Gospel Story Finder

Michael Diaz looks past the long barrel of a heavy cannon and scans the choppy waters of Portobelo, Panama. If an attack on the stronghold and the gold it guarded were to come by sea, the attacking ships would have to survive heavy fire from more than a dozen cannons, and their sailors would have to get past soldiers manning two waterfront forts, including the one where Michael stands. Past battles were fierce and frightening.
Fortunately for Michael, no such battles have taken place in more than 250 years.
A lot has changed since then. But as he paces along the thick stone walls of the ruins, Michael, 15, isn’t thinking about cell phones, the Internet, or men walking on the moon. He and his friends from the Colón Panama Stake are talking about the changes they have seen in themselves thanks to the Duty to God program.
“I’ve learned a lot,” Michael says. The others nod in agreement. “I have more faith in myself. I don’t have to depend spiritually on others so much. I have the courage to talk to others about the Church.”
Built to be strong, the forts stood guard over Portobelo for more than 100 years, and their remains still stand today.
The strength of the Duty to God program, according to these young men, is found in setting and completing goals. Their goals are helping them build spiritual strongholds that will help them stand against whatever they will have to face in life.
“You live in a day of great challenges,” said the First Presidency. “You can strengthen yourself, building faith and testimony, living the gospel while you learn it and share it” (Aaronic Priesthood: Fulfilling Our Duty to God [2001], 4).
Aldo Cardenas of the Puerto Pilon Ward recalls a recent goal to organize a family home evening with his father’s help. “My dad gave me the theme of the priesthood and how important it is to our family. I learned a lot about the priesthood. It’s a great blessing to us and others through us.”
He’s grateful for the way the program works. “Having to follow through with the goals has helped me to be more responsible,” he says.
Narcisso Garay, 17, of the Barriada Kuna Ward decided to set a goal to read the Book of Mormon every day. “My parents suggested that I read the other scriptures too. Now I’ve almost finished the New Testament. At first I thought it was boring, but now I’ve seen what Jesus suffered for us, and I know that we can return to Him.”
Michael’s older brother Isaac says completing the goals he has set in the program has strengthened him spiritually. When Isaac was a teacher, he was the only active member in his quorum. Duty to God has not only helped him; it has also provided opportunities for him to get the three quorum members who didn’t attend regularly to come to some activities, and one of them has attended church.
“I tried to visit the others and invite them to come to church,” Isaac says. “That was my duty to God.”
Perched on top of a long-unused cannon, Michael can easily imagine defending the fort against the fierce attack of an enemy. But as he looks out to sea, he talks about strengthening himself against a different kind of attack—one without cannons and gunpowder.
“My friends at school sometimes make fun of me for belonging to the ‘church of Mormon,’” he says as the sun sets on Portobelo. But he’s not afraid to tell them, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

Tylor dressed and ate his breakfast as fast as he could. Today was Friday, and he had a very special mission.

Of all the things in the world that a boy could want, a tree house was what Tylor wanted most. He had wanted one as long as he could remember, but something had always stood in the way. One summer, his parents told him that he was too young. Another summer, they just couldn’t afford it. The next year looked good, but time ran out—his father had been too busy with work that summer.

But now, the summer of his ninth birthday, everything was arranged: Grandpa would supply all the wood. Mother had already helped Tylor save his pennies all year to buy the bright red paint for it. Father and he would build it tomorrow. And Cousin Hank would help paint it.

Only one thing still needed to be done. Tylor had to find some way to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard on the outskirts of town to Tylor’s house on Elm Street.

This was Tylor’s project today. He had received a wagon for a Christmas present a few years back and hadn’t played with it for at least a year. It had been put in the garage some time ago, and now it was loaded with old newspapers and magazines. Today Tylor would clean it out and use it to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard.

In no time, the wagon and Tylor were ready to depart. The only thing left to do was tell Mother that he was going. He found her on the back porch with two laundry baskets and a pillowcase full of dirty clothes.

“Oh, Tylor,” she said, “I’m glad you’re still here! The washer isn’t working, and I need to take these clothes to the laundromat. I can’t carry all of them by myself. Would you mind helping me before you get your wood?”

“Sure, Mom. We can load them into my wagon, and I’ll pull it. That way your hands will be free for Damion and Leslie.” (They were Tylor’s younger brother and sister.)

It didn’t take long to get the laundry finished, and Tylor was glad to help his mother, who was always doing things for him and everyone else in the family. After helping her carry the clean clothes into the house, there was still plenty of time to get the lumber. Tylor took the handle of his wagon and started down the street in the direction of his grandpa’s lumberyard.

After walking a few blocks, Tylor met Mr. Harper, an elderly man who had no children but who had always been kind to the children in the neighborhood. He owned an old go-cart that he allowed Tylor to ride on the weekends in exchange for running errands for him. Tylor liked Mr. Harper very much.

“You are just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Harper told him. “I need a favor. Yesterday my fridge went on the blink and everything inside spoiled. I got it fixed this morning, but now I’m out of milk and I’m afraid my old cat won’t stand for that. Do you have time to run to the dairy for me?”

Although he was anxious to get to the lumberyard, Tylor had always been taught to help a friend in need, and Mr. Harper was a friend. “Sure thing, Mr. Harper. Can I leave my wagon here?”

“Of course.” The elderly man handed Tylor money for the milk.

When Tylor returned, he saw that Mr. Harper had filled his wagon with empty pop bottles. What a surprise!

“That’s for running to the dairy for me,” Mr. Harper told him. “I thought you could find some use for these.”

“Thanks a lot!” Tylor called as he turned the wagon around and headed for home. All the way, he imagined what he would buy with the money he’d get for turning the pop bottles in for cash.

He took the wagon into the garage and sat the bottles neatly on a shelf. Then he turned his wagon around and started off again.

He had only gone a few yards, when he noticed his little brother crying. For a moment he wanted to turn away. After all, it was getting late and he wanted to get to the lumberyard and back while he still had sunshine to play in. But he couldn’t go knowing that something was wrong with Damion. Tylor went over to him. “What’s wrong, Damion?”

Damion opened his hand to reveal several nickels. “All the kids are waiting for the ice-cream truck to buy an ice-cream treat, but I don’t have enough money.”

Tylor thought a moment. “I don’t have any money, either, but I know where we can get some. Come with me.”

Tylor and Damion reloaded the pop bottles into the wagon. After they had turned them in at the store, there was enough money for them and Leslie to all buy an ice-cream treat.

Tylor did not eat his right away. He put it into the freezer so that he could enjoy it later, after he was back with the lumber.

Pulling his wagon over cement, grass, dirt, and even railroad tracks, he finally arrived at the lumberyard. With Grandpa’s help, he loaded the lumber onto the wagon and tied it securely with a piece of old rope.

All the way home, he sang songs he had learned in Primary. He was very tired, and it was late. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time left for playing, but it didn’t matter. He was very happy. He had helped his mother, Mr. Harper, and his brother and still had time to get the lumber. As he smiled to himself, he realized that this feeling must be why Mother always had a smile on her face, too.

As one of the founders and directors of a restarted company, Worley Engineering, in Perth, in 1988, I visited each of the previous customers. They told me about the demise of the former Worley and that they did not want to do business with Worley again. They rejected me and the new beginning I was proposing. What they did not know is that I was a returned missionary. To me rejection meant needing to increase my understanding of the concerns and needs of these potential customers so that I could offer them something more compelling.

I found reasons to go back. Each time I would follow up on things that I had previously learned and offer something new that I felt could be of value. In the process, I discovered that it takes about seven visits to establish a business relationship.

On the first visit, many people show little interest. On the second visit, they are trying to remember if they have seen you before. On the third visit, the discussion can move to business possibilities. On the fourth visit, they listen to proposals, and the relationship develops. On the fifth visit, you start talking details, and real trust becomes evident. After the sixth or seventh visit, you often start working together.

The natural man gives up after the first failure or rejection. The differentiator--unwearyingness, acting, following up or going back when others would not--can add blessings to your life that you can only imagine.

I was familiar with quinoa, the other crop I work on, as a food I had eaten once on my mission in Peru. Although it was first domesticated in the Peruvian-Bolivian Andes, quinoa suffered from a legacy of stigmatization by the European colonists in Latin America. I started working on quinoa in the year 2000, my fifth year on the BYU faculty, due to the convergence of six phenomena in rapid succession:
The first was a hallway encounter with the new dean, who challenged me to elevate my research focus from oats to other crops that might hold greater potential for food security in poor areas of the world.
The second was a visit to my office by a precocious undergraduate student named Brian Gardunia who was looking for a research advisor after having secured a promise of graduate funding by the Ezra Taft Benson Agriculture and Food Institute—if he would work on quinoa genetics.
The third event was a meeting involving me and three other BYU plant genetics faculty in which we decided to lobby the aforementioned dean to move all of us into the same department in order to better share equipment and coordinate our complementary research skill sets while focusing on a single research organism: quinoa.
The fourth event was a call from the McKnight Foundation Collaborative Crop Research Program for competitive grant proposals that would team U.S. researchers with scientists in the developing world to focus on improving a crop of local importance.
The fifth piece of the puzzle was a Bolivian BYU doctoral student named Alejandro Bonifacio, who happened to be running Bolivia’s national quinoa breeding program while working on his dissertation.
The last was an invitation from Dr. Ouafae Benlhabib—a Moroccan plant geneticist and last month’s recipient of the BYU College of Life Sciences’ Distinguished Service Award—for me to travel to that country to work with her in initiating a quinoa introduction and adaptive-breeding project.

There was a seventh “coincidence” about three years later: some unidentified celebrities started putting out on the internet that quinoa is a superfood, which caused an overnight explosion in its popularity. Also, the BYU quinoa genetics team effort was blessed by the early addition of Professor Jeff Maughan to the faculty and, just within the last decade, Professor David Jarvis, one of our early students on the project.

My best friend, Liz, and I were always eager for girls’ camp. Since we were 12, we had excitedly gone every year. The hot, muggy Texas weather didn’t bother us a bit. We loved spending time with the girls and leaders from our ward and stake, attending fun activities, and bearing our testimonies on the last night of camp. Now, as 18-year-olds, we were being given the chance to serve as music leaders in our seventh and final year before going to college.
The Saturday before camp started, we decided to drive to the location, an hour away from where we lived, to look at the unfamiliar campgrounds and get a feel for how to prepare our tent and cabin. Both of our mothers advised us not to go. They warned us that a storm was coming from the direction where we were headed. A thunderstorm in Texas is no small matter, especially in the early summer months of May and June. Downpours mixed with heavy thunder and flashes of lightning are not unusual. But we were excited and a bit rebellious, and we went anyway.
The moment we drove into the state park, immense drops of rain pounded the windshield of the small car I was driving. The wipers flipped back and forth, splashing the rain off. The sky was gray, and evening was quickly approaching. We didn’t have much time to find our campsite. We drove into the main part of the park, near a closed convenience store and park headquarters. The parking lot was empty, and everything looked secluded. There was no trace of anybody anywhere.
“What should we do?” I asked. “We can’t find these campsites from here.”
“Let’s walk around and see if a park ranger could help us,” she replied.
Wooden canoes, tied up to a dock on the lake, clanked together as fierce winds blew. The tall trees swayed back and forth, their leaves rustling together like pom-poms. Rain hit the lake like a million pennies falling from the sky. We quickly got back into the car.
“Maybe we should just go home,” I said. Just as I started the engine, though, a park ranger’s truck approached us. A stocky-built man stepped out and approached my vehicle. I rolled down my window, eyeing the state park badge sewn on the left sleeve of his stiff, brown button-up shirt.
He hunched over, tipping his ranger hat and placing his hands on his knees.
“Can I help y’all?” He asked. I could smell alcohol on his breath. I looked at Liz, and then back at him.
“We’re going to be attending a camp here this coming week,” I replied. “We just came to look for some campgrounds.”
“Oh,” he said. “I was just heading down that way. Why don’t you follow me?”
“Okay,” I replied, feeling unsure. I rolled up my window.
“Liz, that guy freaked me out,” I said. “Could you smell the alcohol on his breath?” I had a sick feeling in my stomach, which is the feeling I get when the Spirit is prompting me to turn away from a bad situation.
As the park ranger drove, we followed. Then we came to an intersection where we could choose to continue following the ranger or exit the park. For a moment, we stopped. I watched as his truck drove through the spillway into the camp. The water from the lake, which spilled over the road, reached halfway up the truck’s tires. I knew that my small car might get stuck on the spillway if the rain continued.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Liz, with urgency in her voice. I couldn’t ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. The Spirit was telling me that I shouldn’t continue to follow the park ranger. The truck drove one way and we drove the other, exiting the park. The farther away I drove, the better I felt. As we headed home, the raindrops pounding on the windshield lessened and eventually came to a complete stop.
I knew that we should have listened to our mothers, who were clearly more in tune with the Spirit than we were when they advised us not to go. I’m not sure exactly what danger we might have been in—it could have been with the ranger, who was a stranger, the stormy weather, or things completely unknown to us at the time. But the best part of the story is, we weren’t there to find out! I’m absolutely sure that we had to leave, and I’ve learned that when faced with a decision to make, following the inspired counsel of our parents and the promptings of the Spirit is the best and safest direction to take.

“On the Fourth of July we camped for the day, not entirely to celebrate, but to wash and do mending and various other things that were necessary. We camped in a pretty place near a creek. I was to wash with Phebe’s help. She was only twelve but very energetic. We selected a place quite secluded, close to the creek where we could have plenty of water. Well, we were making the suds foam when a dapper young gentleman from New York, a nephew of our captain, who was on his way to California, discovered us and brought a drink and a large piece of delicious fruitcake which was made to celebrate the Fourth on the plains. A rather embarrassing position, to accept this compliment in the midst of soiled linen and soapsuds. I had not been introduced to him before. However, I accepted the cake and drink with great patriotism, and from that time he often called at our wagon—that is, our wagon yard. Everyone was supposed to honor all the land that was occupied by ox yokes, camp kettles, and everything that goes to make an outfit for traveling. So when any of the young folks called I was as much at home sitting on an ox yoke as if I were sitting in an easy chair in a parlor. Such is life on the plains.”

“I remember that story of Nephi,” Brother Grossenheider said in his raspy old voice. “I was a deacon once, you know. But I was 16 or 17 years old. I didn’t know they sent young bucks like yourselves to do this kind of work.” He squinted at the sky. “I haven’t been to church in 60 years. But I remember doing fast offerings a few times when I was a deacon.”
He paused. “I’d forgotten all about that.” He turned the envelope over and over in his hands and examined it. “That used to be an important job, fast offerings. The bishop took us around in a wagon, and we loaded that wagon with eggs and tomatoes and carrots and meat, sometimes a chicken or two. And we drove right over to the people who needed it and gave it to them. They surely were glad to get it. Nineteen thirty-six, it was. Lots of people out of work. The Depression, you know.”
He looked keenly at us over his glasses. “No, I guess you don’t. But it was an important job back then. I suspect there’s still people in need, eh.” He looked at us sharply. “You boys look mighty young to be doing important business like this.”
We didn’t answer.
He shook the envelope at us again. “Can’t fit a chicken in here. How does this work?”
Reggie and I exchanged glances. “You just put some money in it,” I said and shrugged again. “Whatever you can afford.”
“Yep,” Reggie said and put his hands in his pockets. “And then the bishop takes care of it from there.”
The old man nodded and thought for a moment. “So I’m Laban, eh?” he said and squinted his eyes at us.
We looked at the ground, embarrassed, and adjusted our feet.
He took a dollar bill from his pocket. “I don’t have much,” he said and slid the dollar into the envelope. Then he stood and slowly walked to us with the envelope, his cane supporting his left side.
“You’ll be back next month?” Brother Grossenheider asked, handing me the envelope.
“Yes, sir, we will,” I said.
He worked his way up the porch steps with his cane, groaning as his legs lifted his body to each level. At the top he turned around and paused as his hard breathing settled to a quieter mode. “You boys close that gate when you leave, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and we did.
When we got to the street, Reggie said, “You know, I was thinking how the quorum needs a service project. Maybe next month we could ask Brother Grossenheider about helping with his yard. What do you think?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go tell Brother Baron.” I turned and ran. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

Owen woke up suddenly in the middle of the night and peeked out the window. It was hailing and the sky had turned green.
“Is that what I think it is?” Mitchell asked, sitting up in bed.
“A tornado,” Owen whispered. His eyes scanned the sky for signs of swirling.
Both boys jumped as Mom opened the door, a flashlight in her hand cutting through the darkness. “The power is out, and the storm’s coming,” she said. “Everybody get down to the bathroom.”
Owen grabbed Mitchell’s hand and followed Mom to the downstairs bathroom, the center of their home. They had talked about what to do during a tornado, but Owen’s hands were shaking. What if it hit their house?
When they were halfway down the stairs, a high-pitched alarm filled the air. Owen felt Mitchell’s hand tighten around his. Those were tornado sirens, and they only went off when a tornado was nearby. Owen froze, but Mom gently pushed him toward the bathroom, which was lit by a small lantern.
Owen’s two sisters were already huddled on the floor, so he crouched in a corner to make room for Dad, who came in holding a radio. The space was small for six people, but Owen was glad they were all together.
Dad turned the radio dial until he found a station reporting the storm. “We have four tornadoes in the area,” the announcer said. “Everybody within the sound of a tornado siren is to stay inside until further notice.”
Owen gasped. Four tornadoes? He imagined them barreling down the street toward his house, and he reached out his hand to Dad for comfort. His little sister started crying in Mom’s arms. Owen’s panic grew when the announcer read off a list of streets near the tornadoes. Owen recognized all of the street names. One was even right by his school. The tornado could hit them at any moment! He had never felt this afraid before.
Owen knew exactly what he needed to do to feel better. He bowed his head and said a silent prayer. When he finished praying, he felt a little better—he was still nervous, but he felt peaceful too. Mom saw his bowed head and said, “Good idea, Owen. I think we could use a family prayer right now.”
Dad prayed aloud, and Owen’s fear went away a little more. He turned to Mitchell, who still seemed scared. “Want to play I Spy?” he whispered. It was one of Mitchell’s favorite games, and the lantern gave them just enough light to play. Mitchell nodded, and Owen started.
“I spy something … pink!”
“Mom’s robe!” Mitchell giggled, and the game began. The wind still howled, but Owen’s little sister stopped crying. Owen could feel peace in the small bathroom, surrounded by his family.
It seemed like hours later, but the sirens finally stopped. Owen took a deep breath, knowing the tornadoes had moved on. Dad turned up the radio again, and the announcer said it was safe to leave cover. Dad opened the door and squeezed Owen’s shoulder as they walked out into the hall to stretch.
“I’m proud of you, buddy,” Dad said. “You were really brave tonight.”
Owen hadn’t felt very brave, but he’d felt more peaceful after his prayer. He hugged Dad back, took Mitchell’s hand, and led him back to bed. The storm was over.

Another important quality to emulate is humor in the face of challenge. Hannah Cornaby, another member of the 1853 migration, wrote:
“It was three years, to a day, from that memorable first of June … , when our oxen having arrived, we left Keokuk. I wish I could afford a page to a description of our starting. The oxen were wild, and getting them yoked was the most laughable sight I had ever witnessed; everybody giving orders, and nobody knowing how to carry them out. If the men had not been saints, there would doubtless have been much profane language used; but the oxen, not understanding ‘English,’ did just as well without it. But it did seem so truly comical to witness the bewildered look of some innocent brother, who, after having labored an hour or more to get [an ox] secured to one end of the yoke, would hold the other end aloft, trying to persuade [the other ox] to come under, only to see [the first] careering across the country, the yoke lashing the air, and he not even giving a hint as to when he intended to stop.”

As a missionary in Taiwan many, many years ago, I had an experience that changed my life. I served for six months with a companion with whom I had a really difficult relationship. She thought I was arrogant, demanding, and impatient. Maybe she was right. I thought she was pretty petty and overly critical. One day we were teaching together, and, in the middle of our lesson, she embarrassed me when she said out of the blue, "Well, Sister Lindsay, you're not a very good person. You're not Christ-like." On the bus on the way home to our apartment, I told her she should never criticize me like that in front of people again. She told me I was a bad companion. She said she was embarrassed to go anywhere with me. She said, "Kindergarteners speak better Chinese than you do. Well, she had a point because when I tried to say things to her that I wanted to say at that moment, I realized the MTC had not taught me the words that I needed.
When we got back to our little apartment, I slammed the door to one room and flopped to my knees. I really said this prayer. “Heavenly Father, I hate my companion. She’s mean. She's horrible and ...”
In the middle of my tirade, more tirade than prayer, I felt a voice that said, “She is my daughter, and I love her. Don’t speak of her like that.”
Now, in that moment, I felt I was being corrected by God. But surprisingly, the feeling in my heart was one of love. I felt His great love for her, my companion, and I felt His love for me and for all of us.

During his mission and afterward, Sipho’s pioneering spirit motivated other African young men to accept mission calls and to serve the Lord. In fact, during one of Elder Khomo’s Christmas phone calls from England, the township boys all gathered with his family to hear of his missionary experiences. The enthusiasm from that telephone call was contagious, and shortly afterward, those same township boys submitted missionary paperwork and received calls from the prophet to serve in the mission field themselves.

The gift of smiling. At everyone, not just at the cute boy or girl When employed by LDS Philanthropies I met a lady in Salt Lake City whom we invited to serve on a volunteer board to help us in our efforts to raise money for the campus, for you. She had made up her mind she was just too busy and involved in too many other worthy causes. She drove up from Salt Lake City just to tell me "no", rehearsing what she would say during the entire trip. She parked her car and had just a short walk to my office. But something happened before she made her way to me. You happened. Students just like you smiled and said hello to a stranger, as she described herself, "some little old lady." She felt the spirit of the students, the spirit of the campus, and became a great friend, instrumental in raising significant money to help you in your educations.

I thank God for the streams, clear and pure, that have influenced my life: for the goodly parents who taught me the goodness of life—honor and virtue—and who taught me to love the Lord; for the small towns where we made our own fun and adventure; for my widowed mother, who always taught correct principles; for the priesthood and the scouting program; for the chance to go away to college and for the blessing of finding a girl I knew should be my companion. I saw her first at a dance at the Old Mill in a canyon east of Salt Lake. I remember the dress she was wearing. I remember how much fun she was having with her date. I was sitting there with someone else. As I watched this girl dancing by, I asked my date, “Do you know her?”
She said, “Yes.”
I recall saying, “Why don’t you introduce me to her?” Now that isn’t the way you win friends and influence people!
I remember how hard I worked to get a date with her. I would phone her. She would have a date, and I would say, “What time is he coming?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“How about seeing me at six?” I was determined, because I had a deep impression that this was the girl I should marry. I wanted to marry the right person in the right place. I remind all of you who are here that the most important decision you will make in your life is who you marry and where you marry that person. Never forget it. Never deemphasize it.

“Mom!” Claire pulled on her mother’s arm as they approached the church. “A girl who just went in is wearing my yellow dress!”
“Is she?” Mom said. “I suppose her mother got it from the exchange table at the Relief Society activity last week.”
“You took my yellow dress to the clothing exchange? I still wear that dress! It’s my favorite!” She pointed to the two butterfly-shaped barrettes in her hair. “I even bought these just to go with that dress!”
“I’m sorry, honey. I haven’t seen you wear that dress in a long time, so I thought you had outgrown it. I’ll be sure to check with you next time before I take any more of your things.”
“But what about this time?” Claire asked. “Tell that girl I want my dress back.”
Mom frowned. “Isn’t she part of that new family? I don’t think they have much money for clothes right now. Let’s think about this.”
Claire was angry as she sat in the chapel. “Why can’t we just get the dress back?” she wondered. “It’s my dress.”
During the sacrament Claire started thinking about Jesus. She had promised to always remember Him. “What would Jesus do?” she asked herself. “I don’t remember Him saying anything about clothes in the scriptures.”
When Sister Baxter got up to talk, she read a scripture that mentioned lilies. Then Claire heard the word clothe. Surprised, she looked up the verse. It read: “Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”1 Claire leaned back on the bench to think. “So there is something about clothing in the scriptures. Maybe Heavenly Father knew that the new girl needed a dress. Mom said her family didn’t have a lot of money. But why my dress? And why my yellow one?”
Claire was still upset when she went to Primary opening exercises. And to make matters worse, the girl in her yellow dress sat right in front of her. Claire tried not to look.
During sharing time, Brother Mason’s class taught about Jesus’s Crucifixion. As she listened, Claire felt terrible about the way Jesus had been treated. Then Mark told a story that really made her sit up and take notice.
“Jesus had a special coat with no seams,” Mark explained. “The soldiers didn’t want to tear it up to share it, so they cast lots to decide who would get the coat.”2
“So Jesus did have some nice clothes,” Claire thought. “He knows how it feels to have somebody take our clothes.” She listened carefully to see what Jesus would do.
“In spite of how the soldiers had treated him, Jesus prayed for them,” Brother Mason said. “He prayed, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’”3
“Forgive them?” Claire looked at the girl in the yellow dress. “Does that mean I have to forgive Mom for giving away my dress without asking?” But Claire didn’t feel like forgiving. “If I forgive her, I’ll never get my dress back.” Claire looked at the picture of Jesus. “But I want to do what Jesus would do.” She felt torn and realized that she needed help. She bowed her head and offered a silent prayer. “Please take the bad feeling out of my heart and help me to forgive,” she prayed. She looked at the girl with the yellow dress. “You didn’t know you were taking my favorite dress,” she thought. “I’m not angry at you.” She thought of Mom. “And you didn’t even know I still wanted it. There’s really nothing to forgive.”
Claire was surprised that deep down inside she meant every word. She went to class with a lighter heart. When the new girl was introduced as Megan, Claire invited Megan to sit by her. As the lesson began, she was surprised to hear yet another scripture about clothing. “‘Him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also.’4 What does that mean to us?” Sister Rawlins asked.
“It means there’s something more I need to do,” Claire thought. “But what? I don’t have a coat to go with the dress, do I?” She pondered the question, and by the end of class she had an answer. After the closing prayer, she turned to Megan. “I love your dress,” she said.
Megan smiled. “Thanks. Yellow is my favorite color.”
“Mine too. And I have something that would go perfectly with that dress.” She pulled the two butterfly barrettes out of her hair. “Here,” she said, holding them out. “I want you to have these.”
Megan gasped and carefully took them out of Claire’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, clipping them into her hair. “You are so nice. I’m glad we moved here. Can I give you something in exchange?” She held out a woven bracelet. “I made it myself,” she said. “It’s a friendship bracelet.” Claire beamed. She was still smiling when she got into the car to go home.
“Well,” Mom said, “should we discuss the problem with the yellow dress now?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Claire said. “It’s been exchanged.”
“For what?”
Claire paused a moment, searching for the right words. “Well, when I was finally able to give it away, I got a happy heart in exchange.”
Mom nodded. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“And I got something else too.”
“What?”
Claire glanced down at the yellow bracelet around her wrist. “A new friend.”

From my personal chronology of courage, let me share with you an example from military service.

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds, acts of valor, and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk—at times amidst the jeers of the curious, the jests of unbelievers—and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

Some men and boys were stretched out under a large tree in a little grove near Nauvoo. Among them were loyal followers of the Prophet Joseph Smith, but there were also several of his enemies.
A young man by the name of Philemon Merrill rested quietly by the side of the Prophet, listening to a large and powerful man boast that he could throw anyone in the group. “In fact,” he said, “I can throw anyone in the whole state of Illinois.”
Stephen Markham was a bodyguard of Joseph Smith. He was a huge man and noted for his ability to wrestle. He accepted the challenge and, much to everyone’s surprise, was quickly thrown.
This only served to whet the appetite of the boaster who insisted that someone else become his victim. The enemies of the Prophet began to insult him and his followers, calling them cowards because they didn’t quickly send another man to meet the challenge.
Joseph Smith turned to the young man beside him and said, “Get up and throw that boaster.” Surprise and fear gripped Philemon who, since he was not a wrestler, was about to refuse. However, the look in the Prophet’s eyes stopped him.
Joseph Smith’s followers knew he was a man of great faith. So strong was his faith that his followers felt they could do anything the Prophet asked of them.
Philemon arose to his feet to obey the strange command given him. As he did so, his body was suddenly filled with unusual strength. He lifted his arms and stood ready for action. Despite the protests of his friends, Philemon even gave the boasting wrestler his choice of sides.
As they began to grapple, the Prophet said, “Philemon, when I count three, throw him!”
Philemon’s whole body and soul swelled with an unquestioning faith in his ability to carry out the command of Joseph Smith. As the word “three” was pronounced by the Prophet, the young man, with the strength of a giant, lifted his large opponent and threw him over his left shoulder while the amazed group watched in silent awe. Then a cheer rang through the little grove.
There were no more challenges to wrestle that day.

Next came a test of faith. Paula’s mother, who is a member of the Catholic faith, accepted an invitation to listen to the missionary discussions. Paula and her younger sister, Patricia, became enthusiastic investigators. They listened, read, and prayed. They attended meetings and developed a fervent conviction that the gospel was true. Peace came with their new beliefs. They told their mother they wanted to be baptized.
“It was hard for me to give my permission,” says Paula’s mother. “It meant they were leaving the ways of our family. I thought about it for a couple of months. Then I was filled with a warm feeling that this faith would bring them happiness, that I should let them follow their hearts.”

Naheed drank her breakfast of lassi (a mixture of buttermilk and sugar cane juice), but she did not really want it. She was too excited to either eat or drink, because today she would go to school for the first time in her life.

Naheed would be eleven years old soon, and as long as she could remember, she had wanted to go to school. But in her small village in Pakistan it was unusual for girls to get an education. Naheed loved to slip into the post office to watch Ali Mujuber, the calligrapher, writing letters for the villagers who could not write for themselves. She also listened as he read the replies that came back to the letter senders.

Ali Mujuber would first ask the person who wanted to send a letter, “To whom is it to go?” and “To what village or town?” Then he would take his bamboo pen, check its point carefully, dip it into the big ink bottle while listening carefully to what the person wanted to say in the letter, and start scratching words onto the paper.

Naheed would watch closely while Ali Mujuber formed the beautiful characters. She liked to hear the scratching sound of the pen. And she enjoyed sniffing the ink smell and hearing the drone of the villager’s voice. More than anything in the world, Naheed wanted to know the mystery of the writing and the reading of the squiggly shapes … and today she would begin.

“Very soon I can do what Ali Mujuber does,” she mused.

Her brother, Bashir, heard her. He smiled, for he had gone to school for a short time himself before Father needed him in the fields. “It is not so easy,” he warned. But he cheerfully helped his sister prepare her clay slate and bamboo writing stick.

Soon Naheed was off, carrying the slate and sharpened writing stick.

“Kuda Hafiz (may the Almighty save you),” Mother called as Naheed started down the path to the great spreading banyan tree in whose shade the pupils would learn from their teacher. School would only be held on dry days, for if it rained, the students would have to run home for shelter.

Naheed dawdled on the way home, wondering just how many days it would take sitting under the banyan tree for her to know all that Ali Mujuber knew. Her head was in a spin thinking of the many, many days to come. “Maybe I was foolish to think I could ever do such an important and difficult thing as this business of reading and writing,” she murmured half aloud. Perhaps Mother needs me at home, she pondered. Perhaps school is a waste of the hours.

Mother sat beside the fire in the courtyard making chapati, the bread for the family’s evening meal. She greeted Naheed with a smile. “And how was school?” she asked.

Naheed shrugged and passed into the family’s room to put up the slate and bamboo stick.

Mother looked anxious as Naheed came back to the courtyard. “And school?” she asked again.

“Mother, I cannot do that which Ali Mujuber can do. I can never make even one of the figures that mean so much in the letters Ali Mujuber writes.”

Mother stopped her work and looked into her daughter’s eyes for many beats of the heart. At last she spoke quietly. “Naheed, my daughter,” she began, “many of the duties of a woman’s life are learned easily in a moment or in an hour or a day. As a girl like you, I was given only these kinds of tasks. The school was closed to girls. But you … you, my daughter, have the chance of learning words and their sweet secrets. But such precious secrets are not given easily … surely not in one day’s time.”

Naheed’s eyes fell. Mother was right. Naheed had made a big mistake to think she would learn everything on the first day of school. She left her mother and skipped to the center of the village. Her heart was light. “I can do it. I know I can do it,” she hummed to herself.

She watched the village boys line up for a game of pir kaudi (tag or tackle game, having a finish line). From where she stood she saw her mother moving gracefully with the big water jug on her head along with the other women of the village toward the well.

Suddenly she was filled with a feeling of hope and gratitude. She was going to school again tomorrow and for many tomorrows to come, but she was not going to go alone. She would take with her every day the young girl her mother once was. And Naheed would learn so much so well that she could teach her mother everything she (Naheed) learned. Everyone in the family would then have a person nearby to read and to write the precious words of the world.

Example four: I have a friend named Jay Hassell who was in my Sunday School class years ago. We have kept in touch over the years. Along with the rest of the class, we hiked to the peak of Mt. Timpanogos. We went swimming down at Rockport. I attended football and basketball games he played in. I was with him when he did some amazing things in track. He was a competitor to the core. He was a high school student body president. He served a great mission in France, returned home, went to medical school, and now is an orthopedic surgeon.
A few years ago I was invited as a member of the Young Men General Presidency to attend a regional youth conference in the eastern United States. When I got off the plane, Jay and his wife were there to meet me. We were both filled with emotion. I wept. He wept. His father had passed away some time before, and I gave this sweet young friend a fatherly hug. We spent two days together. Now the years have passed, and Jay has been a great blessing in the life of my son Lawrence. Although we do not spend much time together, I love him dearly and am grateful for his interest and love. Jay has served as a bishop and is now serving in a mission presidency. Jay Hassell, I want you to know you have been a great influence in my life.

When I was 20 and in the military, I had a friend named Brent. He was four-years-old. His father, Bob, was an Air Force fighter pilot with 120 missions in Vietnam to his credit. Whenever Brent would not behave as his father wished, his dad would say teasingly, “If you keep doing that you will grow up to be a bomber pilot”—the worst possible curse for a fighter pilot’s son!

That encouraged Brent until he was 15. One day his father tried the old line again and Brent responded, “I don’t care! I’ve never wanted to be a pilot of any kind.”

With wisdom, his father added, “Then be who you will be, but be Christlike as you do it.” The fighter pilot father knew something about the process of working toward perfection, of becoming more like Christ. He was a returned missionary. He had married a worthy young woman in the temple. He had served where called in the Church. He was striving to keep the commandments.

Bob’s closest brush with death was while making a bombing run into North Vietnam in 1966. His F-4 Phantom jet, fully loaded to knock out an important enemy bridge, was shot out of the sky by a ground-based cannon. He got the aircraft turned around and did not eject from the cockpit until the last possible moment. That strategy got him ever closer to the friendly borders of Thailand.

On the ground he ran from the enemy soldiers and their dogs for 36 hours until he was rescued by a helicopter gunship. While running back toward Thailand, he prayed that he would see his young bride and baby again. But, if captured, he would try to be like the Savior. His faith would allow him to exercise courage.

It was never easy for any of them. Bob has worked hard in his service as a stake president. Paul has worked diligently to be a good young father. Mom has dealt with many crises in her life. They all have tried to face their obstacles in a Christlike way. Pain, hurt, and dread have been a part of their lives. It was part of Christ’s life, too!

Bob doesn’t fly jets anymore. He is now serving as a mission president. Paul is now a stake missionary. Mom has never danced professionally, though she has used her musical talents on numerous occasions. She is now serving a full-time mission with her husband. Each has lived a good and faithful life.

My friend, the former four-year-old, is a returned missionary, recently married, and now continuing his education. He did not grow up to that “awful curse” of becoming a bomber pilot. He is growing up wanting to become like the Master.