Gospel Story Finder

Teddy tried blowing on his shiny new whistle all the way home and all the way up the three flights of stairs to their apartment. But the only sound he heard was the barking of Winkles, Mr. Collier’s huge German shepherd.
“Hello,” Teddy’s mother greeted him at the door. “Winkles is certainly upset about something. Did you see a stranger in the hall?”
Teddy shrugged. “No, Mom. I didn’t see anyone.” Then he added in disgust, “Boy, is this ever a dumb whistle.”
“What’s wrong with it?” his mother asked.
“I spent all of my money at the school fair for this whistle, and all I got was a dud. It won’t even blow.”
Teddy went to his room and tossed his schoolbooks onto the bed. Holding the whistle up to the light, he tried to see if something was blocking the holes where the sound should come out. “It looks OK and just like an ordinary whistle, only it doesn’t work,” he said, shaking his head in puzzlement.
Teddy ran his fingers through his hair then tried the whistle again. Nothing! He stuffed the whistle into his pocket and went into the living room.
“Hear that barking?” Mom asked, shaking her head. “I wonder what’s gotten into Winkles?”
Teddy’s eyes brightened a little. Maybe he could play detective and find out why Winkles was barking! That sounded like a lot more fun than trying to blow on a whistle that wouldn’t work. “OK if I go over and see what’s going on?” he asked his mother.
“It’s fine with me. Just don’t stay too long.”
Teddy dashed out the door. He liked to visit Mr. Collier and Winkles anyway. Mr. Collier was a retired fireman who often wore faded blue overalls. Teddy wanted a pair just like them.
As soon as Teddy neared the door, Winkles gave a familiar woof. He’s the best watchdog in the whole building, Teddy thought.
“Who’s there?” came a deep voice from the other side of apartment 3C.
“Me, Teddy. I mean, Theodore,” Teddy said wrinkling his nose. Only Mr. Collier called him by his full name.
The door swung open and the huge dog bounded out, still barking and with his tail wagging wildly. Teddy knew that he had to let Winkles calm down before stepping into Mr. Collier’s apartment. Suddenly, the dog stopped and trotted back into the apartment. “He thinks it’s OK for me to come in now,” said Teddy.
Mr. Collier nodded his head in agreement and smiled. “Hello, Theodore. Nice to see you again.”
“Hi. Mom and I heard Winkles barking. I came to find out what’s wrong.”
Mr. Collier scratched his pointy chin. “Mmm, I can’t figure it out, Theodore. He starts barking all of a sudden and then quits.”
Teddy glanced at the huge dog that was now stretched out on the floor, panting and looking content.
“Doesn’t seem to be bothered by anything now,” Mr. Collier said. “But you don’t look happy, Theodore. Didn’t you have a good time at your school fair today?”
“The fair was fun, but I sure got cheated! I spent my money on a whistle that doesn’t even work!” Teddy told him.
“Doesn’t work?”
“That’s right. I blow it and nothing comes out but air.”
“Maybe I could fix that whistle for you. Why don’t you go back home and get it,” Mr. Collier suggested.
Teddy beamed. Mr. Collier could fix anything. “I’ve got it right here,” Teddy said as he pulled the shiny whistle from his pocket.
The old gentleman examined the whistle carefully and then asked, “Theodore, have you tried that whistle since you’ve been home?”
“A lot of times, and it just doesn’t work. Listen.” And Teddy blew it again as hard as he could.
Winkles suddenly pricked up his ears. His bright golden eyes were alert. Suddenly, he leaped up and began barking again. Teddy quickly took the whistle from his lips and gulped.
“All right, Winkles. Quiet, boy,” said Mr. Collier.
The barks became woofs and finally Winkles flopped to the floor again. Mr. Collier turned to Teddy. “Remember once when I told you that a dog’s hearing is more sensitive than a human’s?” he asked. “That’s why Winkles is such a terrific watchdog. He hears people and noises before we ever hear them. And it’s the same with your whistle. Winkles can hear it even if we don’t.”
“But it doesn’t work at all!” exclaimed Teddy.
“It works fine, Theodore. Only the pitch, the sound it makes, is higher than a human ear can pick up,” Mr. Collier explained.
“You mean Winkles has been barking because he hears the whistle?” Teddy asked, plopping down next to Winkles and stroking the dog’s head.
“That’s exactly right,” said Mr. Collier, chuckling.

After shopping for groceries, we drove to the pharmacy in Eureka, California—our last stop before heading home to Willow Creek, about an hour away. The pharmacy, however, was closed for lunch. While we waited, my daughter Shae asked if we could drive to Humboldt Bay.
The four of us, including my daughter Tess and her husband, Patrick, grabbed lunch, drove to the nearby bay, and stopped in the parking lot that runs parallel to the bay. That January day in 2021 was overcast and chilly. From our four-door pickup we watched a bird feeding, diving toward the bay and then rising again.
We’d been there less than five minutes and had barely begun to eat when we heard the whining of a speeding car engine. I remember thinking, “Who in their right mind is driving so fast with people all around?”
The road to the bay ran by the parking lot as it turned north. I didn’t locate the source of the engine noise until I saw a gray pickup sailing through the air toward the water. The pickup had missed the turn, sped over a sidewalk, smashed a light pole, and launched into the air. I watched the pickup sail over the shoreline and clear an old pier as it flew toward the water. It was like a scene out of a movie or TV show.
Without speaking a word, we threw open our pickup truck doors and jumped out, groceries spilling onto the parking lot asphalt. Then we ran to the water’s edge just after the pickup splashed hard into the bay. We were close enough to see that the pickup’s driver was staring blankly through the windshield.
As I watched him, I thought, “He’s not moving! He’s not going to get out of that pickup! Something is horribly wrong!”
I had a feeling that I needed to help the man, that I needed to “go and do” (1 Nephi 3:7)—now! The windows of the pickup were rolled up, so Tess and I looked in vain for a rock big enough to break the driver’s side car window. Then she and Patrick called 911 while Shae gathered up our groceries.
Growing up in Willow Creek, I had driven the curvy roads along the Trinity River every day. I had often thought about how scary it would be to go off the road and into the river. What would I do? How would I get out? I would not want to die that way, and I could not let the man in the pickup die that way.
Under normal circumstances, I would never have gone into the bay. But my only thought was, “The driver needs help, and I’m supposed to help him!”
For some reason, I had no fear. The next thing I knew, I was wading in the chilly water, still wearing my pants, shoes, and a pink sweatshirt.
I’m a big girl, and when I waded into the water, I heard someone say, “She’s going to have a heart attack!” I ignored him. After taking 10 steps, I began swimming toward the pickup, about 30 yards (27 m) away. When I reached it, the engine compartment was sinking, but the water was still below the door handle. I tried but could not open the door.
“Open the door or roll down the window!” I called to the driver. “Are you ready to get out of there?”
No response. He just stared straight out the windshield.
I kept talking until he finally turned his head toward me. He gave me a confused smile as if to say, “What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
As the pickup slowly sank, the man continued to sit motionless. My mind raced as I wondered how to open the door or the window. Suddenly and miraculously, the driver’s side window lowered—by itself! I have no idea how it came down, just as I then had no idea how to get the man out of the pickup. I thought about waiting for help, but I heard a loud gurgling sound as water rushed into the cab. I knew I couldn’t wait for help.
I quickly pulled myself up on the door, got halfway into the pickup, reached across the driver, and unbuckled his seat belt. I grabbed him and pulled with all my strength. I got him out of the window and held him up as water sucked the pickup down.
God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
I didn’t know how deep the water was, and I couldn’t see the sunken truck. But while treading water, I kicked the truck’s hood. I tried to stand on it but kept slipping off. On one of my unsuccessful attempts to stand, I found the truck’s antenna. I held on to it as I secured a foot against a windshield wiper.
Just then another swimmer arrived. A minute later, a boater who had seen the accident maneuvered his craft to us and threw us a rope. Pushing and pulling, the three of us got safely onto the boat. Later, when I took off my pink sweatshirt, Shae pointed out that I had somehow cut my arm from my elbow to my wrist.
I feel that my family was at Humboldt Bay that day to help that man. I don’t pretend to know God’s mind, but I believe that when bad things happen, He expects us to act. I also believe that God gives us experiences and puts us in positions to bless His children. I was raised by a mother who took us swimming and taught us about water currents. We learned to respect but not fear the water. Most important, we learned to help others in need.
We were where we were supposed to be that day—in the right place, at the right time. God knew our hearts, and He knew we would go and do what we could to help one of His children.
The author lives in California.
Editors’ note: Seven months after Hiedi helped rescue Eric Floyd, the driver of the pickup truck, he died of causes unrelated to the stroke he had suffered that day in January 2021. “I wept when I found out that he had died, but I was grateful that he had a little extra time after his accident to spend with his family,” said Sister Johnston, whom witnesses called the “Lady in Pink.” On March 7, 2021, Humboldt County supervisors presented her with the Carnegie Medal for her heroism.

The final blessing of the sealing is one that we never see in this life. On a recent fast Sunday, a sister named Sharon told of her little son, Paul. Paul had drowned in an irrigation ditch near their home, and Sharon told of how she and her husband, Max, had felt a sinking hopelessness almost to the point of despair. They had been childless for years; Paul had come only after several miscarriages and much prayer. From the beginning they felt his love and intelligence and his strong obedient personality. Paul’s presence in their family had been much sought; his death brought great suffering.

Three weeks after the tragedy, Sharon stood before her ward telling how she had responded to this test. Her eyes were dry, but those close to her knew that she was crying inside.

“Brothers and sisters, I want to thank you all for the help and support you have given us in these past few weeks. It has been very difficult—” she paused and looked down at the pulpit. When she began again her voice caught and she had to struggle to speak clearly. “But I want you to know that I know more than ever before that our Father in heaven loves me. It’s very special to us to know that little Paul has already attained the goal that Max and I have been working for all our lives. I’m just comforted to know that we have been sealed as a family by the holy priesthood. If we hadn’t been, all this would have been impossible to bear. But instead I know that if we’re worthy, we’ll be together again.”

It was my first and only Christmas in the Illinois Chicago (Spanish-speaking) Mission, and I saw that one of our investigators was alone and would have no presents. His name was Tito Portillo. He’d been a Catholic missionary in Mexico, and he was really struggling with accepting the Book of Mormon. We decided to give him a triple combination as a gift.
As we entered his home on Christmas Eve, there was a terrible feeling of loneliness. He was having a hard time being in the United States since his family was in Mexico. But when we gave him the gift, his whole attitude changed. He smiled and we knew he was grateful.
After only a few weeks, he was able to quote scriptures from the Book of Mormon, just as he did from the Bible. He was eventually baptized, and is now serving as a stake missionary, sharing the Book of Mormon with others.
I’m so fortunate to have been there to see the change the Book of Mormon made in his life. What a great gift to each of us from the Lord.
—Debra MaylinEagle, Idaho

Damián looked through his backpack to see that he had what he needed. Church clothes? Check. Shoes? Check. Book of Mormon? Check. He zipped up his backpack, put it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Mamá!” Damián called. “I’m going to Abuela and Abuelo’s!”
Mamá was folding towels. “Be sure to help your grandparents.” She stopped to give Damián a big hug. “I know you like to go to church with them. Have a nice time tomorrow.”
“I will!” said Damián. But I wish you would come with me, he thought.
Damián walked to the bus stop. Every Saturday, he took the bus across his town in Ecuador to Abuela and Abuelo’s house. He stayed the night with them. Then he went to church with them the next day.
On Sunday morning, Damián got dressed for church. He buttoned his shirt. He put on his shoes. Then he walked to church with Abuela and Abuelo.
Damián liked church. He liked to sing the songs and take the sacrament. He liked to see his friends too. But he wished the rest of his family was with him.
That afternoon, Damián, Abuela, and Abuelo walked over to Brother and Sister Ruiz’s house. They were going to have home evening together. Abuela brought a dish of flan for dessert.
The lesson was about Jesus. Damián colored a picture of Jesus while he listened to the lesson. “Jesus understands everything we feel,” Brother Ruiz said. “Even when we feel sad.”
Damián looked at his picture of Jesus. It made him happy that Jesus knew how he felt.
After the closing prayer, Abuela said, “I brought flan. Who wants some?”
“Me!” Damián said. The creamy, sweet dessert was Damián’s favorite! And Abuela made the best flan.
After home evening, Abuela walked with Damián to the bus stop so he could go home. Damián looked down at the ground.
“Is something wrong?” Abuela asked.
Damián frowned. “I wish the rest of my family came to church with us.”
“Me too,” Abuela said. She gave Damián a hug. “But your family loves you very much. And so do Abuelo and I and many others!”
The bus pulled up. Damián sat by the window and waved to Abuela as the bus drove away.
Damián thought about what Abuela had said. He thought about Mamá and his brother and sister. He knew they loved him so much. Then he thought about his Primary teacher. And the Ruiz family. And Abuela and Abuelo. They all loved him too.
Most of all, Damián knew Heavenly Father and Jesus loved him. And that made him feel not so lonely anymore

“That was excellent! You are certainly ready for the recital, Gideon,” said Mrs. Allen, Gideon’s violin teacher.
Gideon smiled. He enjoyed playing his violin. After he put away his instrument, he looked through Mrs. Allen’s collection of stickers.
“I think I’ll take this shiny one,” he said, holding up a “Happy Birthday” sticker for Mrs. Allen to see.
“That’s right! It’s almost your birthday, isn’t it?” Mrs. Allen asked.
“Yes, and not just any birthday. This one is extra special,” Gideon said. He stuck his new sticker on the cover of his music book. “I’m going to be eight years old, and you know what that means?”
“No, I don’t know what it means.” Mrs. Allen looked confused.
“It means that I can be baptized,” Gideon said.
“Oh, you weren’t baptized as a baby?” Mrs. Allen asked.
“No. In our church we are baptized when we turn eight. That’s when we know right and wrong and can choose between them,” Gideon explained.
“I guess that makes sense,” Mrs. Allen said. “I never thought of it that way.”
“I have an idea!” Gideon said. “Why don’t you come to my baptism and then you can see what I mean?”
Mrs. Allen was interested, so Gideon told her when and where he would be baptized.
On the day of his baptism, Gideon and Dad dressed in white pants and shirts. Gideon smiled as his mom took pictures. Then he saw Mrs. Allen and went to greet her. “I’m glad you could come,” he said.
“I’m happy to be here,” she said. She shook hands with Mom and Dad. They sat together while Brother Roberts conducted the meeting.
As Gideon sang and listened to the talk on baptism, he paid close attention to the words. He hoped Mrs. Allen would understand why he was being baptized at age eight.
Then it was time to be baptized. He went down into the font with Dad, listened carefully to the words of the baptismal prayer, and bent his knees to go under the water. When he came up, he wiped water from his eyes and smiled at Mom and Mrs. Allen.
He and Dad changed their clothes and slipped quietly into the row beside Mom and Mrs. Allen. They were watching “The Touch of the Master’s Hand” from the Family Home Evening video. It was about a violin that gets damaged, but then is repaired by the man who made it. Gideon noticed Mrs. Allen wiping her eyes as she listened to the poem and watched the master play the old violin.
After the video someone spoke on the gift of the Holy Ghost. Then Dad confirmed Gideon.
“Did you like my baptism?” Gideon asked Mrs. Allen following the closing prayer.
“It was wonderful!” Mrs. Allen said. “Now I understand why your church waits until age eight to baptize children.” She smiled. “I liked the video too, but it was awful watching that beautiful violin get damaged!”
“I know,” Gideon said. “But I’m glad it was fixed in the end. It’s kind of like repentance. I’m clean now, but when I make mistakes I can be fixed, just like that violin.”
Mrs. Allen laughed. “What a good way to think of it. I’ll remember that every time I play my violin.”

The young boy learned that through the love of the Lord Jesus Christ, it is possible to find peace even in a world filled with turmoil and wickedness. By 1912 the colonists found themselves in the middle of a revolution. Young Marion was worried about the troops pursuing each other through the countryside, taking supplies from the colonists—and he was terrified when shooting began just sixteen kilometers from his home.
But his terror was lessened as he listened to his mother sing hymns of faith and testimony as lullabies to her children. “The words of the songs she sang comforted me. Some of them have been ringing in my mind through all the years of the intervening two-thirds of a century.” (Ensign, July 1981, pp. 3–4.)

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.

The Norwich England Stake decided to depart from their usual routine for their annual youth conference. After their Saturday activity, the youth came back to the Lowestoft Ward meetinghouse to find that some of their leaders had organized a “quilt factory” and chosen some team leaders and a factory manager from among the youth. Stations were set up for cutting, pinning, sewing, and tying, and dinner was served in shifts. After watching a Church-produced video about humanitarian aid, the youth got to work.

Their goal was to make 100 quilts from scratch. Three and a half hours later, they had completed 106 quilts, ready to be donated. The Norwich youth had a great time and felt the Spirit as they partook of the atmosphere of service at their youth conference.

It wasn’t until after my first business venture broke down and my second one burned to the ground that I wondered if I would be able to take my fiancée, Beny, to the temple. We had heard that getting there would be a trial of faith, but when we made temple marriage our goal, we had no idea how thoroughly our faith would be tested.
Beny and I met in our native Panama after serving missions. At the time, couples in Panama who wanted to start their married lives in the temple were married civilly just before traveling to the nearest temple, the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. It would be an expensive and difficult trip, but being sealed was a blessing we did not want to live without.
The day after I proposed, I lost my job. Undaunted, I decided to earn money by giving bus tours. My bus broke down the first night. Concerned but determined, I next decided to sell T-shirts. The morning I went to pick up the shirts from the manufacturer, I found that the building had burned to the ground the night before. It seemed that my hopes had gone up in smoke too.
It was only a few months before the next scheduled temple trip, yet to this point, every effort I had made to raise money had ended in abrupt failure. I left the smoldering rubble and went to find Beny.
“I have nothing,” I told her. “Maybe you shouldn’t marry me.”
“If I were marrying for money, I’d be married already,” she said. “But I’m not marrying for money. I’m marrying you because I love you.”
That was a turning point. We felt that we had passed an important test. As we pushed ahead with faith, doors began opening. I found work making furniture, though the pay wasn’t enough to meet our needs. Then a kind bishop offered to help us with our bus fare. As exciting as his offer was, it didn’t feel right. We were intent on being self-sufficient. But seeing that he truly desired to help, we asked him if he could give Beny a job instead. He did.
After earning enough money to travel to the temple, we married civilly and were at last on our way to Guatemala with 10 other Church members. But our test wasn’t over yet.
Widespread transportation strikes stopped us at the border of Costa Rica. After waiting at the border for two days, our driver decided to turn back. But Beny and I, along with two brothers and one other couple, decided not to give up. After watching our bus turn around and leave us, we walked into Costa Rica. We kept walking, sleeping in roadside shelters, until we reached the Nicaraguan border. From there we managed to take a taxi to the capital city, where we purchased a bus ticket to the Honduran border. Two days—and two more buses—later we finally arrived at the temple. We were happy, but we were dirty and tired, and we had spent far more than we had planned.
After cleaning up, Beny and I realized that we were missing our living-ordinance recommends! What made matters worse, our bishop in Panama was scheduled to leave that same day on a business trip. We were brokenhearted. Had we passed through all of our trials for nothing? We ironed Beny’s wedding dress and trusted that if the Lord had helped us get that far, He would see us through to the end.
Though we expected our bishop to be gone, we decided to call him anyway. To our surprise, he had not taken his business trip after all. He said he felt that he should stay home instead. We were thrilled! He promised to fax the needed paperwork as soon as he could get to a fax machine.
We waited and waited, all the while praying in the temple’s marriage waiting room. It was Saturday, and in two hours the temple would close until Monday. What could be taking so long? At last the fax arrived, with an apology from the bishop: the power had gone out just as he was preparing to send the fax.
Finally, after all our trials and delays, we were sealed eternally as husband and wife. Our joy—worth the working, the waiting, and the worrying—was full!
Not everyone getting married in the temple will face such challenges, but for Beny and me (and the others who went to the temple with us), these experiences were a refining process. Three of the four brethren who made it to the temple on that trip were later called as bishops. Two are currently serving as counselors in stake presidencies. We’ve all been so blessed. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
If our goal to marry in the temple had been only for worldly love, we wouldn’t have made it. But because we believed in the sealing power of the priesthood restored in our day, we didn’t give up, knowing that our temple marriage—for time and all eternity—was worth whatever sacrifice we had to make.

All the youth, no matter what parts they played in other portions of the film, were in the scene in which Mosiah’s sons leave to go on missions. The sons walk through the crowd hugging their friends and family as they prepare for missionary work.
“I’ve had two brothers go on missions,” says Stacey Elder. “And so when we were doing that scene, I was thinking about how exciting it is to see someone go do the Lord’s work.”

This story happened in Canada.
“Mamá, guess what?” Ana’s older sister, Mila, said. She held up her report card from school. “I have As in all my classes!”
Ana rolled her eyes. Why did Mila always have to be so perfect?
“That’s great,” Mamá said. “I’m proud of you.” She turned to Ana. “And how are your grades?”
Ana handed Mamá her report card. “They’re fine,” Ana said, looking down. Ana tried hard in school. But she didn’t have perfect grades like Mila did.
“I’m proud of you too,” Mamá said. She gave Ana a hug.
She’s just saying that to make me feel better, Ana thought. Mila had always been smarter than her.
But Mila wasn’t just better at school than Ana. She was better at everything. She had more friends. She had prettier hair. She was better at sports. Everyone loved Mila.
Ana’s parents tried to help.
“You are so important, Ana,” Papi would say.
“You are beautiful and smart,” Mamá would say.
But Ana didn’t feel important or beautiful or smart. Not compared to Mila.
One day Ana and Mila were playing a board game. “Looks like you won again,” Ana groaned.
“Want to play something else?” Mila asked. “We could go outside. I bet you’ll beat me at soccer!”
“No!” Ana snapped. “I’m tired of losing, and I’m tired of you always being better than me.” She felt like there was hot water boiling inside her.
Mila’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry—”
Ana turned and ran to her room before Mila could finish. “I’ll never be perfect like you!” she said, and slammed the door.
Ana lay on her bed with her face in her pillow. She felt so angry!
She huffed some deep breaths. When she was calm, Ana knelt to say a prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she said, “please help me. I’m always jealous of Mila.” Her voice got quiet. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough. Do You really love me?”
A warm feeling spread from Ana’s head down to her toes. Then she had a thought. Heavenly Father loved people because they were His children. Not because they were the best. Maybe Ana didn’t have to be better than anyone else to be loved. She was loved right now.
Ana stayed on her knees. She didn’t want the good feeling to go away. Heavenly Father did love her—a lot.
Then there was a gentle knock at the door. It was Mamá. She sat on the bed next to Ana. “I heard you were upset.”
Ana nodded. “Yeah. I feel better now though. I know I shouldn’t be angry at Mila for getting good grades or winning. And I said a prayer, which helped a lot.”
Mamá put her arm around Ana. “How did you feel when you prayed?”
“Good,” Ana said. “I felt like I was really important to Heavenly Father.”
Mamá pulled Ana close. “You’ve always been really important—to Heavenly Father and to us. But I’m glad that you know that now.”
“Me too. I’m going to tell Mila I’m sorry for yelling at her.” Ana smiled. “And ask if she wants to play soccer!”
Illustrations by Marina Martin

After he had served as a missionary in Tahiti for a year, the basketball federation asked if he could return to the team for just one month to participate in the games.
Bleck’s mission president, concerned about the effect the experience would have on Bleck’s ability to return and serve, felt inspired to tell him, “You can leave if you want, but you can’t come back.”
Bleck wanted that medal, but he no longer wanted it more than anything else. His mission had been amazing. He wasn’t willing to give up his last year, even for basketball.
Bleck stayed.
The team won gold.
After Bleck honorably completed his mission, he married Myranda in the Papeete Tahiti Temple, and they began a family. He also resumed playing for the national team.

I was young and inexperienced, so the impressions made by this unusual incident were especially deep. I was assigned as a missionary to a little-known island in the South Pacific in 1955. Coming from America, my first impressions were two—the natural beauty of these islands and the apparent poverty of the people.
Slowly I began to learn the native language, adjust to the native food, and fit into the unhurried pace of living. The heat seemed at times unbearable and the mosquitoes vicious, as though they preferred the taste of hinehina (white) blood.
As I became more acquainted with the islanders and their language, food, and customs, I became more fully aware of the real poverty (in relative terms) in which they lived. It seemed irreconcilable. Why should we have so much in America and they have so little here? I could not at that time perceive the great spiritual blessings they had.
One day gave way to another with little change in the village routine. It would rain fiercely and then the sun would shine just as intensely. The diet of fish and breadfruit was almost unchanged from day to day. The oneness and the unity of the sun and the sea, the lagoon, and the soft laughter of those beautiful brown-skinned people seemed to melt into a covering of quiet and peace.
Then one day excitement and change arrived! A strange boat was working its way into the harbor. Hurrah for something different! The whole island was soon down on the seashore looking at one of the most beautiful sailing yachts I have ever seen.
Quietly, as if in slow motion, a crewman threw an anchor into the waiting lagoon. It did not appear even to make a splash, as though to refrain from disturbing the beauty of the setting. It was nearly dusk. The light from the setting sun silhouetted that sleek shape, its sails furled against the backdrop of deep blue waters and emerald green islands. Golden shafts of color painted all around in unbelievably vivid hues, as though framing the whole picture for eternity.
Silently the crew rolled out deep red carpets on the freshly scrubbed deck, and then the master emerged in his crisp white “tropics” to survey the situation. By now there were canoes all around as curious islanders naturally wanted to be a part of this experience, this change.
My assignment was to a little flock of about 50 Church members, most of whom were caught up in the excitement. They soon brought back reports, and even though I was young and inexperienced, it did not take very long to realize what was happening.
The man was a millionaire from overseas, cruising the world. He wanted to trade for food and water, and he wanted girls. There was liquor on board and a real swinging time for those who would accept his invitation.
I counseled my little flock to stay away. Most did, but some did not. The wealthy adventurer stayed for a few days until he filled his wants. Then he announced he would leave before noon the following day. Some of the faithful members pleaded, “Could we not go out just before he leaves, just to see the boat?” I agreed that at 10:00 the next morning we would briefly look at the yacht.
When we got there, it was even more magnificent than I had pictured. Evidence of the previous night’s activities was still being cleared away, and preparations were being made to raise anchor and take sail. We spent a few moments in wonder and awe, astonished at the beauty of the deep mahogany paneling, the rich bronze fittings, the lustre of the freshly painted surfaces, and the gleaming white of the hull as it lapped quietly at the deep blue lagoon.
The owner, nearly sober, waved good-bye, and we returned to shore. As we pulled the dugout canoe onto the sandy beach, I turned again to see the white form move toward the horizon. I thought of the millionaire in his white “tropics,” having had his fill, comfortable with his well-stocked cupboards and expert crew, with his money and his power. He seemed to have everything he wanted.
Then I looked at the men who had brought me to shore: no shoes, shirts of rags, tattered valas tied with coconut sennit around their waists. I looked past them to the village. I saw the smoke from the morning’s cooking twisting lazily into the air, heard the monotonous sound of tapa being beaten, and felt the heaviness of the overhead sun as it filtered through the palm trees. I watched the men slowly walk to their gardens and heard the laughter of naked children as they chased the scrawny dogs.
Suddenly the oppressiveness of island life with so little opportunity for change struck me as being grossly unfair. I turned again to gaze at the yacht, now receding into the distance. The contrast was so great as to be almost unbelievable. My heart cried out, “Unfair! Unfair! These poor people—look at them—and you—look at you!”
I returned to the group, and we trudged up the shore to the village. Then one of the older men turned to me and said softly in his native tongue, “I am very sad. I feel very sorry.”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I am very sad, and I feel very sorry too. It just isn’t fair, is it?”
“No,” he continued, “it really isn’t fair. I feel so sorry for him, for he will never be happy.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You, you feel sorry for him? He won’t be happy? What are you talking about?”
My mind was groping to come to a sense of reality of what was being said. This man with nothing saying he was sorry for that man with everything! My immature mind was spinning, trying to interpret words, feelings, and relationships.
But he continued: “I feel so sorry for him. He will never be happy for he seeks only for his own pleasure, not to help others. Yet we know that happiness comes from helping others. All he will do is sail around the world seeking happiness, hoping others will bring happiness to him. But they cannot. He will never find it for he has not learned to help others. He has too much money, too many luxuries. Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”
I looked at the wrinkled brown body of the old man. His teeth were gone, his hair was white, and his skin was leather; but his eyes were soft, his voice quiet, and his countenance immaculate.
I can never forget his powerful words: “I feel sorry for him. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”
Years have passed, but occasionally, as I see proud people closed up in their sleek new cars or sense my own temporary unwillingness to help others, I close my eyes and see a beautiful yacht moving toward the horizon and turn and see an old man with a wrinkled brown body, white hair, and skin of leather and listen as his soft eyes penetrate mine and his toothless mouth moves and his spirit explains: “I feel very sorry. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”

When my dad was young, Grandpa taught his family to memorize songs while they drove on long road trips. Grandpa’s favorite hymn was “I Stand All Amazed.”
That would be the opening hymn the wintry day my family filed into the funeral chapel behind Grandpa’s casket. Unlike my dad’s family, I have a hard time singing. I don’t memorize lyrics easily, and if I can’t read the notes, my weak alto voice struggles to stay on key.
I took my seat behind the podium because I would be giving the eulogy after the hymn and prayer. As the music began, I looked around, dismayed to realize there were no hymnbooks nearby. I wouldn’t be able to sing Grandpa’s favorite song as we honored him. This small setback seemed to add to my loss, and I worried I might get too emotional to speak.
Timidly I sang the first phrase, certain I couldn’t remember the rest: “I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me.” Then the words and notes started flowing into my mind. I sang all three verses without stumbling or going off-key. As the hymn concluded, I felt the Savior’s love—and my Grandpa’s. I delivered Grandpa’s eulogy, calmed by the Spirit and grateful for the gift I’d just been given.
Though I’ve needed a hymnbook to sing “I Stand All Amazed” ever since, I’m always grateful when I can sing it. My grandpa’s favorite hymn reminds me of the love existing for us beyond the veil.

A young friend named Emily discovered this for herself. Emily did not yet have a testimony of the gospel and was contemplating whether to remain active in the Church or try to find happiness elsewhere. As she searched for answers, she began to notice that the people and families around her who were the happiest were the ones who were active in the Church. After that discovery, she determined that even if she didn’t yet have a complete testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, she wanted to be part of something that helped people to be so happy. The word gospel means “good news,” and, as Emily discovered, the good news is that the gospel can make us very happy.

When the Kaysville Utah East Stake youth committee decided to stage a musical in honor of the Bicentennial, they didn’t expect the play’s nonmember author to fly from New York for the production. But nothing could have given them any more cause for enthusiasm and potential stage fright.
The young people voted to put on Tall Tom Jefferson, complete with youth orchestra. After writing to request the musical score, they were told there was no complete orchestration available to them. One of the adult leaders decided to call the New York publishing company. She soon found out she was talking to the play’s author, Ruth Roberts. Mrs. Roberts was told the production would be staged by a Church group, and her interest in Mormons and Utah increased. Of course, she was invited to attend the Kaysville performances and see Utah. Mrs. Roberts offered to lend the group the score used by a professional orchestra in England, but added she thought the arrangement much too difficult for high school-age players.
Within days, over 1,000 pages of music—23 pounds—reached Kaysville, and with them came a letter from Mrs. Roberts accepting the group’s invitation to attend their production. The young people would get the opportunity to show her their acting and musical finesse.
Meanwhile the cast was getting ready to introduce Jefferson and his friends to their friends. With more than 150 cast members, making the costumes kept wives, mothers, and sisters busy with their needles. The chorus found the orchestration and choral books to be in different keys with syncopated tempos. A major transposition overhaul put the two in step with each other and the cast.
On opening night Mrs. Roberts was there; and the local high school gym was full of hoop skirts, three-corner hats, waistcoats, and frilly petticoats, along with anxious moms and dads and restless little brothers. But it didn’t take very long before everyone settled down to enjoy an evening of early American history a lot less painful than anyone could recall it ever having been before.

In family home evening we studied the 13th article of faith. We learned that “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” Then we talked about the kinds of movies and television shows we watch. We decided that our family would not watch movies rated R or PG-13. Then a movie came out that I really wanted to see. I had seen the first three movies in the series, but I told my mom that we shouldn’t see the fourth because it was rated PG-13. She said it would be my choice. Even though I really wanted to see it, I decided that I wouldn’t. I felt that it might not be “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy.”

As the Church quickly became central to Frederick and Rebecca’s lives, the impact on their family was immediate. Frederick was ordained an elder right after his baptism and confirmation. The very next day, he enthusiastically accepted an assignment to leave within a few weeks to serve a mission with Oliver Cowdery. They anticipated the mission would last three weeks; in reality it became a 10-month trip to Missouri. His long absence from home was the first of many such periods for Rebecca. Because of Frederick’s missionary efforts and his calling into the First Presidency, he was frequently away. Rebecca, like many early Mormon women, spent long months tending their home and raising their children without the help of her husband.

Not long after we were married, we built our first home. We had very little money. I did much of the work myself. It would be called “sweat equity” today. The landscaping was entirely my responsibility. The first of many trees that I planted was a thornless honey locust. Envisioning the day when its filtered shade would assist in cooling the house in the summertime, I put it in a place at the corner where the wind from the canyon to the east blew the hardest. I dug a hole, put in the bare root, put soil around it, poured on water, and largely forgot it. It was only a wisp of a tree, perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It was so supple that I could bend it with ease in any direction. I paid little attention to it as the years passed.
Then one winter day, when the tree was barren of leaves, I chanced to look out the window at it. I noticed that it was leaning to the west, misshapen and out of balance. I could scarcely believe it. I went out and braced myself against it as if to push it upright. But the trunk was now nearly a foot in diameter. My strength was as nothing against it. I took from my toolshed a block and tackle. Attaching one end to the tree and another to a well-set post, I pulled the rope. The pulleys moved a little, and the trunk of the tree trembled slightly. But that was all. It seemed to say, “You can’t straighten me. It’s too late. I’ve grown this way because of your neglect, and I will not bend.”
Finally in desperation I took my saw and cut off the great heavy branch on the west side. The saw left an ugly scar, more than eight inches across. I stepped back and surveyed what I had done. I had cut off the major part of the tree, leaving only one branch growing skyward.
More than half a century has passed since I planted that tree. My daughter and her family live there now. The other day I looked again at the tree. It is large. Its shape is better. It is a great asset to the home. But how serious was the trauma of its youth and how brutal the treatment I used to straighten it.
When it was first planted, a piece of string would have held it in place against the forces of the wind. I could have and should have supplied that string with ever so little effort. But I did not, and it bent to the forces that came against it.