Gospel Story Finder

The young men and women of Santa Maria, California, live on the edge of another world, a mysterious, only partly explored domain that covers three-fourths of the earth. They know how to have a lot of fun where the sand meets the sea, and they set out one day in July to have as much of it as they could.
They started with horseplay, acrobatics, and sand surfing on the practically alpine sand dunes of Pismo Beach State Park, within sight of the surf. They had cut small, point-nosed sand surfing boards out of formica and had waxed the smooth surface with paraffin. They can sail down a steep dune as if it were the face of a giant wave.
Later there was frisbee throwing, sand castle building, and clam digging on the beach. Plying the clam forks vigorously, they added the basic ingredient to the clam chowder stock that was already bubbling higher up the beach, thanks to the efforts of the girls. One young man unlimbered his skim board on the wet sand. (A skim board is a round board cut out of plywood and then fiberglassed.) He would run a few steps, holding the board in front of him, then throw it down and jump on it for a slick ride atop the thin film of water left by a retreating wave.
The group couldn’t do any swimming at Pismo Beach because of the rough surf and dangerous currents, so they loaded the chowder and their sandy bodies into the cars and headed for Avila Beach only minutes away. Avila is a swimming beach, and the crowds of people witnessed that the water was fine.
After swimming, sunning, and surfing at Avila, they gathered at a beachside picnic table to enjoy the clam chowder. Afterwards, while most of the group sunned themselves, a couple of young men headed up the beach to a rocky area to explore tide pools, the basins of sea water trapped in depressions in the rocks when the tide goes out. They found starfish and other small sea creatures waiting for the sea to come back and reclaim them.
The next day the group headed back to the sand dunes for some cliff-hanging dune buggy fun and a little more sand surfing. They kept at it till there was nothing left of them but silhouettes against the sky and the sea.

Two missionaries teaching an older couple in their home in Peru were interrupted by the arrival of the couple’s son, his wife, and three children. The elders explained who they were and what they were doing. The son was suspicious of the missionaries, resulting in an awkward moment. The junior companion prayed silently, “Heavenly Father, what do we do?” The impression came to sing. They sang “I Am a Child of God.” The Spirit touched the hearts of this family of five. Instead of two converts, all seven became members, influenced initially by a hymn.

Six-year-old Jason rode down the street on his new red bicycle. It was the first time he had ridden his bike without his eleven-year-old brother, Ray, riding along beside him. Jason grinned as he thought about his big brother. Ray was fun to be with. He would often take Jason along with him when he went to the park or to the baseball field. But now Ray had gone to the store for Mother, so Jason was riding by himself.
“Aaaah,” he called as he pedaled past his mother.
She smiled and waved at him. Jason didn’t dare let go of the handlebars to wave back, but he gave her a big smile. When he turned around and pedaled back to his house again, his mother motioned for him to stop. Born with a profound hearing loss, Jason wore a hearing aid in each ear. The only sounds that he could hear were very soft and unclear, so Jason had only begun to learn to talk.
“Jason,” Mother said, at the same time using sign language, “I’m going into the house to do dishes now. It will soon be dark. Please come inside in just a few minutes.”
“OK.” Jason tried to form the word with his mouth as he finger-spelled.
Mom smiled and rumpled his hair before she walked into the house, and Jason pedaled his bike down the street again. It was exciting riding past the houses, with a rush of the wind against his face. Jason wished he could go farther than the corner. It would be neat to ride around the block. The thrill of such an adventure filled his mind. He decided to go partway around, then come straight back. But as Jason pedaled faster and faster, pretending that he was a fireman racing his truck to a fire, he sped down several blocks. “Aaaah!” he crowed happily.
Then the cry froze in his throat as he stared at the unfamiliar houses that he was passing. The bicycle wobbled and nearly fell over before Jason could come to a stop. He looked around him with wide, frightened eyes. Where am I? he wondered.
Jason turned his bicycle around and pedaled back toward the nearest corner. He peered at the houses in the gathering darkness. They were all strange. Jason choked back a sob. How would he ever get back to his own home? He couldn’t ask anyone for help. He pedaled up and down the streets looking for a familiar sight, but the longer he searched, the more confused he became.
Soon it was dark, and Jason didn’t know what to do. Suddenly there came to his mind a picture of his family kneeling in prayer, and he thought, I’ll ask Heavenly Father to help me!
Jason got off his bike and lowered the kickstand, then knelt on the sidewalk and folded his arms. Dear Father in Heaven, he prayed silently, I’m lost. Please help me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Jason opened his eyes, half-expecting to see a familiar face, but no one was there. He could see lights shining through the windows of nearby houses. He thought about his family in his own home and about how much he loved them. Maybe I’ll never see them again. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the thought. Then the words I am a child of God popped into his mind. They were from a Primary song that his mother had taught him.
“You can learn to say the words if you try,” she had said as she signed to him. “Then you can sing it with your voice, your hands, and your heart.”
Jason had tried. It was hard, but he could sing it well enough for his family to recognize it. Now he loved to sing it often, even though he could barely hear the sounds that he made. He knew that there was beautiful music inside him, though, because he had such a happy feeling when he sang.
Maybe, Jason thought, I won’t feel so scared if I sing. He squeezed his eyes shut against his tears and began, “I am a child of God,/ And he has sent me here,/ Has given me an earthly home/ With parents kind and dear. …”
As he sang the last few words, Jason opened his eyes. He could scarcely believe what he saw: His big brother was coming down the street!
“Aaaah!” Jason cried, leaping to his feet. “Aaaah!”
Jason started to run. He didn’t stop until he ran straight into his brother’s open arms. Ray caught him in a big bear hug, swinging him off his feet.
“I’d never have found you if I hadn’t heard you singing that song!” Ray exclaimed. “You’ve sung it so many times at home that when I heard that off-tune hymn coming to me out of the darkness, I knew just who was singing. It led me straight to you!”
Jason couldn’t follow all that Ray was saying, but he knew that he was safe, and he knew that Heavenly Father had answered his prayer.

Sara couldn’t wait to play with Jami. She called for her twin sister Sadie to hurry. It was the first time Jami could play all week, and Sara didn’t want to waste a single moment. It was always fun to play with Jami.
Jami opened the door as soon as she knocked, and Sara could smell popcorn before they even got inside.
“Mmm, I love popcorn,” Sadie said.
“My mom made it so we could snack and watch TV.” Jami hurried them into the kitchen.
They each got a bowl of popcorn to take into the family room, and Jami picked up the remote. “You got here just in time,” she said.
“Just in time for what?” Sara asked, munching on a handful of popcorn. It was so buttery! Just how she liked it.
“My favorite show!”
As soon as the show came on, Sara started to feel uneasy. Her mom had told her she wasn’t supposed to watch this show. She looked at Sadie, and Sadie seemed worried too.
“What should we do?” Sadie whispered.
Sara didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings, but she was starting to feel uncomfortable. After a minute, she said, “Um, Jami? We aren’t supposed to watch this show.”
“Why not?”
“Our mom says it isn’t a good show,” Sadie said.
Jami shrugged. “I watch shows on this channel all the time. I think it’s fine.”
Sara wondered if Jami was right. Maybe the show really wasn’t that bad. She didn’t say anything for another minute, but then one of the characters said some bad words. I guess Mom was right about this show, Sara thought.
Sadie gave her another look. Sara could tell she wasn’t feeling good about this either. Sara bit her lip.
“Well, our mom says we can’t watch it, so we’d better change the channel,” Sadie said.
“Just don’t tell her you watched it. It’ll be fine,” Jami said, not even taking her eyes off the screen. “You can come to my house and watch it every day if you want. Your mom will never know.”
Sara thought about that, but watching this show didn’t feel right, and lying to their mom didn’t feel right either. Sadie shook her head. She’d barely touched her popcorn. Sara didn’t feel like she could eat any more either. Her stomach was tight with worry.
“But I don’t feel good about watching it,” Sara said.
“Me neither,” Sadie agreed.
Jami shrugged. “Well, I want to watch it. You can stay and watch with me, or you can go home.”
“Should we stay?” Sadie whispered.
Sara shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“I guess we’re going home,” Sadie told Jami.
“OK. See you later,” Jami said.
Sara got up and followed Sadie out the front door. She felt better now that they weren’t watching the show anymore, but she was sad that playing with Jami hadn’t turned out like she’d hoped.
When they got home, Mom looked surprised. “What are you doing home so soon? Couldn’t Jami play?”
“She wanted to watch a show you told us not to watch. We didn’t feel good about it,” Sara said.
Mom nodded. “Thank you for being obedient. I’m glad you didn’t stay when it didn’t feel right.”
“Me too,” Sara said.
Sadie sighed. “Yeah, but what are we supposed to do now?”
“We could watch a different show, I guess. Or play a game?” Sara suggested.
“Yeah,” Sadie said, “let’s pick something we feel good about doing.” She ran to the cupboard to find a game. “And let’s see if Jami wants to play too!”

I pitched my helmet onto the shelf in the garage, hung my pads on a hook, and scuffed into the kitchen.
“What’s the problem?” Mom asked as I came in.
I flopped down on the nearest chair. “I was ten minutes late for practice and Coach Cooper gave me a lecture on being reliable and prompt.”
“Did you remember to take the bread over to Mr. Sams?” Mom asked as she poured me a glass of lemonade.
“Yes, and that’s why I was late,” I replied. “That old man just kept on talking and I couldn’t get away.”
“He’s rather lonely,” Mom said, “and seeing you in your football uniform probably reminded him of when he was a young man and able to play ball too.”
“If he’s so interested in the game, why doesn’t he come and watch us?” I asked. “The park is just around the corner, and the fresh air and exercise would be good for him.”
“He’s probably afraid to go down the stairs alone,” Mom said. “That’s how he broke his ankle last year.”
I took a big gulp of lemonade.
“Anyway,” I went on, “I was so late I don’t get to start in Saturday’s game. All the guys are mad at me because we’ll be playing the toughest team in the league.”
“Didn’t you tell Coach Cooper you were on an errand for me?” Mom asked.
“No,” I answered. “He would have said I was using you as an excuse, and then I’d get another lecture on responsibility.”
It was a long three days before that big game, but Saturday finally arrived. I was up early that morning to straighten the garage and take out the trash. I even checked with Mom to make sure there wasn’t anything I had forgotten.
On Saturdays I usually take soup to Mr. Sams, so I left ten minutes early to allow some extra time to visit with him.
“Well, you’re early today,” Mr. Sams said when he opened the door.
“Yes, sir,” I answered as I carried the soup over to the stove in his kitchen. “Today is a big game and I don’t want to be late.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Sams began. “That would never do. Why, I remember when I played back in …”
He sat down by the table and motioned for me to join him. Then he started to tell me again about some of his experiences playing football years ago.
When I figured that the ten minutes were over, I slowly got up from the chair and said, “Mr. Sams, I’d better get going so I won’t be late. I’ll pick up the soup pot after the game.”
“I’ll bet you play a good game,” he said as I gathered up my gear. “You’re a strong-looking boy.”
“I do my best,” I replied, heading for the door. He hustled along after me.
“I remember once when I was playing,” he said. “We were up against the toughest team in the state. It was the third quarter. I remember it like it was yesterday! Jason Clemons, our left guard, was …”
“Why don’t you come over to the park and watch a game sometime, Mr. Sams,” I suggested.
“I’d like to,” he said, “but I don’t get out much anymore. I watch all the games on television, but it’s just not the same as watching a live game.”
When Mr. Sams said that, I looked at him for a minute and I thought he might start to cry. He turned his head away and stared out the window. I remembered Linda and how unhappy she had looked and what she had said about being proud.
Now I knew what Mom meant when she told me that sometimes you have to listen with your eyes.
“Look, Mr. Sams,” I blurted out. “Why don’t you get your sweater and come to the game with me right now?”
I was late again! The team was on the field warming up when I came through the gate with Mr. Sams walking beside me. Coach Cooper looked upset. I took Mr. Sams to the bleachers and got him seated. Then I ran to the dressing room and put on my gear.
Just as I reached the bench, the referees blew their whistles signaling the team to clear the field.
I won’t get to play anyway, I thought, so it doesn’t matter if I did miss the warm-up.
“Tim! Coach Cooper shouted, and I ran over to him. As I got closer, he lowered his voice and asked, “Were you late for practice the other day because of the old gentleman you brought with you today?”
I looked over at Mr. Sams. His whole face was covered with a big grin as he sat on the edge of his seat eager for the game to start.
“Yes,” I admitted, and I was actually glad about the whole thing.
“Why didn’t you say so?” Coach Cooper asked.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand,” I replied.
“I’m a lot more understanding than you think,” he assured me.
Then Coach Cooper motioned for the team to come and join us. After explaining the circumstances, he said I could play in the game after all. Everyone seemed pleased about that—especially me!
I waved to Mr. Sams as I ran out onto the field for the kickoff, and he was smiling bigger than ever as he waved back.
Mr. Sams didn’t make a sound, but I could hear his happiness all the way across the field.

One of the advantages Christina Marinkovic, 23, from the Tiergarten Ward, sees in having a full-time missionary couple in the center is the example these lifelong Church members are to the young single adults.
Christina was first brought to institute by her sister. “I wasn’t interested at first,” says Christina, “but I had a good feeling. It was good to see young people who make good decisions and do the right things. And they have fun. They have fun without alcohol. That was for me a little miracle. Now I am the same way.”
Christina has come to know Elder Thomas and Sister Marilyn Alexander, the missionary couple assigned to the center. “They make institute so much better. We can see a good example of how it is to be married for a long time. It’s good for me to see that a husband and wife can be happy for 40 years and in love with each other. They still flirt. It’s so sweet to see.”

Growing up, I moved around a lot. But for the most part, Logan, UT, was my hometown. My father also grew up near Logan, and as a young man, he served in the Vietnam War. He and my mother met when he returned home, and it wasn’t long before they got married and I came into the picture. Unfortunately, he passed away when I was just five years old. I cherish the few memories I have of him.

My mother later remarried, and together, she and my stepfather had two children, my younger brother and sister. But eventually, she found herself a single parent again, and she struggled to support us, often working two or three jobs at a time. Lacking any formal education but possessing an incredible work ethic, she did everything from cleaning and painting homes to working in a coal mine. To this day, she is perhaps the hardest-working person I’ve ever known.

Sadly, her upbringing was extremely difficult, and because of that, there were very real and lasting effects that continued to impact her as an adult. This manifested in her life in a variety of ways, including in her associations with people of questionable character, and frequently landed her in tumultuous and precarious situations. As my siblings and I grew a bit older, we yearned for a little more stability, and they decided to move in with their father.

I was a junior in high school when a capital crime rocked our small town. By the time I was a senior, the investigation had narrowed, and my mother had become the prime suspect. The scene of her arrest will forever be etched in my memory as one of the most surreal and helpless moments of my life. I remember the look of shock on her face as officers handcuffed her and placed her in the backseat of a squad car. As she glanced my direction, she could see the fear in my eyes, and she adjusted her expression to reassure me that everything was going to be okay. But it would be 17 years before an Innocence Project would take on her case and succeed in getting her released and exonerated.

The months following her arrest were difficult for me. I managed to keep up with the rent for a short period of time and quickly learned some hard life lessons living on my own. One of the toughest lessons was in learning to balance my limited budget, and I soon discovered that spending money hanging out with friends left me very little money for food. I became quite creative with Bisquick pancake mix and turned it into all sorts of bread-like creations, including homemade, flavorless crackers that somehow lasted me an entire week. Some of you college students may be able to relate.

When the money ran out, I could no longer pay rent, and I was evicted from my studio apartment. Just months away from my high school graduation and under the perception of having nowhere else to go, I packed my few belongings into the back of my car. I was homeless and all alone. Each morning, I showered at a local gym, attended school during the day, and then worked into the evening so I could afford to eat and put gas in my car. After work, I’d find a quiet place in a local park where I could pitch a small tent and hunker down in a sleeping bag and a pile of blankets for the night.

Although the physical challenges were difficult, they weren’t the most unbearable aspect of my situation. With all the media coverage surrounding my mother’s case, it felt like the whole town knew who we were. It was hard to escape the well-meaning but often insensitive line of questioning I would get from acquaintances and strangers alike. It was easy to be distracted and preoccupied during the day, but at night, it was difficult to sleep. I couldn’t escape the feeling of being utterly lost and alone. I watched as my peers went through their day without a care in the world as their parents picked them up from school or cheered them on at sporting events. I even felt distant from my younger siblings, who were struggling through their own version of this tragedy but at least had somewhere to call home.

Fortunately, living in Logan had given me some wonderful experiences with members of the Church. Before my mother’s arrest, I had learned bits and pieces about the gospel. A few sets of missionaries had taught me about Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and His restored Church. One kind family had even given me my very own set of scriptures with my name embossed on the cover and their handwritten testimonies inside.

I often had rough nights there, in the darkness of my tent, but on one particular evening, I was overcome with intense emotional sorrow and despair. I remembered the things I had learned about Jesus Christ, and I desperately wanted Him to fill the enormous void I had in my life. I wanted to know Him and to know if He knew me. I cried out to Heavenly Father with all the pain and desire in my soul. Every part of my body shook as I cried, “Are you really there? If so, why am I so lost and alone?” I pleaded with Him to give me an answer, a warm, fuzzy feeling, or a sign.

As I stared into the night sky, I listened intently, and something happened that I didn’t see coming. Absolutely nothing. No answer. No sign. No relief. Just the reality of my situation and I couldn’t turn it off. It was a mix of emotions that I didn’t know how to process. And there was no rest that night.

The next morning, still feeling heavy-hearted and emotional, I picked up my beautiful set of scriptures and stared at them for a while. As my feelings of disappointment turned to anger, I stormed outside and thrust them as hard as I could into a nearby dumpster. I can still hear the sound they made when they hit the bottom.

If I could go back in time, I’d tell that boy that his future self would regret that moment, and that for the rest of his life, he’d wish he could go back to that dumpster and retrieve that heartfelt gift. If only I had realized then that a loving Heavenly Father had seen these challenges on the horizon and had inspired those around me to place those scriptures in my hands in preparation for the day when I would need them the most. But at the time, I just didn’t see it that way.

The story of the train is one of Brian’s favorites. One explanation of the drawing is that many years ago an important chief of the tribes who lived near Storybook Canyon was invited by the big chief of the white men (the president of the United States) to visit Washington, D.C. The Indian chief and many important leaders from nearby tribes traveled by steam train to the East. There they spent several weeks as the honored guests of the president.
When the Indians returned from Washington, the chief climbed onto the ledges of Storybook Canyon and there, like his people had done for many generations before him, he carefully carved into the soft rock the story of that important event. The train that the chief drew on the ledge is over ten feet long.

In a talk entitled “Freedom, A Terrible Risk,” by Harvey Jacobs, he related the following:
“In a Japanese novel of several years ago, the main character, wandering in a strange village, becomes trapped in the bottom of a sand pit. Food and water are lowered to him but no ladder. He wants out desperately. He begs his captors to let him go. He tries to bargain with them but nothing works. Months pass. The begging, the scheming becomes a way of life. After a long time he is granted what he wants, what he has been striving for with all his will, day and night—the freedom to come out of his pit and go on his way in complete freedom.
“Suddenly he is afraid, he is alarmed by the prospect of facing the world without protection. He could get lost, he thinks. In his little pit he was at least sheltered from unknown harm. Now he understands that freedom is not a reward but a terrible risk.”

One of the things that has shaped Matt’s life is diabetes, discovered when he was 12. He had to spend Easter in a hospital, badly dehydrated. How has it shaped him? “There’s a scripture that I like that could explain it better than I can. It’s in Ether, chapter 12, verse 27: ‘I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; … for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.’” Matt sits in thought for a minute. The night has deepened and warm, yellow light from the kitchen spills onto the porch. In the pasture below the house, a horse whinnies softly. The talk turns to the qualities of wood again—about the problems with the big knots in wood like pine, how hard and brittle they are and how difficult they make it to shape the wood. And how difficult it must be for the Lord to shape us if our hearts are hard and brittle. Matt sees the process of shaping people as a joint effort between the Lord and the individual. “You live your life and live the principles you have been taught, and the Lord will take you and show you things that you wouldn’t otherwise think He could do.” Each of Matt’s carvings starts out pretty rough. But bit by bit, piece by piece, he turns it into something. “I have a vision of what I want it to be. And I make the rough cuts. And when I get it carved out, I change a couple of things to make it better. And then I make a few more coarse cuts and make it still better.” And so the process goes. But it takes patience. “Sometimes you can get really involved in a piece and you ruin it because you haven’t stopped to look at what you are doing. You have to stand back, be patient, and wait,” Matt says. It’s like the experience he had with some of his investigators in the mission field. For example, one woman didn’t think she could give up smoking. “We had to be patient with her and give her blessings. But in the end, she made it and she, her husband, and their son and daughter were baptized.” Thinking back, Matt speaks fondly of his mission presidents and how they helped to shape him as a missionary, making him a sharper tool in the Lord’s hand. “I had a lot of spiritual guidance,” he says. And the people he helped the Lord shape? “I think about them a lot, and about how they are doing. I miss the people, the interaction with them.” Considering how much he cares about people, it’s no wonder Matt has been teaching sculpting at an area art center, even as his future is still being shaped. After all, a piece of wood is still just a piece of wood. But a life—now that’s a real work of art.

Many years ago I had an experience that greatly influenced my thinking about how to deal with potentially contentious situations. We all face them in our lives. How we choose to respond is within our power.

I had been invited to represent the United States at a conference in Japan that brought together officials and representatives from approximately twenty nations from around the world. Countries in Europe, North America, Asia, and Latin America were represented including the Soviet Union and East Germany. The Japanese, who were hosting the conference, had divided its work into three parts - the search for economic prosperity with an emphasis on trade policy, the search for justice with an emphasis on social policy, and the search for peace with an emphasis on arms control policy.

The format for the conference involved distributing the delegates into three groups with each group considering one of the three topics. The groups would then report their findings to all the delegates on the final day. At the time I was serving in the White House advising the President on economic policy issues and was pleased with the format and topics given my interest and expertise in trade policy.

The Japanese, in their deferential way, wanted the delegates to feel like they were not being asked to produce some preordained outcome and determined to have one of the delegates, a British Member of Parliament, Colin Moynihan, chair the proceedings. I was delighted. When we met that first evening, Colin Moynihan and I found that we had much in common. I had served a mission in Great Britain and later attended graduate school and taught in England for three years. I loved England and its people and we discovered that we had many common acquaintances. We both enjoyed sport. He had coxed the British heavyweight crew to a silver medal in the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympic Games. We quickly gravitated to one another and I felt confident that I had an ally.

When the design of the conference was outlined the delegates were asked to indicate which of the three subject areas appealed most to them. I naturally selected the area dealing with economic prosperity.

You can imagine my distress when my new friend informed me that I had been assigned to the group dealing with arms control policy. I protested that I knew little about the subject and could make a much better contribution on the economic policy panel. He responded that the Soviet and East German delegates were determined to serve on the arms control group and that it was imperative that the United States be represented on that panel. I could not dispute his logic. I saw the need and reluctantly agreed, but my enthusiasm for the task was distinctly limited.

In preparing for this assignment, I was eager not to misrepresent U.S. policy and so I quickly contacted our embassy and was provided with a stack of speeches, position papers, and other documents on the subject.

That evening I poured over the documents the embassy had sent, learning a great deal about the U.S. and Soviet positions on arms control. I approached the task as if I were going into a debate the following day. I outlined the central elements of U.S. policy and the evidence I would use to defend and advance it successfully. My experience as a debater propelled me down a path where I was fashioning a powerful case for the U.S. position.

At the beginning of the evening I was concerned about my lack of familiarity with the subject matter. As I warmed to the issues and learned many technical terms, I was pleased with the result of my efforts. I felt less anxious and more confident. It was now nearly 4:00 am and I determined that I needed to get some sleep, even if only for a few hours. As I concluded my prayers before retiring, an uncomfortable feeling settled over me. As I lay reflecting on it, sleep did not come. It became increasingly clear to me what would happen the next morning. We would meet and contend with one another. I would remain convinced that I was right and that the Soviet and East German representatives were wrong. I had what I thought were powerful, even sophisticated arguments. The Soviet and East German representatives would similarly remain persuaded that they were right and that I was wrong. Neither of us would successfully convince the other. At best, we would amicably disagree. There was also a strong possibility that we would engage in a polite but acrimonious exchange. We would both feel justified; nothing would change.

I then asked myself how the Savior would approach the situation. From his perspective, I saw the coming day in a whole new light. I recalled his words to the Nephites:

"For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another" (3 Nephi 11:29).

Soon, I had a very different vision for the approach I should take. My task was not to attempt to win a debate but to produce agreement, to find common ground, to avoid contention. With this new framework in mind, I returned to my notes and in less than an hour I had detailed a number of areas on which I thought we could reach some agreement as well as a number of areas where we would inevitably differ. I was surprised that the first list was longer than the second.

When we gathered to meet as a group that morning, I offered to serve as the rapporteur responsible for writing the report the group would submit. Happily, the others readily agreed. I suggested each delegate offer some opening observations to get us started. We went around the room. I was the last to speak.

I noted that as rapporteur I was in a difficult situation. It would be easy for some to expect that I would bias my report to align with my views. That would not serve our group or me well. Accordingly, I made two proposals. First, I said that after preparing my report at the end of the day I would visit each delegation, show it to them, and get their concurrence. If there was anything in the report with which a delegate disagreed, I would take it out, no questions asked. The Soviet and East German representatives looked surprised and relieved. Second, I said that I didn't think our report would prove very useful if it simply rehearsed our differences. Accordingly, I suggested that we try to produce a list of things on which we could all agree. Having made careful notes while others spoke, I read a list of statements, based on what others had said, which I thought might serve as the beginning of that list.

We worked on the list most of the morning. Later we turned to the task of defining our differences. Not surprisingly, we did not agree on everything. But, by focusing first on an effort to find common ground our discussions avoided acrimonious contention and produced much agreement. We were not paralyzed by those things that divided us. In the process, we gained added respect for one another. There was no spirit of contention. An assignment I had dreaded turned out to teach me a valuable lesson.

Billy loved Ashley, his baby sister. He really did.
What he didn’t like was that she took up so much of his mother’s time.
If his mother wasn’t feeding Ashley, she was changing her diaper.
If she wasn’t changing her diaper, she was giving her a bath.
If she wasn’t giving her a bath, she was rocking her to sleep.
And if his mother wasn’t rocking Ashley to sleep, she was taking a nap herself because Ashley had cried and kept her up most of the night.
Billy wished that his mother had a little more time for him. He dreamed about them doing something together. Like going to the park on a picnic. Just the two of them. Without Ashley.
One day, as though his mother could read his thoughts, she ruffled his hair and said, “I think that it’s time you and I did something together. Just the two of us.”
Billy beamed hopefully. “Nobody else?”
“Nobody else.”
“Could we go on a picnic?”
His mother closed her eyes and smiled. “Ah, yes, a picnic. That sounds good to me. Let’s do it this Saturday.”
Billy could hardly wait. He dragged out the old quilt for them to sit on. He washed out the thermos bottle and wiped off the picnic basket. He could almost taste the cold fried chicken and the wonderful thumbprint cookies.
Finally Saturday came.
His mother came into his room. She wasn’t smiling. There were dark circles under her eyes. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone our picnic,” she said. “Ashley is sick. I have to take her to the doctor.”
After his mother had gone, Billy put the quilt away. And the thermos bottle. And the picnic basket. Then he went into Ashley’s room. Her yellow rattle was on the floor. Billy kicked it. Then he was sorry and picked it up and washed it off.
When Ashley was feeling better, Billy’s mother took his hands in hers. “It’s time to plan that picnic again.”
Billy smiled. He got the quilt and the thermos bottle and the basket ready. He was very quiet and very kind to Ashley. He did not want her to get sick. And she didn’t.
On Saturday morning Ashley gurgled happily in her crib. The sun was shining. Billy’s mother was wrapping up the cookies.
The phone rang. When Billy’s mother hung up, her face was sad. “That was Mrs. Benson. She sprained her ankle this morning. She can’t take care of Ashley today.”
Billy didn’t bother to put the quilt and thermos bottle away. When his mother offered him a cookie, he shook his head. As he passed Ashley’s room, he wanted to push the door shut with a bang, but he remembered how he felt when he kicked the rattle, so he didn’t.
The following Saturday, Ashley was not sick and Mrs. Benson’s ankle was fine. But Billy could have cried—it was raining!
He thumped down the stairs. His mother was putting food in the basket.
“It’s raining,” Billy said.
“So I’ve noticed,” his mother said cheerily.
“So we can’t have the picnic.”
Billy’s mother laughed. “I think the picnic has been postponed long enough. Please get the umbrella.”
Billy did as he was told, though he couldn’t imagine a picnic in the rain.
“Everything will get soggy,” he said as they waved good-bye to Ashley and Mrs. Benson.
Billy’s mother handed him the basket. “You carry this. I’ll hold the umbrella.”
The two of them walked down one street and up another. Billy kept asking, “Where are we going?”
And his mother kept saying, “On a picnic, of course!”
Finally they came to a big old house. The kind you see in storybooks. It had a wide, wrap-around porch.
“Right this way,” Billy’s mother said.
“Whose house is this?”
“It’s Mrs. Benson’s house. She said that we could use it. Isn’t this a wonderful porch? It’s just perfect for a picnic.”
Billy held out his hands. He didn’t feel a single drop of rain. They would be snug and dry on Mrs. Benson’s porch—and they would still be outside!
It was a wonderful picnic! Billy ate three pieces of chicken and two cookies. He drank at least four cups of lemonade. Best of all, Billy had his special time with his mother.
They talked about all sorts of things. About the new ant farm in Billy’s classroom. About the trouble he was having kicking the soccer ball. About why spring was Billy’s favorite season and autumn was his mother’s. And they talked about when Billy was a baby like Ashley.
“Did I cry like Ashley?”
His mother laughed. “Oh, much louder. And longer.”
“Did I take up so much of your time?”
“More of it. I was new at mothering when I had you.”
“Did you love me like you love Ashley … even though I cried louder?”
“I loved you every bit as much.” She smiled, hugging him. “I still do!”
When it was time to go home, they made sure they left Mrs. Benson’s porch as clean as they had found it.
It was still raining. Billy carried the basket, and his mother carried the umbrella. “We’ll do something together again soon,” she said. “I promise.”
Billy squeezed his mother’s hand. She was busy these days. But she loved him.

My two-year-old son, Brian, was playing in the sandbox with his friend Scotty. Suddenly, sand was thrown, feelings were hurt, and Scotty started crying. I started toward the sandbox to initiate a parent’s perennial patching up, but before I had taken two steps, Brian reached out and hugged Scotty. Tears stopped as quickly as they began, hurt feelings were mended, and friends were reconciled. Then they both continued playing as before.

I would like to share with you a “But if not” moment in my life.
In early 2002, my husband and I were living in Rexburg. He was teaching junior high school, I was working here at the University, and we had four young children ages 12 to 2 years old. During this time, Dave was having some health issues. After discussing with medical professionals, our parents, and counseling with each other, we decided to move forward, and Dave was going to have laparoscopic surgery that was to help with the health issues he was experiencing. So in mid-July, we drove to Jackson, Wyoming, for the surgery the next day. That evening, we had a wonderful time by ourselves going to a movie and getting dinner.
The next day, the surgery went as planned. As Dave came out of the anesthesia, he was in a significant amount of pain. So we worked with the doctors and other medical providers to address the pain. By the next morning, the pain was still unbearable for him. The physician ordered tests and scans to try to determine why this was happening. The tests came back without any information as to why he was in so much pain. We were told that Dave needed to have another surgery to determine what was wrong. This time it would be more invasive and not completed laparoscopically. My parents came to support us during this time while Dave’s parents watched our children. Dave and I were both given priesthood blessings before his surgery.
I was so relieved that we were on a path forward to determine what was wrong and that he would be out of pain. As I waited for him while he was in recovery, a nurse I had talked with previously had told me that everything went well and the surgeon was very thorough. With this good news, my parents returned to Rexburg. So on that beautiful July day, I was filled with hope. I waited in his hospital room while he was in the recovery room. I was told it would not be long when he would be joining me. I waited and waited.
Eventually, a nurse came to me where I was waiting and asked me to go with her to speak with the doctor. He informed me that during the surgery he searched for anything that would be an indication of what would be causing the pain. He checked the sutures and looked for infection. He could not find anything wrong. He then proceeded to tell me Dave was unresponsive to their attempts of bringing him out of the anesthesia and they were going to transfer him from the recovery room to the intensive care unit. He asked if I would wait a bit longer as they continued to treat him. As the doctor went to the ICU, I slumped against the hallway wall and slid to the floor in tears. I have never felt so alone.
As I sat on the floor sobbing, I thought to myself that “I can’t do this.” Dave was always first in my life. We had known each other since high school and have always been together. I was later allowed to be in the ICU room with Dave while the doctors and nurses worked on him. At this point, his heart rate was a steady 160 beats per minute, his blood pressure was dropping, and his temperature was rising. This wise doctor informed me that the best thing he could do was to have Dave transferred to another hospital with a trauma unit. He did not think Dave would make it through the night if he continued to treat him.
After the initial shock of his statement, I felt I needed to find a quiet place to pray to my Heavenly Father. I recalled there was a small individual restroom in one of the hallways in the hospital that I had walked by many times. Once I was there, I knelt down on the cold tile, and through many tears I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. I told Him I couldn’t do it, and then cried some more. I finally asked for peace. I needed to know I wasn’t alone. I needed to know all would be okay. I asked my Heavenly Father to take this hard moment away from me—but if not, please grant me peace. At that moment, my anxiety left and I knew that I needed my Savior to be first in my life and that all would be okay. This was my “But if not” moment during this time. I left that restroom not knowing what “okay” would mean. Again, I was in tears. I kept thinking, “But if not, I know my Savior loves me and that I was not alone.”
There were many more “But if not” moments for me during the next two weeks. Dave was life-flighted to another hospital. He remained in a medically induced coma for several days. During this time, the doctors could not give me a positive prognosis for him. Over time and after many uncertain nights sitting in his hospital room, his health did improve. He remained in the hospital for over two weeks until we were able to go home.

I learned the power personal agency can play in the lives of others when I served in a stake young men's presidency. We gave everything we had to the youth of that stake: knowing their names, investing in their lives, and serving them in every way we knew how. This is a picture of that young men's presidency taken at 2:00 in the morning as we prepared on the eve of a youth event. But there is one thing that is wrong with this picture (besides the fact that it is 2:00 in the morning). There are no youth in the room. In our desire to serve, we had excluded the youth from the very activities that would have lead to their greatest growth. Fortunately, we soon ran into an experience that would change our service forever. In planning for a youth conference, we wanted to explore how perceptions of "what is cool" can be shaped by media and popular culture. Well, try as we might, four married men working at desk jobs were not going to tell the youth "what was cool." We were forced to involve the youth in developing the themes, writing the content, and leading the discussions. Our responsibility to direct and sharpen the experience did not diminish. But the youth were engaged in a role we had never experienced. By doing less, we had allowed our youth to do more. For me this story had implications not only for my service in the stake, but as a parent, a leader, and a teacher. Preach my Gospelexplains, "While learning from a good teacher is very important, it is more important for you to have meaningful learning experiences on your own."[18]

Let me give you an example. A while back a young woman from another state came to live with some of her relatives in the Salt Lake City area for a few weeks. On her first Sunday she came to church dressed in a simple, nice blouse and knee-length skirt set off with a light, button-up sweater. She wore hose and dress shoes, and her hair was combed simply but with care. Her overall appearance created an impression of youthful grace.

Unfortunately, she immediately felt out of place. It seemed like all the other young women her age or near her age were dressed in casual skirts, some rather distant from the knee; tight T-shirt–like tops that barely met the top of their skirts at the waist (some bare instead of barely); no socks or stockings; and clunky sneakers or flip-flops.

One would have hoped that seeing the new girl, the other girls would have realized how inappropriate their manner of dress was for a chapel and for the Sabbath day and immediately changed for the better. Sad to say, however, they did not, and it was the visitor who, in order to fit in, adopted the fashion (if you can call it that) of her host ward.

One who exemplified charity in his life was President George Albert Smith. Immediately following World War II, the Church had a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints in Europe. Elder Harold B. Lee and Elder Marion G. Romney took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City to view the results. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President George Albert Smith removed his own new overcoat and said, “Please ship this also.”

The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”

But President Smith would not take it back; and so his coat, with all the others, was sent to Europe, where the nights were long and dark and food and clothing were scarce. Then the shipments arrived. Joy and thanksgiving were expressed aloud, as well as in secret prayer.

Daniela Moreira, a Primary president from Mendoza, Argentina, said that children in her ward worked toward understanding the purpose of the temple. To meet this goal, they visited the construction of the Mendoza Argentina Temple. They also learned how families can be sealed in the temple and later made temple models.

“The activities of the spiritual aspect are those that leave the greatest mark on the little ones,” Daniela said. “They learn to recognize and feel the constant companionship of the Holy Spirit and become familiar with the feeling.”

I lived in Japan growing up. My family belonged to the Buddhist religion, like many families there. One day, I met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had a special feeling about them. I wanted to be like them.
When I joined the Church, only one other student at my school was a Church member. Being one of the only ones was hard. Some of my friends from school made bad choices, and they wanted me to do the same things. I struggled to choose the right.
I stopped going to church for four months. But every Sunday, my friends from church called me and asked, “How are you doing?” It helped me. One morning I had a strong feeling. I knew I needed to go to church that day. So I did. Since that day, I’ve never stopped going to church. I decided to stay on the covenant path.

Grandmother was visiting us, and we were just ready to go out on a fun family outing when a minor disaster struck—we couldn’t find the keys to the car. Children, parents, and Grandmother searched everywhere, but the keys were not to be found, and we thought in dismay that we would probably have to stay home. Then Grandmother excused herself and went into her bedroom. In just a few minutes one of the children suddenly found the keys just barely hidden under a corner of a rug.
As we drove happily to our outing, someone asked Grandmother, “Why did you go into your bedroom instead of looking for the keys?” Grandmother’s answer was absorbed carefully by five young children: “I knew how disappointed everyone would be if we didn’t go on the outing so I went in and prayed that we could find the keys. I knew we would find them after that.”