Gospel Story Finder

There is a word in Japanese, mui, that, for me, captures this more faith-filled, contemplative sense of what it means to be still. It is comprised of two characters (??). The one on the left means “nothing” or “nothingness,” and the one on the right means “to do.” Together they mean “non-doing.” Taken literally, the word could be misinterpreted to mean “to do nothing” in the same way “to be still” can be misinterpreted as “not talking or moving.” However, like the phrase “to be still,” it has a higher meaning; for me it is a reminder to slow down and to live with greater spiritual awareness.
While serving in the Asia North Area Presidency with Elder Takashi Wada, I learned that his wife, Sister Naomi Wada, is an accomplished Japanese calligrapher. I asked Sister Wada if she would draw for me the Japanese characters for the word mui. I wanted to hang the calligraphy on my wall as a reminder to be still and to focus on the Savior. I was surprised when she did not readily agree to this seemingly simple request.
The next day, knowing that I had likely misunderstood her hesitance, Elder Wada explained that writing those characters would require a significant effort. She would need to ponder and meditate on the concept and the characters until she understood the meaning deeply in her soul and could give expression to these heartfelt impressions with each stroke of her brush. I was embarrassed that I had so casually asked her to do something so demanding. I asked him to convey my apologies to her for my ignorance and to let her know that I was withdrawing my request.
You can imagine my surprise and gratitude when upon my leaving Japan, Sister Wada, unsolicited, gifted to me this beautiful piece of calligraphy featuring the Japanese characters for the word mui. It now hangs prominently on the wall of my office, reminding me to be still and to seek the Lord every day with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. She had captured, in this selfless act, the meaning of mui, or stillness, better than any words could. Rather than mindlessly and dutifully drawing the characters, she approached her calligraphy with full purpose of heart and real intent.

I recently observed from a distance a couple who at one time had faith in Christ but then decided to discard their belief. They were successful in the world, and they found pleasure in their intellect and the rejection of their faith.
All seemed well until the husband, still young and energetic, suddenly fell ill and died. Like an eclipse of the sun, they had blocked the light of the Son, and the result was an eclipse of hope. The wife, in her disbelief, now felt disoriented, painfully unprepared, unable to comfort her children. Her intellect had told her that her life was in perfect order until suddenly she could see no tomorrow. Her despair brought darkness and confusion.
Let me contrast her painful despair with another family’s hope in Christ during a heartbreaking time.
Twenty-one years ago the newborn son of my nephew Ben Andersen and his wife, Robbie, was life-flighted from their Idaho farming community to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the hospital, and Ben explained the severe, life-threatening complications with their baby’s heart. We placed our hands on Trey’s tiny head. The Lord blessed him with continued life.
Trey had heart surgery the first week of his life, and more surgeries followed. As the years passed, it became apparent that Trey would need a heart transplant. Although his physical activities were limited, his faith expanded. He wrote, “I have never felt sorry for myself because I have always known the importance of having faith in Jesus Christ and a testimony of the plan of salvation.”
Trey kept on his phone this well-known quote from President Nelson: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”
Trey wrote: “I have always looked forward to serving a full-time mission, but … my doctors won’t let me serve a mission until at least a year after my transplant. … I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.”
Trey was excited at being accepted into the accounting major at BYU beginning this semester, but even more excited in late July when he received the very anticipated telephone call to come to the hospital for his heart transplant.
“One year,” Trey said, “and I will be on my mission.”
There were great expectations as he entered the operating room. However, during the surgery there were devastating complications, and Trey never regained consciousness.
His mother, Robbie, said: “Friday had been the most heartbreaking day … just trying to wrap our minds around it. … I had stayed up late just trying to process everything. … But Saturday, I woke up with a feeling of absolute joy. It wasn’t just peace; it wasn’t denial. I felt joy for my son, and I felt joy as his mother. … Ben had gotten up a lot earlier than me, and when we finally got a chance to talk, Ben had awakened with the exact same feeling.”
Ben explained: “Clarity came to my soul as God taught me through His Holy Spirit. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and was filled with indescribable peace and joy. How is this possible? … The passing of Trey is so very painful, and I miss him so much. But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. … I look forward to a joyful reunion.”
Trey had noted in his journal these words from President Nelson’s general conference talk: “It doesn’t seem possible to feel joy when your child suffers with an incurable illness or when you lose your job or when your spouse betrays you. Yet that is precisely the joy the Savior offers. His joy is constant, assuring us that our ‘afflictions shall be but a small moment’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:7] and be consecrated to our gain.”

It was a unique service project for a unique Christmas season. Many families in the northern California bay area were still busy rebuilding their homes after last year’s tragic earthquake and hadn’t given Christmas decorations a thought. But the girls in the Hayward Fourth Ward, Hayward Stake, had. They decided to make Christmas decorations for earthquake victims in the surrounding areas.
The girls made napkin holders, Christmas tree decorations, and Christmas wall hangings. Each piece was one-of-a-kind, and the recipients were thrilled with them, since many of their own decorations had been destroyed by the quake. Their project spread the true Christmas spirit to both the givers and the receivers.

I would like to see a new word in the English language dictionary: “Enjoyring”. I define this as “Enduring with joy”, a result of remaining on the covenant path. Let me tell you why:
On Christmas Day 2019, we had a large group of family and friends at our home for Christmas celebrations. It was a wonderful day with joy and peace in our associations with each other. After lunch, the children acted out the Nativity, dressing up as Joseph, Mary, and all the Nativity characters.
Later, we all sat around the pool enjoying and watching fun activities. Suddenly disaster struck. Our daughter Joslyn, who was born severely handicapped with cerebral palsy, suddenly started to have an epileptic seizure. I ran to her aid, knowing from experience that there was nothing we could do but wait for it to pass. We knew that the longer the seizure lasted, the more life threatening it would be. As we supported her, I could see that she was having great difficulty breathing, and that her lips were turning blue. I remember feeling desperate, thinking to myself that we had never seen her this bad before and realised she needed to be taken to the hospital immediately.
My wife, Mandy, and I left our guests and rushed off. In the car, Joslyn’s seizure subsided, and she was able to breathe a little better, but then she had a second severe episode. While Mandy drove, I sat in the back of the car with her so I was able to give her a priesthood blessing. When we arrived at the hospital, Joslyn was in a serious condition. She was quickly admitted into the intensive care unit for medical attention.
We returned home later that Christmas night, Mandy and I both feeling physically and mentally drained. In the car ride home, we talked about how we had just abandoned our Christmas guests, but we knew they completely understood the emergency. We knew that they had all returned to their own homes, and we concluded that we would spend the rest of that night cleaning our home. But when we arrived, we were very humbled and so grateful to find our home spotlessly clean, with dishes washed and put away, floors mopped, furniture and toys put in place—everything looking perfect.
We felt such gratitude for the thoughtfulness of our family and friends as they rallied together and cleaned up. Our spirits lifted, being the beneficiaries of such kindness after a stressful experience. That night we truly felt ministered to.
Joslyn spent the next week in intensive care, she had received a priesthood blessing, she recovered, and we felt at peace.

The Saints in the Longview-Kelso area of Washinton, some of them only a few short miles from the volcano, were probably hit hardest. Disposing of the ash was one of the least of their problems, even though they were inundated with it. Many of them faced the threat of flooding or mudslides ruining their homes, as well as the possibility of the natural dam of ash and logs that had built up, holding back Spirit Lake, wiping out the homes of the 50,000 people in the area.
“I went to bed really scared when only a foot more of water would have broken the dam,” said Devon Shaw, 12, deacons quorum president of the Kelso Ward. “We all did a lot of praying. When I woke up the next morning and learned that the water level was down, I knew that our Heavenly Father was watching over us.
“My dad was up on the mountain when the volcano blew up, and we were in Portland and were really worried about him. He called us the next afternoon to tell us he was okay. I was so thankful that my Heavenly Father protected by dad.”
Devon’s family was among the 25 families in the Kelso Ward that were evacuated to other ward members’ homes. Fortunately no Church members’ homes were destroyed.
“I was really scared when everything happened,” said Kathryn Pond, 13 of the Kelso Ward. “I knew that our house was high and dry, but I was afraid that we’d get wiped out too. The volcano is so big and can do so much damage, and we have no control over it. We really depended on our Heavenly Father to help us. No one in our ward was hurt. Some were in places where they could have been, but the Lord really helped us.”

This is Kaylee and Kyle. They’re twins. They’re getting baptized tomorrow. Grandma has come to visit.
Will you sit on the porch with me?
You seem worried. What’s the matter?
I’m nervous about getting baptized. What if I can’t breathe, or Dad drops me?
I was afraid to tell anyone because they’d laugh.
It’s OK to be nervous. I—
Are you telling stories without me?
Come sit with us! We’re talking about your baptisms tomorrow.
I had baptism jitters too. So my dad gave me a blessing.
After that, I felt calm. I knew being baptized was a good choice.
Do you think Dad would give me a blessing?
And me? I’m nervous too, but I thought everyone would laugh if I told.
You two are alike! Why don’t you ask right now?
Feeling better now?
Yes! I know everything will be OK.
Me too. But now I can’t sleep ’cause I’m too excited!

We can teach the importance of prayer to our children and grandchildren both by word and by example. I share with you a lesson in teaching by example as described in a mother’s letter to me relating to prayer. “Dear President Monson: Sometimes I wonder if I make a difference in my children’s lives. Especially as a single mother working two jobs to make ends meet, I sometimes come home to confusion, but I never give up hope.”

Her letter continues as she describes how she and her children were watching general conference, where I was speaking about prayer. Her son made the comment, “Mother, you’ve already taught us that.” She asked, “What do you mean?” Her son replied, “Well, you’ve taught us to pray and showed us how, but the other night I came to your room to ask something and found you on your knees praying to Heavenly Father. If He’s important to you, He’ll be important to me.” The letter concluded, “I guess you never know what kind of influence you’ll be until a child observes you doing yourself what you have tried to teach him to do.”

by Kari Ellertson
At the beginning of the year, our Laurel class started planning an activity for the following summer. We wanted to go to Los Angeles and see some of the sights there. For some reason, we just couldn’t get excited until someone suggested that we make a service project part of our trip. We called Brother Bill Andrew, a member of the Los Angeles Ward for the Deaf, and asked if we could visit his ward and put together a library for them. The church library they usually used was under reconstruction. Teaching most deaf members is very difficult without using many pictures to portray all gospel concepts, so they were in great need.
When summertime came, we made a few more plans, borrowed a ward member’s motor home, and arranged for some chaperons. The morning of June 11, we were off to Los Angeles—nine Laurels, two chaperons, and a ton of excitement all crammed into one motor home. When we arrived, we worked all afternoon finding, cutting, numbering, and filing hundreds of pictures for the library. Our own ward library had donated pictures, cards, and a filing system for us to refer to, but we did all the rest of the work ourselves.
That evening we attended a stake dance in the Glendale Stake. Finally we were home and in bed after an exhausting day. We were so tired that nobody seemed to mind sleeping on the living room floor in Brother Andrews’s home.
The next morning was Sunday, and we were up and ready for stake conference in the Los Angeles California Stake. Afterwards we attended sacrament meeting at the ward for the deaf. It was very interesting to see everything done in sign language. Even though there was such a difference in procedures, the Spirit of the Lord was strong and very much the same as in all ward meetings everywhere. That evening we were taught some sign language by the Andrews family, and we learned “I Am a Child of God” well enough to do it for sacrament meeting in our own ward.
The next morning we woke up late. We had to go, but nobody wanted to be the first to say good-bye. Brother Andrews gave us each a necklace that said “I love you” in sign language on it. We said our good-byes, promised to keep in touch, and then left for home.
On the way home all of us reflected back on our project, how happy we felt, and how strong the spirit of brotherly love can be when we are in the service of our God.

In 1998 I spent some time in the town in Northern Ireland doing research and conflict resolution for a United Nations group called INCORE.
During that time I spent most of my Sundays in Catholic and Protestant churches studying how the use of sermons promoted either peace or conflict. One Sunday, weary of all the research and looking for something more familiar, I walked across town to the LDS Chapel.
The building was large and beautiful, but inside, only a small handful of Saints filled the pews. Knowing that the church rarely builds big buildings until they have enough Saints to fill it, I enquired to one of the members.
He said something to that I had never considered before. The conflict between Protestants and Catholics there had torn apart the LDS Church as well. Old hatreds resurfaced and many good members left the church angry and bitter at each other.
The missionaries there reported similar stories in proselytizing. With people carrying war in their hearts, they had little time or use for a message from the Prince of Peace.
One member said to me, "Our hearts are so hard we no longer will let the Spirit in. We can't hear the Spirit. Our fighting is drowning Him out."

“Bookworm! Bookworm!”
Katie pretended she didn’t hear Brian and Matt yelling. She hugged her books to her chest and walked faster, but the taunts still rang down the hall. “Bookworm! Bookworm!”
She felt her face getting hot, and she wanted to turn around and scream at them. Instead she half ran, half walked the rest of the way to the school library door, pulled it open, and slipped inside. She could still hear Brian and Matt laughing.
“Hi, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. Katie thought it was funny for the librarian to be named Mrs. Reid.
“Hi,” said Katie softly, looking at the floor.
“What’s the matter, Katie?”
“Oh, just Brian and Matt. They were being mean again and calling me dumb names like ‘bookworm.’”
Mrs. Reid began to laugh. Katie looked up at her in surprise, and a sick feeling started in her stomach. “It isn’t funny!”
“Sure it is,” said Mrs. Reid, trying to stop her laughter. “I thought a bookworm was a squiggly bug that eats novels. And I have never ever seen you with your mouth full of pages!”
Katie looked down at the books in her arms and started to smile a little as she thought, What would those boys think if they saw me chewing up books and spitting out the covers? Aloud she said, “Mrs. Reid, you are the silliest grown-up I’ve ever met!”
“Sure,” said Mrs. Reid. “That’s one reason you like me. Now, can I show you my favorite book for this week? Or are you still reading the Black Stallion?”
“No, I finished it. It was as good as you said it would be!”
While Mrs. Reid went to get the book she had saved, Katie sat by one of the desks and looked at the new bulletin board. It said, BE KIND TO YOUR BOOKS.
Just last week Katie’s dad had said almost the same thing. Katie’s brother, Sam, had dropped his scriptures on the lawn after church. Dad had put his hands on his hips and said, “Samuel Jacob Rotheree, please take better care of my favorite books!”
Katie knew why they were Dad’s favorite books, even though they didn’t have shiny pictures on the covers like Mrs. Reid’s did. It was because they told about Jesus.
Mrs. Reid came back waving a new novel. “Wait until you read this, Katie!”
While Mrs. Reid was checking out the new book, Katie leaned against the desk. “Mrs. Reid,” she asked, “do you know about Jesus?”
Mrs. Reid looked surprised. “Well, sure. But I don’t think about Him much. Why?”
“Oh,” said Katie. “I just wondered.” She took the book and left the library. How could anyone not think about Jesus much?
That night when Katie was ready for bed, Dad came in to hear her say her prayers and tuck her in.
“Dad, Mrs. Reid says she doesn’t think about Jesus very much.”
Dad sat down on the edge of her bed. “Who is Mrs. Reid?”
“The school librarian. She’s really nice. She always saves her favorite books for me, and they’re good ones too. But she said she doesn’t think about Jesus. I thought everyone thought about Him.”
“Do you think about Jesus?”
“Yes.” Katie looked at the picture of Jesus she had hung on the wall. “I love Him because He is so kind.”
Dad squeezed her hand and smiled. “Why else do you love Jesus?”
Katie squinted her eyes and thought. “Well,” she said slowly, “because I like to read stories about Him—like when He went to see the Nephites and blessed all the little children.”
“I wonder if Mrs. Reid knows that story.”
Suddenly Katie felt excited. She sat straight up in bed. “Yeah, Dad! What if she doesn’t know that story? Can I take her a Book of Mormon?”
Dad was really smiling now. “Sure—that’s a good idea. I’ll tell you what, Katie. I have a brand new copy of the Book of Mormon that you can give her. I’ll get it for you.” In a few minutes he came back with a blue Book of Mormon that had a picture of the Angel Moroni on the cover. He suggested that Katie write her testimony in the front of it.
For a long time Katie chewed on the end of her pencil and tried to think of what to write. Finally she carefully wrote:
Dear Mrs. Reid,
This is my favorite book because it tells about Jesus. Jesus is Heavenly Father’s Son, and I love Him. I hope you love Him too. I love you, Mrs. Reid.
Your friend, Katie Rotheree.
When she finished writing, she felt warm, happy, and sleepy. Dad hugged her tight and said, “I’ll wrap it for you.”
The next morning Katie walked slowly to the library. She wondered if Mrs. Reid would like her present. Katie was so nervous that she almost didn’t want to give it to her anymore.
Brian and Matt came around the corner and saw her. “Hey! It’s the bookworm!” Matt sang out.
Katie ran to the library. Taking a deep breath, she walked right up to Mrs. Reid and held out the Book of Mormon.
“Good morning, Katie,” said Mrs. Reid. “What’s this?”
“My favorite book,” said Katie. “I want to give it to you so you can read it too.”
The librarian unwrapped the package, opened the book, and read what Katie had written. Then she closed the book and looked into Katie’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll read it. And, Katie, I love you too.”
The warm feeling Katie had had the night before came back, only stronger. She felt as if she could hug the whole world.
The warning bell was ringing as Katie waved good-bye to Mrs. Reid and went back out into the hall.
“Hi, bookworm,” said Brian as he and Matt walked past her.
Katie felt so good that she just giggled. Brian and Matt looked surprised. “I am a bookworm!” she said. “Do you want to see me eat books?”
Brian and Matt looked at her, then at each other. Suddenly all three of them were laughing and hurrying together down the hall to class.

In high school, Todd Sylvester had two goals: to be great at basketball and to be known as the biggest partier in the school.
At the age of 14, Todd started drinking and using drugs. He was not a member of the Church, and his parents did not teach him, as he describes it, “one way or another” regarding his behavior. Over the years, his drug addiction and alcoholism ruined his once-promising basketball career and sent him down a path that left him contemplating suicide.
Unfortunately, elements of Todd’s story can be seen in the lives of many young men today, even among members of the Church. However, Todd didn’t have something young men of the Church have: righteous role models. Adult Church leaders can be a great blessing to teens during one of the most critical stages of their lives. Because of his background, Todd, who joined the Church at age 22, now tries to be a positive role model to youth in his ward.
Brother Sylvester’s turnaround came when, during his darkest hour, he uttered a simple prayer: “God, I need help.” A month and a half later, a longtime friend, who is a member of the Church, called him up and said, “Todd, I felt prompted to tell you that we need you on our side. … You’re going to help a lot of people, especially the youth and kids.”
A few years later, after his baptism and temple marriage, Brother Sylvester was called to serve in the Young Men program—a calling that would lead him to 14 years of serving the young men.
Using his past as motivation to help the young men he was called to serve, Brother Sylvester found a way to relate to the struggles he saw the boys go through. “I think most kids are afraid to talk about when they are struggling,” he says. “But I shared my story with these kids every year. I think because of that, they felt comfortable coming to me saying, ‘Hey, I’m struggling with pornography or drinking or suicidal thoughts.’” Brother Sylvester could support them as they worked on repenting, which included visits with the bishop.
Leaders who listen and provide loving feedback to youth during critical times can create powerful connections that help shape a young person’s identity. Mat Duerden, an assistant professor at Brigham Young University who received his PhD in youth development, says, “Adolescence is [when individuals] develop a sense of personal identity: values, beliefs, roles, etc. That is an exploratory process. Part of that process is getting feedback from peers or parents or other adults, and it can be really powerful if it is a respected and valued adult.”
Brother Duerden continues, “The most effective mentoring roles are built on common respect for each other and the youth’s feeling that there is someone who really cares about him no matter how he dresses or speaks.”
“Most boys long to have a relationship with their dads,” says Brother Sylvester. “If they don’t have that, the next best thing is to be able to have a male adult figure they can talk to, bounce ideas off, and not be judged, ridiculed, or criticized because of their problems. I wasn’t there to replace their dads, but I wanted to be there so they could talk to me in a way that is healthy.”
While adult Church leaders can play a critical role in helping mentor a teen, prophets and apostles have said that the primary role models for youth are their parents. For example, Elder M. Russell Ballard of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said: “Fathers, you are the primary model of manhood for your sons. You are their most meaningful mentor, and believe it or not, you are their hero in countless ways. Your words and your example are a great influence on them” (“Fathers and Sons: A Remarkable Relationship,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2009, 47).
None of the strong relationships that Brother Sylvester created with the young men were immediate; he had to cultivate those relationships through years of service. Of the 20 young men he taught, 17 went on to serve missions. At least 5 of these had no intention of serving before interacting with Brother Sylvester.
“The reason why I had such success with these boys is that they knew I absolutely loved them,” Brother Sylvester says. “They knew it—not because I said it but because I acted it. I really focused on their having a relationship with their Savior. I just felt that was the key for them to get through everything and to move forward in life and be successful.”
By helping young men develop a relationship with the Savior, Brother Sylvester hoped that their testimonies would lead them toward serving missions, being married in the temple, and raising a righteous family. “That is the plan of happiness,” he says. “That is why [helping the youth] is important.”

I remember my first association with the welfare program. It was inaugurated in the early 30s during President Grant’s administration. Presidents J. Reuben Clark, Jr., Harold B. Lee and Henry D. Moyle were its principal architects. I was a bishop at the time. We had many people living in my ward in that depressed era who were unemployed and unable to sustain themselves. I remember we were in this building at a conference when President Heber J. Grant told us as bishops to go home and see what we could do to get together the basic food, clothing and other necessities of life required to care for our people during the coming year. I remember that in our ward we built some closets in the basement and gathered food and used clothing, which we put in those closets to take care of our people during the ensuing winter.

Illustrations by Mina Price
When Ian woke up, he heard his mother singing. It was “I Feel My Savior’s Love.” That was Ian’s favorite Primary song. He started singing along with her.
“You’re awake!” she said. She was smiling and had tears in her eyes. Ian saw his dad sitting next to her. He looked happy too.
“I’ve been singing your favorite songs to you every day,” Mom said.
Ian smiled back—but his head hurt. Actually, his whole body hurt, especially his leg.
He slowly looked around. He wasn’t at home. He was lying on a metal bed in a strange room. Then he saw a nurse and lots of other beds nearby. This must be a hospital, he thought.
“What happened to me?” he asked.
Mom’s face turned sad. “You were in a bad accident. A metal gate fell on you. You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks, but you are going to be OK.”
Two weeks! Wow, that’s a long time to be asleep, Ian thought. The last thing he could remember was being at the church building, practicing for the Primary program …
Oh no! The program!
“Did I miss the Primary program?” Ian asked. He had been looking forward to it for so long! He loved singing with his friends.
Mom smiled and shook her head. “No, you didn’t miss it. The ward decided to postpone it until you woke up so you could be part of it.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Dad said. “All the Primary kids asked the bishop to wait. They wanted you to be there. They knew how excited you were for it.”
Ian was happy he could still be in the Primary program. But he had to get better first. And that took a long time. He had to stay in the hospital for a while longer. When he finally got to come home, he still couldn’t walk or play.
But his friends got to come visit him. Ian would ask them about school and church. And they would ask him when he was coming back.
“Not until my leg is better,” he would tell them. “I still can’t walk.”
October turned into November, and Ian slowly got better. One day his friends invited him to come over and watch a movie with them. Ian’s mom and dad helped get him there.
“Does your leg still hurt?” his friend Chaís asked him.
“Yes,” Ian said. “But it’s getting better little by little.”
“Can you walk yet?” Chaís asked.
“I haven’t tried today,” Ian said.
“Here, let’s try right now,” Chaís said. She helped him stand up. Carefully, Ian put his foot down. He moved his body forward. He was still standing! It was his first step in over a month! Everyone clapped.
“Maybe this means you can come back to church soon!” Chaís said.
She was right. In a few more weeks, Ian’s leg finally stopped hurting. The doctors took the cast off his leg and put on a brace instead. When Sunday came, it was time for the Primary program.
During sacrament meeting, Ian walked to the front of the chapel with his friends. He stood up straight and smiled at his mom and dad. He sang the songs as loud as he could. When it was his turn, he stood at the microphone and shared his testimony. He was grateful for his Primary friends. And he was glad he could be part of the Primary program after all.
Ian lives in the Dominican Republic. Go to pages 12–13 to learn about this country and see a picture of Ian!

In August of this year, the Aaronic Priesthood young men of our ward had the assignment to administer the sacrament to the residents of a local rest home. I went along with them in case they needed some assistance. Naturally, they didn’t. Everything was under control. But as a result of my attendance there, I had a great experience. After the meeting, the branch president came to me and asked: “Would you happen to be related to Billy E. Dunn?”
I said, “Yes, sir. He’s my father.”
He then said: “Your dad was one of my favorite missionary companions. We served on the mission board together. And I’ll never forget when President Murphy sent us out in the mission’s old Model A Ford to tour the island. …” And he went on reminiscing for some time, telling me of his missionary experiences with my father in Hawaii fifty years ago. By the way he spoke, the light in his eye, and the smile on his face, it was as though he lived those cherished experiences only yesterday.

Some years ago I worked in the Missionary Department of the Church. We were developing materials to help missionaries be better and do better. One of the General Authorities shared this experience about repentance:
“A little over a year ago, I had the privilege of interviewing a young man to go on a mission. Because he had committed a major transgression, it was necessary for him under then-existing policy to be interviewed by a General Authority. When the young man came in, I said, ‘Apparently there’s been a major transgression in your life, and that has necessitated this interview. Would you mind telling me what the problem was? What did you do?’
“He laughed and said, ‘Well, there isn’t anything I haven’t done.’ I said, ‘Well, let’s be more specific then. Have you … ?’ And then I began to probe with some very specific questions. The young man laughed again and said, ‘I told you; I’ve done everything.’
“I said, ‘How many times have you … ?’ He said very sarcastically, ‘Do you think I numbered them?’ I said, ‘I wish you could if you can’t.’ He said, again quite sarcastically, ‘Well, I can’t.’
“I said, ‘How about … ?’ And then I probed in another direction. He said, ‘I told you. I’ve done everything.’ I said, ‘Drugs?’ He said, ‘Yes,’ in a very haughty attitude. I said, ‘What makes you think you’re going on a mission then?’ He said, ‘I know I’m going. My patriarchal blessing says I’ll go on a mission, and I’ve repented. I haven’t done any of those things for this past year. I have repented, and I know I’m going on a mission.’
“I said, ‘My dear friend, I’m sorry, but you are not going on a mission. Do you think we could send you out with those clean, wholesome young men who have never violated the code? Do you think we could have you go out and boast and brag about your past? You haven’t repented; you have just stopped doing something.
“‘Sometime in your life you need to visit Gethsemane; and when you have been there, you’ll understand what repentance is. Only after you have suffered in some small degree as the Savior suffered in Gethsemane will you know what repentance is. The Savior has suffered in a way none of us understands for every transgression committed. How dare you laugh and jest and have a haughty attitude about your repentance? I’m sorry; you are not going on a mission.’
“He started to cry, and he cried for several minutes. I didn’t say a word. Finally, he said, ‘I guess that’s the first time I have cried since I was five years old.’ I said, ‘If you had cried like that the first time you were tempted to violate the moral code, you possibly would be going on a mission.’
“He left the office, and I think he felt I was really cruel. I explained to the bishop and the stake president that the boy could not go on a mission.”
About six months later the same General Authority returned to that city to speak in a lecture series held in the evening. When he finished, many young adults lined up to shake hands with him. As he shook hands one by one, he looked up and saw the young man that he had previously interviewed standing in the line about four back. The General Authority related the following:
“My mind quickly flashed back to our interview. I recalled his laughing and haughty attitude. I remembered how sarcastic he was. Pretty soon he was right in front of me. I was on the stand bending over, and as I reached down to shake his hand, I noticed a great change had taken place. He had tears in his eyes. He had almost a holy glow about his countenance. He took my hand in his and said, ‘I’ve been there; I’ve been to Gethsemane and back.’ I said, ‘I know. It shows in your face.’
“We can be forgiven for our transgressions, but we must understand that just to stop doing something is not repentance. If it had not been for the Savior and the miracle of forgiveness, this young man would have carried his transgressions throughout all eternity. We ought to love the Savior and serve Him for this reason and this reason alone” (adapted from Vaughn J. Featherstone, in Conference Report, Stockholm Sweden Area Conference 1974, 71–73).

Young men in the teachers quorum of the Draper Fifth Ward, Draper Utah Stake, felt a need to be unified. The younger members of the quorum did not feel close to the older members. In a few days of vacation from school, the group decided to explore a nearby part of their state together. Through shared experience they hoped to find new friendships.
The group drove a few hours south into a strangely bleak and beautiful area of Canyonlands National Park. With red sandstone cliffs, twisted pinnacles of rock, and flat-topped mesas, the land was as dramatic as they had hoped for.
The late nights spent talking around the campfire and the days filled with exploring the Anasazi Indian ruins and swimming in the nearby rivers served as a common ground around which new friendships could grow. Through the fun of being together, the group found new unity.

“I grew up in Mormon country, but I never heard of the Mormons except maybe one time,” said Elder Hartman Rector, Jr., a convert to the Church. “I grew up in Missouri, and one day as my mother and I were driving over to Huntsville, the county seat, I saw a couple of mounds in a field. We were traveling about twenty-five miles an hour in a Model T Ford, so I had time to look around. I asked my mother what those mounds were. She said she thought that they were the graves of two Mormons who had died moving through the country years ago. I didn’t know what a Mormon was, and she didn’t say anything more about them. That was the only time, as a boy, that I ever heard the term Mormon.
“My home in Moberly was up on a hill,” Elder Rector remembered, “and a creek that ran about fifty yards below it formed a swimming hole. Everyone learned to swim in that creek. We called it the Old Well.
“I was the only boy in a family of three children, and I was spoiled. My grandmother saw to that. Her name was Lucy Ellen Mason, and she would save marshmallows for me. Back in those days, before plastic packaging, marshmallows in an open package would turn as hard as rocks. I still love hard marshmallows.
“My grandmother was very religious. I would spend a whole week with her before school started, and every night we would go to revival meetings (something like the meetings Joseph Smith went to before he prayed in the Sacred Grove to find out about the true Church). She would also read the Bible to me as I sat on her lap.
“My father never joined the Church. But I guess he’s about as honest and honorable a man as I’ve ever known. If he gave you his word, you never had cause to question it. He was a stern disciplinarian. When he told me that I had to do something, then I knew I had to do it.
“When I was about seven, Dad sort of hoodwinked me into milking cows. He said, ‘You’re not big enough to milk the cows.’
“Well, I knew I was big enough to milk them, so I said, ‘Of course, I can milk them.’ I got up early, got the bucket, and went out and milked the cows.
“My dad then said, ‘I believe you can milk the cows. You’ve got the job!’ For the next dozen years I milked eight to twelve cows each night and morning.
“Dad was a lot smarter than I was. One day I said to him, ‘I don’t want to milk cows.’ He replied, ‘That’s OK. You don’t have to want to. … as long as you do it.’
“My dad loved to play baseball, and I loved baseball too. I was sure I was going to pitch for the St. Louis Cardinals, and I might have done it, too, if the war hadn’t come along. As a result, I went into the service. Although I hate war, the Fourth of July and what it stands for always gives me a thrill. I have the strongest feeling for my country’s flag. I can’t see it pass by without getting a lump in my throat. I considered it a tremendous privilege to serve my country in the military.
“My mother was a sweet, wonderful woman who really loved my father. Their example had a great effect on me. I wanted to live like that; I thought it was the only way to live. It was quite a shock when I got out into the world and discovered that their relationship was rare.
“Sunday was a day spent visiting our relatives. My dad’s sister, Aunt Lila (whom I baptized in 1955, the only other member of my family who has joined the Church), had four children. My three boy cousins were practically my brothers. In fact, one of them came to live with us for a year and went to junior college with me. He even helped with the milking!
“I loved school. There were only thirteen pupils in my little school. They didn’t teach all eight grades each year, but alternated certain grades. They double-promoted me twice, so I missed the second grade and the fifth grade completely. I went from that little school to a big junior high school with three hundred sixty students. I found that there were many things I didn’t know, and I really had to study hard. By the time I got to college, studying wasn’t at all difficult for me.”

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels, bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold …
I knew the song well. At twelve years old, I knew all the familiar Christmas carols. But I wasn’t impressed. I preferred our own Navaho chants, although of course they meant entirely different things.
While I was willing to put up with all the nonsense about Christmas—the carols, the gifts, the parties, even the Christmas tree I was now looking for—I couldn’t see any angels. I couldn’t hear any “glorious song,” nor any “harps of gold.” What I was hearing was the monotonous clip-clop of my horses’ hooves on the mountain trail. And what I was seeing were ominous clouds looming in the east, the direction in which I was headed.
It was my mom’s doing, of course. “Billy, your sisters want a Christmas tree,” she’d said. “We can’t afford to buy one in town this year, so I want you to go up in the hills on our land and find a nice pine and bring it home.” When I’d let a disgusted look spread over my face, she’d pleaded, “Please, Red Eagle.”
White Feather, my mom, didn’t call me by my Indian name often, so I knew that she was serious.
Now here I was, riding my pony, Jubilee, and leading Old Buck, our packhorse, who would carry the tree home. But my heart wasn’t in it. Why did my silly sisters have to have a Christmas tree?
We were out of school for the holidays, and that part of Christmas I liked. On the other hand, it would take a full day out of my vacation to ride to where I could cut a tree, then return home with it. I could have gotten in a lot of basketball practice in that time. So it wasn’t any glorious song I was hearing.
I’d started out early this morning, and by noon I’d reached the edge of the timber where I hoped to find a just-right tree for the family celebration. Only I didn’t intend to participate. I couldn’t see anything to get excited about. I did, however, remember the third verse* of the carol that kept running through my mind.
O ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!
I could relate to that “crushing load” bit, all right. Lately that’s all my life seemed to hold—study, work, work, study. And the “climbing way with painful steps” figured in, too—I could feel Jubilee’s muscles strain as we scrambled higher up the timbered mountainside.
But I couldn’t sense any “glad” or “golden hours,” not out here in the middle of nowhere. And I couldn’t very well “rest beside the weary road” until I’d at least cut a tree, loaded it on Buck, and begun the lonesome journey home. I sure didn’t hear angels singing yet, either.
I did want to get a proper tree, so I tethered the horses and sat down to eat the lunch Mom had packed for me. That way, I could look around and spot the best-shaped Christmas tree—not too large, not too small, just one that looked like it was meant for our family.
I guess I was tireder than I thought, for I dozed off. Maybe it was “angel voices” that brought me sharply awake. Or maybe it was only Jubilee and Buck, shuffling to turn their backs to the cold wind that suddenly whistled through the pines. It was getting dark, even though it was only midday. I shuddered. Then the carol’s second verse popped into my head.
Still thru the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heav’nly music floats
O’er all the weary world. …
Angles again! If they were there, they certainly weren’t making their presence known now. Not, that is, unless they’d turned into the massive, wet snowflakes that were floating over my own “weary world.” I’d have to cut my tree and head toward home fast.
I’d already picked out one I liked, but since the air was churning with soft, white, wet feathers, I had to stop and figure exactly where I’d seen it. I led the horses to the spot, sawed the tree off at its base, and tied it onto Buck’s packsaddle. By then, there was no way to find the trail we’d followed up the mountainside. There was only that vast white wall of nothingness closing in on us. It was cold, too—a chill that penetrated right through my sheepskin jacket.
I remembered seeing a fallen evergreen not far from the Christmas tree I’d chosen. Its horizontal trunk would offer more protection than the upright pines around me, so I led the horses to it and again tethered them where they could stand with their backs to the wind. Then I hunkered down beside the lifeless log to wait out the storm.
How long it took, I’m not sure. But even though it was cold and the wet gathered in great blotches on the horses’ backs, on my sheltering tree trunk, and even on me, I knew that we would survive. By the time it stopped snowing, my watch showed 4:15, and it was now getting naturally dark.
“We’d better start home,” I told the horses, and I began to lead them to where I thought I’d find the trail down the mountainside. I’d ride later. I didn’t want to chance Jubilee slipping and falling on me.
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hov’ring wing,
And ever o’er its babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
As we started down the beautiful snow-covered mountainside, I was filled with peace. I could almost imagine the angels watching over us, could almost hear them singing. At home, Mom would be worried, but I’d been trained to take care of myself, so I knew that she wouldn’t panic when I failed to show up on time.
It wasn’t long till a sliver of dim light began to peep over the rim of the tree-lined mountain behind me, and I realized that the moon, almost full, was coming up. It would light my way home, glistening on the snow as we plodded along. And now, instead of the humdrum clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the trial, the rhythm of their subdued tracking through the snow did, indeed, somehow remind me of angels singing.
“Peace on earth, good will to men
From heav’n’s all gracious King.”
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
My sisters would have their Christmas tree. Maybe Christmas had a place in the world, after all. If the world could lie “in solemn stillness … to hear the angels sing,” then I would help them with their song. Jubilee and Buck never even flicked an ear when I started singing: “It came upon the midnight clear, …”

The story is called The Dot and the Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics, by Norton Juster, who is also the author of The Phantom Tollbooth. The book tells of a love triangle between a dot, a line, and a squiggle. Much of the humor and wit of the story is packed in the pictures. So, with the publisher’s permission, I will show the illustrations as I read. So, sit back and enjoy; it’s story time.
The Dot & the Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics.
Once upon a time there was a sensible straight line who was hopelessly in love with a dot.
“You’re beginning and the end, the hub, the core and the quintessence,” he told her tenderly, but the frivolous dot wasn’t a bit interested, for she only had eyes for a wild and unkempt squiggle who never seemed to have anything on his mind at all.
They were everywhere together, singing and dancing and frolicking and laughing and laughing and [who] knows what else. “He is so gay and free, so uninhibited and full of joy,” she informed the line coolly,
“and you are as stiff as a stick. Dull. Conventional and repressed. Tied and trammeled. Subdued, smothered and stifled. Squashed, squelched and quenched.”
“Come around when you get straightened out, kid,” the squiggle added with a rasping chuckle, as he chased her into the high grass.
“Why take chances,” replied the line without much conviction. “I’m dependable. I know where I’m going. I’ve got dignity!”
But this was small consolation for the miserable line. Each day he grew more and more morose. He stopped eating or sleeping and before long was completely on edge.
His worried friends noticed how terribly thin and drawn he had become and did their best to cheer him up.
“She’s not good enough for you.” “She lacks depth.” “They all look alike anyway. Why don’t you find a nice straight line and settle down?”
But he hardly heard a word they said. Any way he looked at her she was perfect.
He saw things in her that no one else could possibly imagine. “She is more beautiful than any straight line I’ve ever seen,” he sighed wistfully, and they all shook their heads. Even allowing for his feelings they felt this was stretching a point.
And so he spent his time dreaming of the inconstant dot and imagining himself as the forceful figure she was sure to admire.
The line as a celebrated daredevil.The line as a leader in world affairs.The line as a fearless law enforcement agent.The line as a potent force in the world of art.The line as an international sportsman.
But he soon grew tired of self-deception and decided that perhaps the squiggly line might have the answer after all.
“I lack spontaneity. I must learn to let go, to be free, to express the inner passionate me.”
But it just didn’t make any difference, for no matter how often, or how hard he tried, he always ended up the same way.
And yet he continued trying and failing and trying again. Until when he had all but given up, he discovered at last that with great concentration and self-control he was able to change direction and bend wherever he chose. So he did, and made an angle.
And then again and made anotherand then anotherand then anotherand then anotherand then anotherand then another
“Hot stuff,” he shouted, much impressed with his efforts. Then in a wild burst of enthusiasm he sat up for half the night putting on an outrageous display of sides, bends and angles. “Freedom is not a license for chaos,” he observed the next morning. “Ooh, what a head.” There and then he decided not to squander his talents in cheap exhibitionism.
For months, he practiced in secret. Soon he was making squares and triangles, hexagons, parallelograms, rhomboids, polyhedrons, trapezoids, parallelepipeds, decagons, tetragrams and an infinite number of other shapes so complex that he had to letter his sides and angles to keep his place.
Before long he had learned to carefully control ellipses, circles and complex curves and to express himself in any shape he wished–
“You name it, I’ll play it.”
But all his successes meant nothing to him alone and so off he went to seek the dot once again. “He doesn’t stand a chance,” muttered the squiggle in a voice that sounded like bad plumbing. But the line, who was bursting with old love and new confidence, was not to be denied. Throughout the evening he was by turns.
Mysterious.Clever. Dazzling.Profound.Complex. Erudite.Eloquent.Versatile. Enigmatic.Compelling.
The dot was overwhelmed. She giggled like a schoolgirl and didn’t know what to do with her hands. Then she turned slowly to the squiggle, who had suddenly developed a severe cramp.
“Well?” she inquired, trying to give him every chance. The squiggle, taken by surprise did the best he could.
“Is that all?” she demanded.
“I guess so,” replied the miserable squiggle. “That is, I suppose so. What I mean is I never know how it’s going to turn out. Hey, have you heard the one about the two guys who– “
The dot wondered why she had never noticed how hairy and coarse he was, and how untidy and graceless, and how he mispronounced his L’s and picked his ear.
And suddenly she realized that what she had thought was freedom and joy was nothing but anarchy and sloth.
“You are as meaningless as a melon,” she said coldly. “Undisciplined, unkempt and unaccountable, insignificant, indeterminate and inadvertent, out of shape, out of order, out of place and out of luck.”
With that she turned to the line and shyly took his arm. “Do the one with all the funny curves again, honey,” she cooed softly as they strolled away.
And he did. And soon they did, and lived–if not happily ever after, at least reasonably so.
Moral: To the vector belong the spoils.

These feelings bring a stake president to reach out, and miracles follow. A stake president from South America recounted an example of how this love moved him to seek after one who was lost:
“I had a strong impression that I needed to try to find a brother who had served many years before as my missionary companion. He was married and less active in the Church. His membership record was in a small unit 150 kilometers [93 miles] from the stake center. I traveled there and spoke with the branch president, who told me that my former missionary companion was living far out in the country. The president gave me directions to the small village. After a while the asphalt road turned into a dirt road. After many more kilometers, I realized I was lost. I stopped the car and was about to give up. It was a very hot day, and the car had no air conditioner. The dust from the road was difficult for my wife and children. I knelt on the road and asked for help from the Lord.
“Some hours later, we arrived in the small village and found my missionary companion. I invited him to come back. He became active in the Church and served in many leadership positions. His son served an honorable mission, and today my friend and former companion is a counselor in the bishopric.”