Gospel Story Finder

Alice watched the new girl walk out on the playground all alone. She tried to remember what the teacher said her name was. Marisol—that was it.
Alice’s friend Cassie ran up beside her. “Hey, are you coming to play tag?” Cassie asked.
Alice glanced at Marisol. “Cassie, should we invite the new girl to play with us?”
Cassie whispered, “I don’t know. But anyway, be quiet. She’ll hear you talking about her.”
“No, she won’t. Don’t you remember when Mrs. Johnson introduced her? Marisol only speaks Spanish,” Alice said. “Her family just moved here from Mexico.”
“How would we play with her if we can’t even talk to her?” Cassie asked. “Come on, they probably started tag without us.”
Alice didn’t move. Jesus would find a way to be kind if He were here, she thought. She took a deep breath. “Marisol!” she called and ran over to join her. Marisol’s face broke into a big grin.
While they played tag, Alice, Cassie, and Marisol found out they could talk to each other using motions and facial expressions. Marisol also knew some English words, like no, yes, go, and stop. Alice could tell Marisol was having fun because she laughed a lot when they played at recess and smiled whenever the girls tried to tell her something new.
But Alice wanted to do more to show Marisol they were friends. She started praying about what she could do. One night Alice remembered that her dad spoke Spanish. She ran downstairs and asked him how to say a few sentences. She practiced that night and the next morning until she could say the words perfectly.
Alice waited until recess was almost over to say what she’d practiced. “Marisol, ¿quires ser mi amiga?” Want to be my friend? She hoped she’d said it right.
Marisol’s face lit up in a big grin. “Sí, sí!” Yes.
Alice smiled back at her new friend. “Muy bien,” she said. “Yo también.” Good! Me too.
Marisol clapped her hands. “Sí. Muy bien.” She suddenly looked nervous. “Ahora yo,” she said. Now me. “New game?” Marisol asked with a shy smile. She pointed to herself, then pointed to Alice.
“Sí! Sí!” Alice said. For the last bit of recess, Marisol showed them a game she played in Mexico. It was kind of like hide-and-seek. Every day after that, Cassie, Alice, and Marisol played tag or games Marisol taught them. Marisol knew lots of fun games.
But a few weeks later, Marisol didn’t come to school. “She must be sick,” Cassie said.
Marisol was gone the next two days. When the rest of the class left for recess, Alice and Cassie stayed behind to ask Mrs. Johnson where their friend was.
“Oh, I forgot to announce it to the class. I’m sorry, girls, but Marisol moved. Her dad got a new job, and her family had to leave.”
Alice sank down into a chair. “But … she just got here!” Alice couldn’t believe Marisol was gone. Cassie shook her head and looked like she might cry.
Mrs. Johnson looked sad too. “Marisol wasn’t here for long, but you were her friends while she was here. That’s what counts.”
Cassie smiled a little. “I’ll remember her for a long time. I hope she remembers us.”
“I’m sure she will,” Mrs. Johnson said.
Alice and Cassie left the classroom and walked out to the playground.
“I’m glad we were friends with Marisol—even if she wasn’t here very long,” Cassie said.
“Yo también, Cassie,” Alice said. Me too.

Let me give you a personal example that probably won’t mean much to you, but it does to me because it was my life. Following my undergraduate years and one year of graduate work, earning a master’s degree at BYU, I taught for two or three years trying to save up enough money for further graduate work. I was married and we had our first child, so I knew that even with a fellowship it would be tight. During the summers of those teaching years, I took courses at local universities, filling in some gaps in my undergraduate education and strengthening my preparation for the graduate field I had chosen.

One summer in Seattle I was taking a class that was particularly demanding. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic over the teacher, and the material he used in the course seemed uneven and often unwisely chosen. But I jumped in and tried to ride the waves as best I could.

Just as a major midterm paper was coming due, my parents called and said they were coming to visit us. That was, of course, wonderful news. We needed a shot in the arm from our parents just as you do from yours. They had never been to the Northwest, and we wanted to show them everything. However, time was going to be a bit of a problem. I was teaching a full summer schedule and taking this class on the side. And like the iceberg and the Titanic in Thomas Hardy’s poem, my parents and this paper converged upon me at exactly the same moment. Now there’s no sense even discussing which option was most attractive to me. We had not seen my parents in more than eighteen months, and I’ve already told you how I felt about the class. Furthermore, the class was an optional thing I was doing. After all, this wasn’t the university at which I would be doing my graduate work, and certainly no one but I cared whether I did well in the class or not.

Well, as fate would have it, my parents arrived on a Friday, and my paper was due the next Monday. I had had the good sense to go to work on it reasonably early, so it wasn’t as though I had to do it all over one weekend. (I had tried that at BYU and found that it didn’t work very well.) So I had the paper virtually complete, except for one thing. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. I had to work more on it.

We set everything aside that Friday night and had a great time. My wife made tacos and enchiladas, the art for which my father said he would have banned me from the house had I not married her. We laughed and talked and had great fun. And then I had a decision to make. It was a kind of a missionary decision, if you will.

Saturday was a natural day to get up early, drive a couple of hours into British Columbia, meander back down the coast along the Puget Sound, and end up at the Seattle Center to enjoy all the remnants of the World’s Fair. That would leave Sunday for my duties as a bishop and then most of Monday to visit some other spots before they left Tuesday to see my brother in California. That just posed one problem. My paper.

Now I ask you to remember that this was not life-and-death, or at least it did not seem so to me. For all intents and purposes, I could have caved in on the course, and no one would have cared. But that somehow did not seem right to me. I was plagued, if you will, with “missionary feelings.” So I made a deal with my parents. If they would do all that I had outlined for Saturday with my wife, Pat, and our son, Matt, who was then two, but minus me, I would have my paper completely finished for the rest of their stay plus the promise of barbecued steak, tossed green salad, garlic bread and baked potatoes by the time they got back. With one proviso, of course—that my Dad leave me enough money to buy the steak.

Well, they were disappointed, and so was I, but it seemed the best thing to do. So they played and I worked. I wrote and rewrote and shouted and tore up papers and punched the typewriter and rewrote. It didn’t go as smoothly as I had hoped, but it went. I finally got it into what seemed reasonably acceptable shape and then threw myself (figuratively, of course) into the tossed green salad. Dad had left a dollar or two, Pat had found some steaks at the store, and I had started the coals on the grill, using part of the fury I was feeling over a paragraph that wouldn’t work. But the paper was finished and the food was on the table when they returned.

Now that isn’t much of a story except that it has made a great deal of difference in my life. When I got that paper back from a teacher I didn’t like much in a course I didn’t particularly enjoy, the professor had written just five words. I think it was all he had said to me during the entire term. “Publishable paper. See me sometime.” Well, the aftermath doesn’t really matter either except to say that this professor turned out to be, by sheer coincidence I suppose, a very close friend of a faculty member in my intended department at Yale. And then one thing led to another, and he wrote a note, saying, in effect, “You may want to consider this chap even if you haven’t heard of St. George, Utah.” There were other contacts along the way and other blessings that came, but my point is, again, sort of a missionary point. With that paper that summer in a remote setting—remote at least in terms of my ultimate plans—it made all the difference in the world for me to tract just one more door before calling it a day. To have done otherwise certainly would have been understandable and certainly would have been more enjoyable. But it has made a wonderful difference in my life to have demanded just a bit more of myself on that occasion.

The task of really loving people hasn’t been tried very often in the world of international relations, and it’s rare even in the world of national affairs. But at least one very notable experience comes to mind.

Mahatma Gandhi was the man who led India to independence. Gandhi began to realize that turning the other cheek and doing good for hateful deeds would unloose great powers for his people. One Moslem man came to him, very upset. His son had been killed by the Hindus; in retaliation he had taken the life of a small Hindu boy. Heavy-hearted, he sought relief from Gandhi. And Gandhi told him he could find comfort if he would find an orphaned Hindu boy and raise him as his own—only he was to raise him as a Hindu, not as a Moslem.

There is a sacrificing in love, a sacrificing that brings immortality. Gandhi suffered a great deal, but ultimately millions of people were granted more freedom. Only the assassin’s bullet cut his life short. One wonders what he might have contributed further to the development of the new nation had he lived.

When Jane was a tiny baby, she had a soft pink blanket. When she became old enough to sit in a playpen, she kept her pink blanket with her. And when Jane grew old enough to have a big bed, she took her “bata” with her to bed. Something happened to Jane’s blanket; it became smaller and smaller and had holes in it. Finally there wasn’t even one thread of the blanket left, but by then Jane didn’t need her blanket anymore.

Riches were not a part of my childhood. We were a family of five: my father and four siblings. My mother had passed away when I was five years old. My father’s meager income was used to buy our food; the purchase of clothing was put off as long as possible.
One day, somewhat bothered, I came up to my father and said, “Daddy, why don’t you buy me some shoes? Look at these; they’re worn out, and you can see my big toe through the hole in the shoe.”
“We’ll fix that up,” he replied and, with some black polish, gave a shine to my shoes. Later on he told me, “Son, it’s fixed up.”
“No,” I answered, “you can still see my big toe.”
“That can also be fixed,” he told me. He again took the polish and put some on my toe, and before long it shined like my shoes. So it was early on in life I learned that happiness does not depend on money.

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.
As I address you valiant young men, your fathers, teachers, leaders, and friends, I pay tribute to all who are diligently striving to become what the Lord needs and wants you to be. But I testify from my own experience as a boy and as a man that disregarding what we know to be right, whether through laziness or rebelliousness, always brings undesirable and spiritually damaging consequences. No, the scorpion did not in the end threaten my life, but it caused extreme pain and distress to both me and my parents. When it comes to how we live the gospel, we must not respond with laziness or rebelliousness.

Several years ago, I attended a work seminar, and I noticed that some of the seminar leaders would fold their arms and bow their heads before eating lunch. These people are usually so nice, I thought to myself. Why are they in such a bad mood whenever they sit down to eat?
I quickly learned that they were praying—not sulking—and I couldn’t help but ask more questions about their faith. They were overwhelmingly kind and had such a unique spirit about them, and I yearned to know more. I learned that they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we quickly accepted their invitation to attend church with them.
Due to his autism, my younger son was afraid of being in large groups and meeting new people, but the ward welcomed us with open arms and did everything they could to accommodate our needs. The members set aside a special room at the back of the chapel just for my son, and they fulfilled our request to avoid making eye contact with him until he felt more at ease. Even when one of my children would disrupt sacrament meeting, we were treated with the utmost respect and kindness.
I saw my sons unfold in the warmth of the ward’s embrace. They quickly made new friends, and my sons even started to attend Primary classes on days that I was unable to attend church.
We were eventually baptized, a memory that still brings tears to my eyes. At the baptismal service, the ward members—understanding my children’s fear of crowds—tiptoed into the back of the room after the boys had been seated to avoid frightening them. Afterward, we were offered a mountain of congratulatory sweets, and the love in the room was so palpable that my sons remarked, “I want to be baptized again!”
I have nothing but gratitude in my heart when I think about the deep love demonstrated by the members in our ward—a love that ultimately allowed us to find the light of the gospel. The ward perfectly encapsulated what it means to have our “hearts knit together in unity and in love one towards another” (Mosiah 18:21). My family was truly blessed by the kindness of these welcoming Latter-day Saints.
It’s now been two years since my sons and I were baptized. Both of my sons have been ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood, and I’ve seen an incredible change in their demeanors.
I’m grateful for the many caring individuals who accepted my family and who helped my sons overcome their fears through the power of love. I’m grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ, through which even the deepest wounds of prejudice can be healed. And above all, I’m grateful for a loving Heavenly Father, who prepared a way for my family to find peace and belonging, even when I couldn’t see what that path would be.
I’ve learned that as we make room for our differences, we make room for greater love. Each of us is a beloved child of heavenly parents, and as we remember this truth, we can all—no matter where we are or who we are—become one in Christ (see Doctrine and Covenants 38:27).

We have lived in Park City, Utah, for over 20 years. Park City was the site of the 2002 Winter Olympics and is home to three world-class ski resorts. It’s a big time ski town. My favorite area is Deer Valley. On a powder day I know where to go to find first tracks in untouched snow. But when we were new to town I had to learn my way around the mountain.
I remember the first time I skied one particular run called The Ruins of Pompeii. It’s a double black diamond. It starts off steep and then in the middle it has an even steeper section. My first time down I wasn’t sure what was ahead so I was skiing carefully. When I came to the steep section I stopped to catch my breath and look down the slope to pick out my line. While I was standing there looking over the run, I heard another skier approaching. He was obviously a good skier and was skiing fast. When he came to the steep section he let out a whoop, caught a little air and went over the edge. I watched him do some nice turns and then ski out of sight. I was impressed.
I pushed off and carefully navigated the steep section with five or six turns. Then I stopped again and looked back up the slope. I was surprised at how much easier it looked from the bottom, especially now that I had completed it. Pleased with myself I completed the run and jumped on the lift.
Returning to the Ruins of Pompeii again I skied the upper section feeling pretty good. When the steep section came in sight I noticed a skier stopped where I had been, peering over the edge. So what do you think I did? Exactly. I picked up a little speed, let out a whoop, caught a very little air, and skied right over the edge. I laid down my turns and continued out of sight.
What was the difference between the two runs for me? Confidence. The first experience gave me confidence to do much better the second time down. And that’s what I want to talk about today. Confidence.

A couple of years ago, in Texas, a young man drove his motorcycle across the Mexican border. He was going up and down the sand dunes. There was a dune with about a twenty-foot drop, and he went sailing off into space. In the accident the top part of the skull was crushed and almost torn from his head, leaving his brain exposed. It was thirteen hours before help came to him. A helicopter took him to a Houston hospital, and the doctors said he could never live. If the accident didn’t kill him, the exposure and infection would.

They notified the family. He had a younger sister, twenty-five, who was married and had a four-year-old son. This little guy loved his Uncle Dennis. He thought the sun came up, went around his Uncle Dennis, went back down, and that was the day. He thought he was terrific. Uncle Dennis had taken time to take him for rides and play with him and do all the things that are done.

When the child heard about the accident, that his Uncle Dennis wasn’t going to live, he said, “Mom, can we have a prayer?” She answered that they were going to their grandmother’s house and the whole family was fasting and going to have a prayer. He said, “I mean, can you and I have a prayer?”

She said, “Well, I guess so. Sure.” They went into the bedroom and she was, about to say the prayer when he asked, “Mom, can I say the prayer?” She told him to go ahead. He said this prayer: “Heavenly Father, Uncle Dennis has been in a terrible accident, and no one expects him to live. But he is my favorite uncle, and I love him. Please don’t let him die. Let him live. Okay? In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Well, his mother was really concerned. It sounded like her brother was going to die, so she tried to prepare her son by saying, “Son, if your Uncle Dennis dies, you have to have faith and understand what that is all about.”

He replied, “Mom, Uncle Dennis is going to live.”

“Well, we hope he does, but if he dies you must not lose faith in prayer or in the Lord.”

“Uncle Dennis is going to live.” She didn’t know what else to say. She went into the kitchen and he followed her in. She was still trying to reason with him when he said, “Mom, do you know that Heavenly Father has a deep, soft, quiet voice?”

She asked, “How do you know that?”

He said, “Because when I said, ‘Heavenly Father, he’s my favorite uncle. Let him live. Okay?’ he said, ‘Okay.’”

Uncle Dennis walked into my office not too long ago. I could see where they had sewn him back together. He had a cane in one hand and walked with a slight limp, but his mind was good, and he is going to the University of Utah. He plays golf and the piano. No one would have known that except for the faith of a young man. That is the kind of people we are. We build bricks with that kind of straw.

I was in the East a few weeks ago, and I visited with a businessman, a member of the Church, one of the most inspiring businessmen I have ever met. He told me of an experience he had had some time ago. He was the chief executive officer of a billion-dollar-a-year business. The company manufactured products of various qualities. The first-quality product was in the manufacturer’s name; the second-quality product was in the name of the customer. One of their customers, who did sixty million dollars’ worth of business a year, came to him a while ago and said, “I want a letter from you telling me that the second-grade product is just as good as the first-grade product.”
He replied, “But it isn’t as good.”
The customer said, “But it has the same ingredients.”
“The ingredients aren’t in the same quantity. It is not as good.”
“I want that letter or you’ll lose my business.” A sixty-million-dollar account. And this wonderful man said, “If that is what I have to do to keep your business, I don’t want it.”
Integrity! It exists in the world, my brothers and sisters, but it exists in the hearts and the souls and the minds and the intellects of individuals. It doesn’t exist just in masses of individuals.

“Doesn’t she have any brothers or sisters?”
“Oh, I have heard her mention an older brother and two younger sisters. But they’re all back in Switzerland. You see Miss Zwindli joined the Mormon church when she was about 14, and consequently her parents disowned her, so she came over alone to America. An uncle from Boston paid her way and met her when she arrived in New York. But for some reason or other he tried to dissuade her from continuing in her church. Said he’d even pay for a college education in music and vocal lessons, which was what she had always wanted, but she refused, so he disowned her, too.”
“How did she manage all alone?” Michelle found herself wishing that she had been there to befriend that little girl who had been so brave and yet probably so frightened.
“She said she took whatever work was available at the time—housework or factory work. It took her a whole year to scrape together enough money to ride the train from Boston to Salt Lake—course that was back in 1920.
“After she got there, it was like a dream come true, being with people who believed as she did. From what she’s told me, it seems like she had a good life there—working, teaching in her church, singing in choirs.”
“Why didn’t she ever marry? She looks like she was once a very beautiful lady.”
“Oh, she had opportunities, but she never found the one she wanted to marry. That didn’t stop her, though. She kept right on working and serving.”
“Why is she here now?”
“She came to Boston a few months ago hoping she could locate some of her cousins. Seems they’ve all moved away. Then she got sick. Her doctor brought her in after he discovered she had stomach cancer. She’s been here now for a month, but the doctor didn’t expect her to last more than a few weeks. She was so resigned and accepting that it just about broke my heart. She never complains but instead is always going around in her wheelchair seeing if there is anything she can do for anyone else. She hardly has strength to do anything for herself.
“But for the last week she’s been unable to get out of bed. I’m glad you made an effort to come talk to her. She’ll appreciate the thought.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
I had searched everywhere. Twice I had driven from the office to the fabrication yard seeking the essential parts needed to complete a crane we were shipping to a military installation. It was scheduled to ship in two days—just in time to meet our contracted deadline. My company would face serious penalties if we did not meet our commitment.
I entered the office storeroom and once again looked for the missing parts. I inspected every box and reconfirmed that the parts had indeed been ordered. It was too late to reorder the parts and still meet the deadline. I was discouraged. I headed home, still trying to figure out how to resolve the problem.
I said a quick and empty-hearted prayer before bed and tried to get some sleep. In my mind I retraced the steps I took earlier that day, hoping I would remember something I missed. I tossed and turned until 3:00 a.m.
Finally I sat up. I looked down at the pillow I placed on the floor to remind myself to pray. I didn’t feel like praying. I had prayed all day but felt that nothing I said was making any difference. Had God forgotten me?
Having nowhere else to go, I slid to my knees and began to pray. I asked Heavenly Father if He was aware of my situation. “Heavenly Father,” I pleaded, “Thou knowest where the missing parts are. Couldst Thou let me know too—today?”
Later that morning, I walked to my office. I set my briefcase on my desk and felt that I should check the storeroom one last time. I entered the storeroom and looked over the boxes I had checked and rechecked the day before. A large box caught my eye. Something didn’t look right.
A closer look revealed that it wasn’t one box but two boxes nested together. I lifted the top box from the one below. In the bottom box, I found the parts! I said a prayer of gratitude and returned to my office to notify the fabricators that the missing parts had been found.
Suddenly, I realized that I had not just found the parts, but I had also discovered that Heavenly Father knew where I was and that I was important to Him. God had not forgotten me, and He never will.

But getting a foothold on the island did not come easily. The earlier effort to place missionaries was met with resistance and threats of danger. “Simmering anti-French sentiment by native Corsicans was increasing in the early 1990s,” Brother Thatcher said.
The native Corsicans showed their displeasure of outsiders by making homemade bombs to destroy foreign businesses and property. “It was not uncommon,” said then-Elder Darin Dewsnup, “to hear multiple explosions every day in the city. We were not French, but we were not Corsican either.”
The missionaries were warned of the dangers, and when a bomb exploded in their neighborhood, the four missionaries on the island were withdrawn to another part of the mission in mainland France.
“Our missionaries were no longer on the island,” Brother Thatcher said, saying this setback was an opportunity to learn and grow.
To better understand heaven’s purposes, the missionaries committed to study the life and ministry of the Savior to better learn His ways. They studied His acts of service and compassion, which included feeding and healing and loving. They concluded that service was important in gaining the confidence of the people and serving in the Lord’s way.
With a renewed focus to serve, three missionaries were sent to reopen work on Corsica in March 1992. This time, they were sent to the island’s second-largest city, Bastia. There they resolved to meet people in a natural manner instead of knocking on doors, which sometimes had caused fear among residents.
“Our prayers were answered. We realized service could demonstrate our sincerity to the community and soften the hearts of people who resisted outsiders,” Brother Thatcher said.
The new missionaries introduced themselves to residents by offering to help any way they could. They weeded family gardens, fixed cars, and in the case of the mayor, painted his weathered hotel. They often made friends, and their efforts were appreciated. They were nearly always asked to sit down to a glass of “limonata” (lemonade) and to “tell us about your church,” Brother Thatcher said. Soon, “our fortunes dramatically changed.”
An early referral led to the baptism of the Lota family, which then led to another referral. When missionaries entered the home of the referral, the mother of the family, who had been praying to know truth, “fell to her knees and wept in gratitude to the Lord for answering her prayers.”

Shortly after I returned from my mission, my stake president asked me to interpret for Elder Hartman Rector Jr., then of the Seventy, who had come to Mendoza, Argentina, to preside over a stake conference. These marvelous opportunities have continued over the years. I interpreted for President Thomas S. Monson and other General Authorities during the 11 dedicatory sessions of the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple.
During four of those sessions, I read the dedicatory prayer in Spanish from the pulpit in the celestial room. My voice broke up several times because of my emotions; tears filled my eyes and flowed down my face. I was reading the inspired prayers and promises for my country from Heavenly Father, who lives and reveals His will, just as He did 12 years earlier through my mission president when I accepted the challenge to learn English.
I also interpreted for the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley, during the four dedicatory sessions of the Montevideo Uruguay Temple and the four dedicatory sessions of the Asunción Paraguay Temple.
It’s difficult for me to explain how sacred those moments were for me when I stood alongside prophets, seers, and revelators in the Lord’s house. I felt somewhat like Peter, James, and John when they had the amazing experience of seeing Jesus transfigured. Peter expressed my feelings when he told Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here” (Matt. 17:4).

Dan (name has been changed) was seeing me for professional counseling. “I try to live the commandments,” he said, “but I am constantly tempted by sensual distractions. I recommit but get worn down and occasionally end up letting my guard down. I am not going to pornography sites, but I become hypnotized by inappropriate images that seem to be everywhere. My wife is hurt, and I am tired of trying.”
With Dan, it was helpful to distinguish temptation from sin, understand shame and the power of agency, and learn to rely more on the Savior’s grace.
Dan had righteous desires, but he felt like he was failing. He was ashamed, in part because of his ongoing temptations. Like many, he thought that because he had given in to some temptations, he might as well give up.2 While guilt is an important feeling that motivates us to repent, shame can have the opposite effect, leading us to give up. This is particularly damaging when we mistakenly believe temptation is a sign of weakness.
With help, Dan learned not to panic when tempted but to acknowledge his feelings, then choose to move on to healthy behaviors.
Dan began avoiding the use of electronic devices when he was susceptible to temptation, such as when he was alone, tired, or stressed. He passed on problematic TV shows and other entertainment and instead spent time connecting with others. He strengthened his spirit by spending more time in the scriptures, journaling, improving his sleep, and exercising (see Doctrine and Covenants 88:124).8 These important principles can help each of us decrease temptations and increase strength, especially when practiced consistently over time.

Thanks for your hard work today. Here’s your pay for the last month.
Thanks! See you Monday.
Yes! Now I finally have enough to buy that bike! I can’t wait to ride around the city with my friends next week.
Hey, I know that look. You got paid today?
Yep!
It was my payday too! I grabbed an extra tithing envelope if you need one.
Oh. Yeah. I forgot about tithing. Can’t I just … pay it next month?
Well, son, that’s your choice to make. But I’ve always felt the blessings that come from paying tithing as soon as I can.
I get what mom’s saying, but … if I pay tithing now, I won’t be able to buy that bike for a whole other month!
But why shouldn’t I buy it now? I have lots of good reasons to do it.
It’ll help me get to school and work faster. …
I can use it to help mom run errands when she’s busy. …
I’ll get lots of exercise riding around with my friends. … Isn’t mom always saying I should spend more time outside?
The next Sunday…
“Consider on the blessed and happy state of those that keep the commandments of God. For behold, they are blessed in all things, both temporal and spiritual.”—Mosiah 2:41
I still wish I had my bike. Think of how fast I could get groceries! But I also feel … happy. Even without it. Does that make sense?
It does to me.
Maybe I’ll start saving for a bike too. Then we can race to the market!
Ha! Only if you like second place!

Michael DeLoach of Hollister, Florida, won top honors nationally in team roping. He and his partner, Andy Mills, placed first in their event at the National High School Rodeo Finals held in Rapid City, South Dakota. They also helped the Florida contingent to outscore the two-time defending champs from Texas. This was the first time that a high school rodeo team east of the Mississippi had claimed overall top honors.

Back in the mid-’90s, during my college years, I was part of the Fourth Company of the Santiago Fire Department in Chile. While serving there, I lived at the fire station as part of the night guard. Toward the end of the year, I was told that I had to be at the fire station on New Year’s Eve because on that day there was almost always some emergency. Surprised, I replied, “Really?”
Well, I remember waiting with my associates when, at midnight, fireworks began shooting off in downtown Santiago. We started hugging each other with well wishes for the new year. Suddenly the bells at the fire station began ringing, indicating that there was an emergency. We got our equipment and jumped on the fire engine. On our way to the emergency, as we passed crowds of people celebrating the new year, I noticed that they were largely unconcerned and carefree. They were relaxed and enjoying the warm summer night. Yet somewhere nearby, the people we were hurrying to help were in serious trouble.
This experience helped me realize that although our lives may at times be relatively smooth, the time will come for each of us when we will face unexpected challenges and storms that will push the limits of our ability to endure. Physical, mental, family, and employment challenges; natural disasters; and other matters of life or death are but some of the examples of the storms that we will face in this life.

Normally his mother, Sarah, didn’t worry too much about his childhood sicknesses, which came and went. But once he became very sick, and she began to worry. It started with a fever that kept rising. Then he had a stomachache and headache. Finally rose-colored spots appeared on his body, so she called for the doctor.
The doctor came and examined George Albert. He told Sarah that her son had typhoid fever, a disease that sometimes killed people. He told her to keep her son in bed for three weeks and to have him drink coffee but not eat.
When the doctor left, George Albert told his mother that he didn’t want to drink coffee because it was against the Word of Wisdom. He knew that Heavenly Father had given Joseph Smith the Word of Wisdom, a revelation that teaches us to not drink coffee, tea, or alcohol. It also teaches us to eat and drink only things that are good for our bodies. He didn’t want to break the Word of Wisdom. His mother and father had taught him to always obey Heavenly Father.
Because his father, John Henry, was away serving a mission, George Albert asked his mother to send for Brother Hawks, a faithful and good member of their ward who held the priesthood. When Brother Hawks arrived, George Albert asked him for a priesthood blessing.
Brother Hawks placed his hands on the boy’s head and blessed him that he would get better. George Albert had faith that the blessing would help him recover from the typhoid fever.
When the doctor arrived the next day, he found the boy playing outside with other children. The doctor was surprised. He examined George Albert and found that he was all better. George Albert later said, “I am grateful to the Lord for my recovery. I was sure that He had healed me.”

I have a group of friends we refer to as the Pink Ladies. We have two sidekicks we call the KKs but they are not in the story today.:) We have been friends for 30+ years. We are family, we once conjured up a family tree from a made-up common ancestor: Captain Cook (well, he’s real, but we just made up the part about him being our ancestor). We learned early on in our friendship family that these were friends and sisters you could call on when you need help; friends who would lay down their lives for a while to lend a helping hand. If you needed something done all you had to do was turn it into a party. Need something sewn? It’s a sewing party. Need wedding favors made? It’s a favor making party. Need your house painted? It’s a painting party. Need walls washed? It’s a wall washing party. Need to raise money? It’s a garage sale party. Need something eaten? Well, we’d mostly go hide and eat it by ourselves, but we always had food at all the other types of parties. Whatever you needed help with? That was our next party.

In time we progressed in our lives, careers, families. Some got married and had children, others moved away to the mainland to pursue opportunities. We went our separate ways but always kept in touch. We are now a bunch of mothers, aunties, teachers, professionals, chefs, aerobic instructors, coaches, seamstresses, crafters, organizers, bakers, entrepreneurs, and singers. You name it, one of these ladies can do it. One of us is not only the mother of her own five children she is also the mother to five football teams; let me rephrase that to add a whole other level of crazy, she is the mother of five red raider tomahawk chopping football teams.

Nothing brings you back together like a friend in need. So what do you do when your own dear sister within the Cook Family is stricken with stage 4 breast cancer with a grim outlook? {show picture of pink party} Well, you have a pink party of course. Lots of them. Pink videos, pink costumes, eating out, driving to doctor appointments, singing, laughing, crying, giving massages, bonding. Our last year with our sister Natasha Vimahi held some of the sweetest, most treasured memories of all. And it came, for a small time, because we laid aside a little bit of our lives to be with our dear friend. There is no greater love.