’t call me a chicken or anything. Also lucky for me that I didn’t bet. For one thing, I would have had a guilty conscience. I would also have felt embarrassed because I would be one dollar poorer than I am today!
Sadek Sabbah, age 11Chandler, Arizona

I once read a story about a boy named Jack who grew up in the hills of Virginia in the United States. Every day, his family sat around the table for dinner. His father would ask each one of them, “What did you do for someone today?” The children wanted to do a good deed every day so they could tell their father they had helped someone. As they grew up, they felt a desire in their hearts to help others.
Jack became a successful doctor. Then he created more than 70 clinics across the country to help people who needed medical care. We can’t all create medical clinics, but each of us can do something to help others.

That happened to Jerry, a Protestant gentleman in his mid-60s who lives in Mesa, Arizona. Jerry’s father was a Baptist minister; his mother, a Methodist minister. One day Jerry’s close friend Pricilla shared with him the pain she felt from the death of her child during childbirth and a bitter divorce that occurred shortly thereafter. Struggling as a single mother, Pricilla has four children—three daughters and a son. As she opened her heart to Jerry, she confessed that she was thinking of taking her own life. With all the strength and love Jerry could muster, he tried to help her understand that her life had value. He invited her to attend his church, but Pricilla explained that she had given up on God.

Jerry did not know what to do. Later, while watering trees in his yard, this man of faith prayed to God for guidance. As he prayed, he heard a voice in his mind saying, “Stop the boys on the bikes.” Jerry, a little bewildered, wondered what this meant. As he reflected on this impression, he gazed up the street and saw two young men in white shirts and ties riding bicycles toward his home. Stunned by this “coincidence,” he watched them ride by. Then, realizing that the situation required him to act, he shouted out, “Hey, you, please stop! I need to talk to you!”

With a puzzled but excited look, the young men stopped. As they approached, Jerry noticed that they wore name tags identifying them as missionaries in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Jerry looked at them and said, “This may sound a little weird, but I was praying and was told to ‘stop the boys on the bikes.’ I looked up the street, and here you are. Can you help me?”

The missionaries smiled, and one said, “Yes, I am sure we can.”

Jerry explained the worrisome plight of Pricilla. Soon the missionaries were meeting with Pricilla, her children, and Jerry. They discussed the purpose of life and God’s eternal plan for them. Jerry, Pricilla, and her children grew in faith through sincere prayer, their study of the Book of Mormon, and the loving fellowship with members of the Church. Jerry’s already strong faith in Jesus Christ grew even stronger. Pricilla’s doubts and thoughts of suicide turned to hope and happiness. They were baptized and became members of Christ’s restored Church.8

One day the missionaries came to visit. John likes to ask missionaries where they are from, what their families are like, and how many people they are teaching and baptizing. But on this day he asked them how they paid for their missions. Parents and family members often give support, the missionaries explained. “I want to pay for my own mission,” John said. At 10 years old, he’s well on his way to being ready for his mission in more ways than one.

Upon graduating from high school, three universities with nursing programs accepted my applications. However, I was denied admittance into their nursing programs because of my facial disfigurement and impaired speech. This was not a happy time. I had always wanted to be a professional nurse. So, what did I do? I still attended BYU in Provo and took general education classes, enrolled in all the pre-nursing courses I could, and underwent intensive speech therapy.

The professors at the Speech Center indicated my speech would never be normal and gave me examples of how I sounded. I broke down and cried right then and there. I had never realized or accepted that my speech was as distorted as it was. The following week an actual recording of my voice was made so I could hear what others heard when I spoke. After preparing myself for the worst, it was still a shock. Even I could not understand what I had just said.

That night was one of the worst and yet one of the most spiritual nights of my life. Seeking peace and quiet in our garage, I seriously considered what I should do. I spent a long time questioning the value and purpose of my life. Did I truly have the courage to face the reality of my future? If it had not been for my pleadings with my Heavenly Father and my faith, I don’t think I would be here now. I did not hear His voice, but I felt His presence, His guidance, and His love. I could not give up. Heavenly Father was there for me.

During my second year of college, my zoology professor asked to speak with me. He inquired if I planned to have more surgeries. My quick reply was “No.” By then I had endured sixteen operations and my current doctor stated he had done all he could. My professor then told me of a plastic surgeon who had just relocated to Salt Lake City. This surgeon had taught plastic surgery at Duke Medical College and was a former student of my zoology professor at BYU.

An appointment was made to see the plastic surgeon. After a thorough examination he said he could help me, but it would take a series of operations. He must have seen the distress and concern on my face because he said, “June, God will work through the use of my hands in helping restore your mouth, face, and speech, but only with your faith will we accomplish anything.” Despite my fears, I underwent five additional surgeries while in college. I will not share details concerning these operations. The mind has a wonderful mechanism for not remembering exact pain and discomfort.

That fall while going through the registration process for new classes, I heard the BYU Dean of Nursing call out to me from within the room. She asked if I was the student who had previously tried to gain acceptance into the nursing program. When I responded affirmatively, she surprised me by asking if I still had a desire to study nursing. I responded, “YES!” I was admitted into the BYU nursing program. This was a miracle to me.

Nursing classes were challenging. It took an additional four years to complete all the requirements, but it was worth every minute! My dream of becoming a professional nurse had been accomplished. My first job was working on the surgical floor at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. Two weeks into my new employment I was asked if I would be the Charge Nurse of a support team to care for 40 patients. I loved hospital nursing.

A convert to the Church once said, “As a father I believed in caning my children. The slightest infraction of a rule was answered with prompt physical punishment. Then the gospel came into our home. I saw my children in a new light. They were my children, yes, but they were also children of our Eternal Father. How could I abuse a child of God? I began to develop an entirely new point of view toward my children, and they reciprocated with a new attitude toward me.

“Do we have discipline in our home? Yes, but of an entirely different kind. We are no longer adversaries. There are still some penalties for wrongdoing, but such penalties are of a different nature and are accepted as properly deserved, and not resented with bitterness as they once were. Now there is respect for one another, and more than that, love. What a difference the gospel makes,” he concluded.

“Yes,” I added, “what a difference the gospel makes when it is accepted and lived.”

Everyone is a child of God! This means that in the eyes of our Heavenly Father we are all equal and that he loves us all the same. It took me quite a while to realize this. I felt sorry for myself because I wasn’t the prettiest girl in school, or because I didn’t have a date for every Friday night, or some silly reason like that. I knew it was wrong for me to feel that way, but I couldn’t help it. I just felt depressed.
Then I read “Our Family Motto” by Tom Osmond in the April New Era, and it really made me think. I was being greedy and very selfish wanting such useless things when I could have much higher goals and ambitions to work for. (In the 13th Article of Faith it says, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” Isn’t it worth it to work now in order to be rewarded later?) Tom is deaf, and he has accomplished so many things by having such a positive attitude. A person’s handicap is not what matters. What matters is how he applies himself and goes after his dreams. If you have self-confidence and a positive attitude, you’ll go so much further!
Now, I still look the same, and I’m not going out every single night, but I’m more pleased with myself. I’m not completely satisfied yet—I never will be! But I feel that I’ve overcome a lot of obstacles (self-pity, lack of confidence) that were in the way. We can do anything we want to if we go after it, knowing that we’ll accomplish it by doing our best. After all, we’re children of God.
Gayle HayesPasadena, Texas

All it took was a call to Gary’s Creek Missionary Baptist Church in Tennessee for Chris Collier to find the perfect Eagle Scout project.
Chris, a member of the Memphis First Ward, Memphis North Stake, says, a little nervously, “This is something that’s never been done before.” Gary’s Creek church asked him to document its cemetery—the oldest black cemetery in Shelby County.
Chris first needs to meet everyone involved and decide how much help he will need on the project. He drives to Gary’s Creek Cemetery on a road paved over the old stagecoach line. As soon as he steps out of the car, he has to swat at a mosquito. It’s the height of Tennessee heat in August, and it’s so humid you can practically drink the air. But that isn’t going to stop Chris.
There’s a group waiting for him at the gate to the cemetery. Mr. Lacy, who has many ancestors buried here, greets Chris. “This cemetery is a gold mine for genealogists,” Mr. Lacy tells Chris as he adjusts his wide-brimmed hat. “Think of all those people’s stories buried under the ground.” Mr. Lacy has uncovered the story of one of his ancestors buried here—Joseph H. Harris, better known as “Free Joe.” He wrote two books about Free Joe’s adventures and is turning them into a Hollywood screenplay.
Chris walks through the cemetery with his notebook and camera. The huge trees’ heavy branches droop in the heat, and thick emerald grass covers some of the grave markers completely. There are all types of people buried here, from tiny babies to Civil War veterans. Some of the markers are simple rusty spikes in the ground; others have hand-carved names in aged, chipped stones. Nobody can tell what they say, except for the caretaker, Mr. Brooks.
Mr. Brooks has been caretaker of Gary’s Creek Cemetery since 1939. He moves slowly around the cemetery with the help of his cane and quietly points out different grave markers to Chris. Mr. Brooks is the only one who knows the names on and locations of all the graves. His father was caretaker before him.
“I used to walk around the cemetery with my father while he helped me memorize the graves,” Mr. Brooks says. Many of the graves are unmarked, and the only documentation is in Mr. Brooks’s memory. If Mr. Brooks dies, the information dies with him. Chris isn’t going to let that happen.
Leslie Louthain, the director of the LDS family history center in the area, and her husband are also here to help. She gives Chris tips on how to put all the information in a database. He’ll give one copy to the Gary’s Creek church and send one to the Church’s Family History Library in Salt Lake City.
Sister Louthain thoughtfully examines a grave marker near the woods until she discovers there is more than family history in this cemetery.
“There are snakes in those trees!” she shrieks. Her husband laughs, and she heads for higher ground.
As Chris wraps up his first visit, he sighs. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. This one cemetery could be a lot of separate projects,” he says. But he isn’t afraid to plunge in anyway.
Chris doesn’t feel so overwhelmed when he comes back with a big group of teens to help him. The ladies from Gary’s Creek church provide lunch, and it isn’t as hot, because now it’s well into autumn.
Chris divides up the teens into groups to document the graves, with the help of Mr. Lacy and Mr. Brooks, of course. You can barely tell who belongs to which church because everyone is mixed together, trying to get all the information recorded.
As Chris wraps it all up, everyone is pleased. The members of Gary’s Creek church can rest easy, knowing the information in their vast cemetery has been preserved, and Chris’s group can be satisfied knowing they’ve helped preserve information for future family history work.
The cemetery seems a little more peaceful now, thanks to Chris, because the richness of its history won’t be lost. Who knows what stories might later be uncovered?
As Chris takes a reflective look around the cemetery, Mr. Lacy says, “Family history is going to be what brings religions and races together.” And in his little corner of Tennessee, Chris helped do just that.

One of the members of our family has a remarkable dog named Ben. A few years ago, on a beautiful fall day, some of us were walking in the fields. Ben was going back and forth in front of us, sniffing the ground, tail wagging, and obviously enjoying himself. After a while we sat down on a ditch bank to rest and could feel the warmth of the autumn sun caressing us. Ben came limping up to his master and, with a pained look in his eye, held up his front paw. Ben’s master gently took his paw into his hands and examined it carefully. Between two of his toes was a thorn. The thorn was carefully removed, and Ben stayed long enough to wag his tail a little more vigorously and receive a few pats on his head. He then ran off, no longer limping nor bothered by the pain. I was amazed that Ben instinctively seemed to know that the thorn needed to come out to relieve the pain and to know where to go to have it removed. Like Ben, we also seem to instinctively look for relief from the thorns of sin that inflict us. In contrast, however, we do not always seek our Master for relief; and many do not yet know who their Master is.

A year or two ago we were at a farmhouse with our extended family. All of the family members were involved in activities—except for one grandson. One afternoon he sauntered into the kitchen and announced to his grandmother, “I’m bored.” He had just expressed the condition in which he had placed himself.

Rather than trying to entertain him for the next several days, his grandmother showed great wisdom in taking this opportunity to teach him a very important lesson. First, she handed him a broom so he could help with some work; then she handed him a piece of paper and a pencil and asked him to sit at the kitchen table. She pointed out a list of family activities posted on the refrigerator door. She asked this young grandson to write down any of the activities from this list in which he would like to participate. The list was long. She then asked him to add to his list anything he would like to accomplish by himself. The list grew. He soon had more than enough interesting activities to keep busy.

With his list in hand, he became happily involved and no longer dwelled on his earlier feelings of being bored. His grandmother had lovingly taught him to be responsible for his own happiness and not to be dependent upon others to bring joy and happiness into his life.

I learned to appreciate the principle of fasting by fasting for just one meal the first time I did it. That helped me develop confidence that I could fast for two meals. I also learned to ask for Heavenly Father’s help, so that the experience might be spiritually uplifting.

My aunt became a member of the Church after we fasted and prayed in her behalf.

Marianne Vaags, 13Muelheim Ward, Dortmund Germany Stake

Brent Jones started it, but it was his little brother Scott who got the rest of us involved. Brent and his friends were graduating from Viewmont High School in Centerville, Utah, and soon they’d all be leaving on missions. They wanted to do one last thing together as a group. So Brent asked his dad Clarence, an avid backpacker, to take them to the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming. That was two years ago.
Brent’s younger brother Scott tagged along on that outing and made his father promise that he and his friends could have a similar trip the next year.
Then Scott’s friends added something new. They invited all of their dads, too. I’m one of those fathers. And by the time all the invitations were extended, there were 20 of us going to the mountains—five dads, eight sons, one son-in-law, and six friends.
Backpacking is nothing new to the Joneses. In that family the boys start hiking when they turn eight. But taking a group of 20 into the Wind Rivers would mean a lot of preparation. Such a trip isn’t just a holiday; it’s also a matter of survival.
“Great,” Scott Jones’s friends joked. “It’ll make our dads tougher.”
They soon found out it would make the boys tougher, too, not just in terms of physical endurance, but in terms of long-range planning and organization.
“I made up a menu,” Clarence said. “But I wanted the boys to have the experience of putting the trip together, so I told them they had to collect the money and buy the supplies.”
Each person’s pack would weigh 40 pounds, including tent, sleeping bag, fishing gear, and other essentials—like food!
Based on a budget of $20 per person (which included gas money for transportation as well), the Jones boys and their friends organized menus, assigned cooking groups, and packed the food in plastic bags marked with the day each meal would be eaten.
Before they left, the backpackers studied their route. Brother Jones, familiar with the trails in the Wind Rivers, only promised this: “It’ll be a character builder!”
The first day’s hike was tough, rising 2,000 feet in 10 miles. The trail was good, but mostly uphill. Blisters, sore feet, and aching muscles were common.
But the payoff was getting to the 10,500-foot plateau where the wilderness landscape is magnificent. Stately pine trees, distant rugged peaks, grassy meadows, rivers, streams, cliffs, and huge boulders formed the panorama.
“The beauty there is something you don’t find on the freeways,” said Dean Layton. “We had to earn it. We were just climbing a trail until we got the first ten miles behind us. Then we saw the real beauty.”
“It’s so untouched,” Dave Hill said, “so close to what I imagine creation looked like after the sixth day. You almost feel you shouldn’t talk, so you won’t destroy the sacredness of the environment.”
“You know it didn’t happen accidentally,” Joseph Nelson said.
Brother Jones kept us moving from one adventure to another—another stream to fish in; another lake to camp by; another panoramic vista; and at different times, storms rolling across mountain ridges, their lightning silhouetting black trees against a black sky.
But it wasn’t just the beauty of the place that made our trip delightful. It was the shared experience between fathers and sons. When you have the opportunity to be together and depend on each other for days at a time, there’s no bluffing, no phoniness. You see each other as you really are.
For example, this was the first time Ryan and Merrill Layton had been together, one-on-one, on an extended trip.
“I’m not sure how well I knew Ryan until we went on this trip,” Merrill, the father, said. “My son really is as ‘laid back’ as everyone says he is. He doesn’t take little things too seriously or let things bother him too much. It’s a great attribute, and I’m glad I got to see him in that light.”
“We learned that we can count on each other,” Rich Layton said of his trip with his father. “We’re close, but this was just one more experience to bond our relationship together.”
My own sons, Joseph, Jonathan, and Joshua, told me they learned more about me just by sharing a tent and talking. They told me about experiences they’ve had growing up; I told them about mine. We weren’t only tentmates and trail partners, we became closer as father and sons.
I think the Joneses knew these kinds of things would happen when they invited us. Like I said, they’ve been backpacking for years. In fact, the Jones boys have written letters about it.
Brent, now serving a mission in California, recalled his first trip—to Yellowstone—when he was eight years old:
“We missed our camping spot so we had to hike on. We ended up hiking 18 miles, and when we finally set up camp, we needed water. You told me I was the only one left with enough strength to go half a mile to get the water. You don’t know how important you made me feel.”
And Scott gave his father a letter at Christmas last year, thanking him for the “expeditions” over the years.
“I can’t think of anything better to do than to spend a week with you in the wilderness,” he wrote. “Every time I go I learn something new about you and myself.”
And Paul Jones told his father that “these trips are part of the cement that bonds us so closely together. They put us in an environment where a father and son feel close to each other and to Heavenly Father, too.”
The Jones boys feel that backpacking with their father, though not an official activity, is one of the best “Church” activities in which they can be involved. There’s no award given at the end of the trail. But the rewards are memories, the kind of memories that help build relationships; and closeness, the kind of closeness you experience when someone cares enough to spend time with you.
That being true, a lot of us think keeping up with the Joneses is an ideal thing to do.

Let me share some thoughts about Sister Carmen Reich, my mother-in-law, who was truly an elect lady. She embraced the gospel in a most difficult and dark time of her life, and she liberated herself from grief and sorrow.

As a young woman—a widow and the mother of two young girls—she freed herself from a world of old traditions and moved into a world of great spirituality. She embraced the teachings of the gospel, with its intellectual and spiritual power, on a fast track. When the missionaries gave her the Book of Mormon and invited her to read the verses they had marked, she read the whole book within only a few days. She learned things beyond the understanding of her peers because she learned them by the Spirit of God. She was the humblest of the humble, the wisest of the wise, because she was willing and pure enough to believe when God had spoken.

She was baptized on November 7, 1954. Only a few weeks after her baptism, she was asked by the missionary who baptized her to write her testimony. The missionary wanted to use her testimony in his teaching to help others feel the true spirit of conversion. Fortunately, the missionary kept the handwritten original for more than 40 years, and then he returned it to her as a very special and loving gift.

Let me share with you parts of her written testimony. Please keep in mind that she wrote these words only a few weeks after hearing about the gospel. Before the missionaries came, she had never heard anything about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, or Mormons in general. In 1954 there were no temples outside the continental United States, except in Canada and Hawaii.

This is the English translation of Sister Reich’s handwritten testimony:
“Special characteristics of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints that are not present in other religious communities include, above all, modern revelation given through the Prophet Joseph Smith.
“The Book of Mormon in its clear and pure language is next, with all the instructions and promises for the Church of Jesus Christ; it is truly a second witness, together with the Bible, that Jesus Christ lives.
“Bound together by faith in a personal God, that is, God the Father, God the Son, and the Holy Ghost, who facilitates prayer and also influences personally.
“Also, faith in the premortal life, the preexistence, the purpose of our earthly life, and our life after death is so valuable for us and especially interesting and informative. It is clearly laid out, and our lives receive new meaning and direction.
“The Church has given us the Word of Wisdom as a guide to keep body and spirit in the most perfect shape possible to realize our desire and goal. So we keep our bodies healthy and improve them. All this from the knowledge that we will take them up again after death in the same form.
“Totally new to me, of course, is temple work with its many sacred ordinances, having families together forever. All this was given through revelation to the Prophet Joseph Smith.”

Carmen Reich, my dear mother-in-law, passed away in 2000 at age 83.

Linahei not only uses her voice for music and prayer, but she also speaks up about helping family members on the other side of the veil.

“I had a dream one night where I saw hundreds of people, but none of them could communicate with each other,” she says. “I thought I recognized them, but I wasn’t sure.”

Linahei didn’t know what to make of the dream at first. Then she had an exciting thought: “Before the COVID-19 lockdown, I had performed over 100 baptisms for my ancestors—these people in my dream could represent those family members!”

Feeling more excited about family history than ever, Linahei did all she could to help move those names along in the temple to receive their additional ordinances. Soon after, Linahei and her mom were called as family history consultants in their ward.

“We helped a woman in our ward access her FamilySearch account. When she saw her family tree, she was so happy—it was the first time she had seen all of her ancestors!”

“I used to feel nervous going up to people in my ward,” Linahei admits. “But now that I have my mom with me, I feel more confidence teaching people about family history.”

Now Linahei looks forward to helping people learn about their ancestors. “I love seeing how happy people are when they do their family history. And I think our ancestors are happy that we’re interested in them and in performing their ordinances.”

In her calling as a family history consultant, she recently organized an activity for her ward’s young women. Not only did she help them find family names to take to the temple, but she also helped Primary children set up accounts so that they can participate.

“We are going to the temple soon,” she says.

“I like the joy that comes when you do family history.”

Want to be as cool as Linahei? Don’t worry, it’s definitely possible. “Young people can advance the errand of God by using technology,” Linahei says. “Anything that helps us think of our ancestors is wonderful. I know doing family history will bring everyone more joy in their lives. Family history has brought me closer to my ancestors and to Christ at the same time.”

With all the work she’s doing for her ancestors, one thing’s for sure: Linahei’s family is definitely not just history!

As a young bishop, I learned of forgiveness when my stake president, Bruce M. Cook, shared the following story. He explained:
“During the late 1970s, some associates and I started a business. Although we did nothing illegal, some poor decisions, combined with the challenging economic times, resulted in our failure.
“Some investors filed a lawsuit to recover their losses. Their attorney happened to be a counselor in my family’s bishopric. It was very difficult to sustain the man who seemed to be seeking to destroy me. I developed some real animosity toward him and considered him my enemy. After five years of legal battles, we lost everything we owned, including our home.
“In 2002, my wife and I learned that the stake presidency in which I served as a counselor was being reorganized. As we traveled on a short vacation prior to the release, she asked me whom I would choose as my counselors if I were called as the new stake president. I did not want to speak about it, but she persisted. Eventually, one name came to my mind. She then mentioned the name of the attorney we considered to have been at the center of our difficulties 20 years earlier. As she spoke, the Spirit confirmed that he should be the other counselor. Could I forgive the man?
“When Elder David E. Sorensen extended to me the call to serve as stake president, he gave me an hour to select counselors. Through tears, I indicated that the Lord had already provided that revelation. As I spoke the name of the man I had considered my enemy, the anger, animosity, and hate I had harbored disappeared. In that moment, I learned of the peace that comes with forgiveness through the Atonement of Christ.”
In other words, my stake president did “frankly forgive” him, like Nephi of old. I knew President Cook and his counselor as two righteous priesthood leaders who loved one another. I determined to be like them.

Although that metaphor refers to water, I recall a time a number of years ago when terrible wildfires spread through the San Diego area. These fires destroyed many homes, including quite a few in the Poway stake where I was serving as a new stake president.

In the aftermath, a dear sister came to my office and asked me why the Lord would allow her home to be burned to the ground since she and her husband had been trying to be faithful. They had both served missions, had been married in the temple, and were faithfully serving in their callings. Their home was not only their residence but also a care facility for a number of elderly residents.

No one was injured, but losing their home with its treasured keepsakes and also their livelihood was almost too much to bear. My heart ached for her when I heard her earnest plea for an answer to her question of why.

I suddenly had a thought to take a blank piece of paper and put a single dot in the middle as I said to her, “Don’t be blinded by the dot.”

To her credit, this dear sister stood up and said, “I get it. Never mind, I will be fine.”

Assume the blank page goes in every direction throughout all eternity and the dot represents mortality of perhaps eighty to a hundred years. Most people only see the dot while missing the whole picture—or point, in this case. Having an eternal perspective from revealed truth makes life meaningful in spite of its challenges.

While my daughters were growing up, during the many trips we took in our car, the most often-asked question was, “When will we get there, Dad?” And “How long will it take?” I couldn’t help but think that those questions are much like some that we adults ask. We think we will be happy when we arrive at a certain destination, our schooling is finished, we get a better job, we arrive at a certain income, the baby is born, our bills are paid, we recover from our illness, we own a new car, some disagreeable task is finished, we retire, or we are free from all responsibility.
My father used to teach us that life is a journey, not a camp, and he indicated that too many people are camping. I’d like to challenge all of us, particularly the young people and young couples that are married, to see life as a whole and to enjoy the marvelous journey.
I remember a grandmother who had been widowed early in her life and was moving out of her home. Her granddaughter, about to be married herself, was carefully helping her pack the boxes of dishes and the faded towels. “See that sewing machine over there in the corner?” the grandmother asked. “Your grandfather always left his hat there when he came home in the evening. I used to scold him all the time about it. ‘Just put your hat on the hook,’ I’d say. ‘Why does your hat always have to be on the sewing machine messing everything up?’ Then one day he got pneumonia and died, leaving four little children and me to miss him for a lifetime. How many times through the years I’ve thought, What I’d give to see that hat on the sewing machine, placed there by his own hand!”
Like the grandmother in this story, we too often let trifles cloud our vision. We get caught up in nonessentials or in a multitude of meetings, both in and out of the Church, that have no particular meaning or purpose. We sometimes nag the people we love the best over little inattentions, small faults, mere nothings in the whole scheme of things. Instead of treasuring the all-too-rare moments we share with our dear ones, we pick at faults, imagined or otherwise. How many of us say to our wives, our husbands, our children: “Why can’t you do this?” “Why don’t you do that?” Or “Someday when I have the time …”
Our last daughter left for college this past month, and the eighteen years of daily living with her were suddenly over. Where had they gone? What minute, what hour, what day or night had swallowed up all those joyous, giggling, growing-up years? The first night she was away, I slipped into her bedroom, looked at her record player, and thought of all those times I had mechanically said, “Would you turn down the music!” And I thought, too, how often in the days ahead we’d be longing to hear the music. Thank God she and her parents have many wonderful memories to savor in the years ahead.
Our daughter Janet lies in a hospital bed at this very moment, and she and we know what great moments we have to share. And you know, Janet, our great faith and our feeling.
Why do those sudden moments of clarity, when we realize how precious our loved ones are, come so rarely? How do we let ourselves get caught up in faultfinding, digging, or scolding at those who are nearest our hearts? Is it ever worth it? As C. S. Lewis once advised, “Take care. It is so easy to break eggs without making omelettes.” (Cited in Richard L. Evans, Richard Evans’ Quote Book, Salt Lake City: Publisher’s Press, 1971, p. 169.)
Maybe each of us needs to stop amidst our busy, dashing, breathless lives—even amidst our many meetings. It recalls to mind an experience—perhaps you know it—of a little inquisitive boy who came to church with his father, and as they walked into the foyer, the boy noticed the usual trophy case over which were placed several large plaques. Curiosity got to the little boy. He pulled on his dad’s coattail and said, “Dad, what’s that one?”
The father moved a little closer and read the inscription, patted his boy on the head, and said, “Son, that’s a plaque honoring those who died in the service.”
To which the little boy said, “Morning or evening?”
I appreciate that the Lord has instructed us that there are important meetings, but then there are other meetings which are not well planned or properly structured. Yes, even amidst our meetings and our commitments we need to really see: to see the way his eyes wrinkle when he laughs, see the tilt of her head as the light catches her hair, remember his dash of humor. Maybe when things get in the saddle and ride us, we need to step back for a moment of clarity. We need to remember why we are doing all of this—remember how much we love those we love.
A young mother was running late to a very important meeting one time. As she dashed from her bedroom, her little three-year-old stopped her and said, “Mommy. Mom.”
To which the mother replied, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Not now,” said the mother with an impatient wave of her hand.
“Mom,” began the little girl again.
“Oh, what is it?” said the mother.
“I just wanted to tell you I love you!”
Well, life is fleeting at best. We turn around and we’re young, turn around again and we’re old. Minutes rush past. We can’t stop them in all their rush. We’re eighteen; we’re twenty-eight; we’re forty-eight; we’re gray. Is there ever enough time to nag, scold, dig, or complain at the people we love most? We fool ourselves if we think there is. There’s only time to stop, as one has put it, to smell the flowers.
Do you remember Julia Ward Howe who told a senator on one occasion, “I am in need of help for a very special person”?
“Julia, I am so busy,” he said, “I can no longer concern myself with individuals.”
She replied, “That’s remarkable. Even God hasn’t reached that stage yet.” (See Richard Evans’ Quote Book, p. 165.)
Concern yourself first with individuals, with relationships, with loved ones. What else really matters? Don’t imagine yourself, regardless of who you are, busier than the Lord, who puts souls first above everything else.
The other night I was flying home from a distant conference. I had been away only three days, but as the flood lights of the airport loomed up, I welled up with anticipation and excitement. I felt as though I could have been a great hero returning from space—and what caused this excitement? I was going back to my family. Does it have to take flights away from home, a child leaving for college, or the death of a husband who will never again leave his hat in an awkward place to remind us how sweet are the moments with our loved ones and friends? How brief they are in the run of time? Does it take these things to stop us in our picking at trifling faults to realize the beauty of every minute together?
“When will we be there?” “How long will it take?” “How much longer, Dad, will it take?” are questions often asked by impatient children. “When will I arrive?”—a question asked by adults as they face the pressures of life. For all of us, let it not take a lifetime before we realize that we have been there all along, that life does not offer anything sweeter than the love of dear ones and the sharing of time together.
You remember what President Kimball said: “Prevention is far better than redemption.” God grant us the wisdom to know that life is a great journey, and may we have the sense to enjoy it. I bear witness to these truths in the holy name of Jesus Christ. Amen.