Gospel Story Finder

When Elder Ballard was a young bishop, a rowdy nine-year-old boy caused his Primary teacher a lot of angst. After several weeks the teacher escorted the boy into the bishop’s office and said, “Bishop, here’s one of your flock. Tend it.”

Bishop Ballard wasn’t sure what to do. But at that moment an impression came: ask the child to report every week about his behavior in Primary. Bishop Ballard issued that challenge, and it changed the boy’s attitude. The child saw that he could do things differently.

“I didn’t have that idea of accountability in mind before he landed on my doorstep,” Elder Ballard says. “But the Lord, by the power of the Spirit, inspires a worthy and a righteous teacher or leader to know what to do and what to say to bring the best out of anyone, in particular our young people.”

Incidentally, that nine-year-old turned out to be “terrific,” Elder Ballard says. He served a mission, married in the temple, and became a great leader.

A few months ago, I visited a city in the Asia Area where the gospel has been preached for many years. We had a devotional with some of the members of the church and had a period of questions and answers. One of the first questions was, “When will we become a stake?” I knew that a member of the Twelve had been in that same city about a year earlier. In response to their question, I responded by asking this question: “When you asked the member of the Twelve the same question a year ago, what was his answer?” The response was immediate –“You will be a stake when you want to be a stake.” They then said that they did not fully understand the response. Of course they wanted to be a stake – they had wanted it for years.

My response was then the same as had been given by the member of the Twelve a year earlier, with one clarification. “You will become a stake when you want to be a stake enough that you are willing to do the work that is needed to become a stake.” As you may know, in order to become a stake, there must be a certain number of members, and they must have a certain level of faithfulness in paying their tithing, and so forth. The things that they were lacking when I visited a few months ago were the very things that they were lacking a year earlier when a member of the Twelve had visited. In the year that had passed, they had lived good lives and had done much good. But they had not focused on the work needed to reactivate a relatively few members, or to invite a relatively few to receive the blessings of being full tithe payers or the work needed to invite a few more of their friends and family to receive the gospel of Jesus Christ. In other words, their desire to become a stake had not been strong enough to motivate them to do the things that they needed to do to become a stake.

Today, we are about 4 months from that visit. During those months, the district leadership, the branch presidents, the missionary force and others went to work to do the things needed to become a stake. I am pleased to report that within a very short period of time – certainly this year – there will be an additional stake in the Asia Area. This is because they came to understand that “desire” in the gospel of Jesus Christ always and must always include the action and work needed to accomplish whatever is desired. Remember, we show our desire to God by what we do, far more than by what we say.

The problem with Christmas this year was what to do about Grandma. She’s usually the one to solve the problems, not cause them, so everyone was caught off guard when she made her announcement at Thanksgiving dinner.
“I don’t want anyone to give me any Christmas presents this year,” she said. “I don’t need anything, and I’ve run out of places to put things.”
“Oh, Mom,” Dad said, “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “All my cupboards and closets and drawers are full. My china cabinet hasn’t one square inch in which to put another knickknack, and I have enough perfume to last until the millennium. I’m going on a diet, so I don’t want any fattening food around. When I say I don’t want any gifts, I mean it!”
We all knew she did. When Grandma got that tone in her voice, no one argued. She wasn’t angry, just firm.
The hard part was that everyone wanted to give Grandma something. She was one of our favorite people. If you had a wild wish for something silly, or frivolous, or just plain dumb, you could count on her to understand and come through with it. If you needed something comfy or cozy or cute, she made it for you. No matter what lopsided, glue-splotched project you brought home from school, she loved it, praised it, and hung it on her bulletin board. She had as many friends as a dandelion has petals, and she was always doing fun and thoughtful things for them. Everyone remembered her at Christmas.
When she said, “No presents this year,” everyone in the family recognized that Grandma was going to be a problem. They met at our house to decide what to do about her. As the oldest of the brothers and sisters, Dad led the discussion. “What are we going to get Grandma for Christmas this year?” he asked.
She said she didn’t want anything,” Mom reminded him.
“Surely she didn’t mean that,” Aunt Gracie said.
“I think she did,” Uncle Bob said.
“We’ll just have to think of something she will want,” Dad insisted.
“Why?” asked Uncle Jack.
“Because it’s Christmas, that’s why,” Dad answered.
Aunt Nan thought she must have some secret desire. Uncle Bob didn’t think she’d ever tell, if she did.
“Then we’ll have to figure it out,” Dad challenged.
“I know what it is,” I said.
No one heard me. They talked about microwave ovens, clock radios, and electric skillets.
I tugged on Dad’s coat. “Dad,” I whispered, “I know what she’d like.”
“Don’t bother me now, Janie,” he whispered back. “I’m busy.”
They talked about this and that and everything else and didn’t come even close to guessing the right thing. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore, so in the middle of the confusion, I shouted, “She wants a red wagon!” Then I ran from the room before anyone could get mad at me for interrupting. When I listened through the heater to see what they thought of my idea, everyone was laughing.
“Well that’s one way to make sure there is something for Janie to play with when she goes to Grandma’s house,” Aunt Gracie said.
I gave up and went to play.
Later, when the uncles and aunts had gone home, Dad asked me what was the big idea shouting out like I had.
“Because Grandma does want a red wagon.”
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“Because she always borrows mine,” I told him. “She comes over to get me to help her in her yard, and she says, ‘Can we use your wagon?’ and we put it in the back of her car and use it to haul plants or weeds or other things, and then she brings it back. The last time I was over there, she said, ‘I always wanted to have a wagon when I was little, but I never got to because I was a girl. In those days girls had their toys and boys had theirs. The only way I could take my dolls for a ride was to borrow my brother’s wagon. But it wasn’t mine, and I’ve always wanted one.’”
“Grandma already has that big wheelbarrow,” Dad reminded me. “Grandpa bought it for her birthday the year before he died.”
“But it tips the plants over, and when she gets to where she’s going, they’re all in a mess. Besides, it’s almost too big for her to handle. She’s tough, but she’s not very tall.”
“You have a point,” Dad said. “But a red wagon for a grandma?”
“Why not?” I wanted to know.
“It seems so silly.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think it’s a neat idea.”
Well, everyone was supposed to watch Grandma and listen to her and see if they could figure out what she really wanted for Christmas. All they found out was that she didn’t want anything. She kept reminding them over and over again.
I couldn’t understand why no one took my idea seriously, because I could see more and more ways it would be convenient for Grandma to have that wagon she always wanted. She could take it to the grocery store on nice days when she wanted a little exercise, to the post office with packages, or just out to the street with her garbage can in it. And it would be perfect for her to pull along as she worked in the garden. I’d even figured out a little rack to hold her trowel, scratcher, scissors, and snail bait. The rack would fit in the front of the wagon and leave plenty of room for plants or weeds. I knew that she would love it.
Finally, because they really couldn’t think of anything else, the family members decided to chip in and buy the biggest, reddest, fanciest wagon they could find for Grandma. The handle was just the right length, and the wheels rolled along so easily that it seemed to be floating. It was beautiful!
They decided to leave it in the backyard because she was so determined not to have any presents under the tree.
“She’ll notice it out the window,” Aunt Nan said, “and if she doesn’t like it, we won’t be embarrassed, because she’ll think it belongs to one of the children.”
But I wanted to make sure that she knew the wagon was hers, so I painted “Grandma” on it in big white letters.
I was the one who got to sneak it out of the car and put it behind the house on Christmas Eve.
Christmas morning came, and I didn’t want to open my packages until I found out how Grandma felt about her present. It would be an awful day for her if she didn’t like it, because there wasn’t one gift wrapped up for her.
It wasn’t far to her house, so I hopped onto my bike and rode over. She saw me coming out the front window, waved, and threw open the door to yell. “Hurry, Janie! Hurry!”
She sounded so desperate that I wondered if she was having a heart attack, and when I got closer and saw the tears running down her cheeks, I felt terrible. She must be awfully sad or mad! I thought. But then I saw that she was smiling!
“You’ll never believe it, Janie!” she cried. “After all these years, I got my wagon! It was sitting right out there in the middle of the back lawn.”
“Wow!” I said, “That’s super!”
“I thought I didn’t want a thing this year,” she went on, “but someone knew exactly what I’d like.”
“I wonder who it was,” I said, trying to sound innocent.
She grabbed me in a big hug, and I snuggled close to her.
“Someone who prints just like you do,” she whispered.
I never could fool Grandma.

When I was 11, I helped my ward build a new Church building. The members helped build them in those days—pounding nails, painting walls, and doing all sorts of things.
President David O. McKay was the ninth President of the Church and served from 1951 until 1970.
When I heard that President David O. McKay (1873–1970) would dedicate the building, I really wanted to be there. My parents said that I could go. I went early and sat on the front row.
I remember seeing President McKay up close. I saw the way he stood, how he talked to people, how he treated people. He had bright blue eyes and white hair. He looked like a prophet. When I heard him speak and say the dedicatory prayer, I knew in my heart that this was God’s prophet.
I had a powerful spiritual impression from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” Heavenly Father was telling me through the Holy Ghost that President McKay was His prophet.
Once I knew that President McKay was God’s prophet, I knew that the Church was true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I knew that the Book of Mormon and the Restoration of the gospel were true. I also knew that all the prophets, from Joseph Smith to David O. McKay, were God’s prophets too.
Now every time a new prophet is called, I’ve had that same confirmation come from Heavenly Father: “This is My prophet.” It all started when I was a boy.

“What are you doing?” Nate asked his big sister, Jessica.
“Writing a thank-you to Grandma for my birthday present.”
“I want to write one too.”
“You don’t know how to write yet,” Jessica said. “Besides, you write thank-yous to someone who gives you a present, and it wasn’t your birthday.”
“Oh,” said Nate, rolling his tongue around in his cheek. Then he started to grin. “I know someone I can make a thank-you for. I’ll be right back.”
A minute later, Nate dumped crayons, markers, and a big sheet of plain white paper on the table.
“Now what are you doing?” Jessica sighed, moving over.
“Making a thank-you picture. I can’t write, but I can draw.”
“Who are you thanking?”
“It’s a surprise.” Nate picked up a yellow crayon, drew a round sun, and colored it in. Then he used markers to make a red house with two blue windows and a door.
Jessica peered at it. “I know who that picture’s for. It’s for Dad.”
“No,” said Nate, smiling. He drew his black cat, Pepper, and the swing hanging from their big oak tree.
“I bet that picture’s for Mom,” Jessica said.
“Nope.” Nate picked up a blue crayon. He colored birds flying in the sky, and the pond next to their house.
“I’m done,” said Jessica, putting her note into an envelope. “Now I have to write Grandma’s address on it and send it.”
“I’m done, too,” said Nate, coloring a frog by the pond.
“I bet that picture’s for your kindergarten teacher,” Jessica said.
“No,” Nate said. “It’s for someone who gives me different things every day. It’s a thank-you picture for Heavenly Father.”
Jessica smiled. “You’re right, Nate. He does give us all kinds of presents.”
“Do you think he likes my thank-you picture?”
“Sure he does. Everyone likes it when you say thank you.”
Nate smiled. “Help me hang my picture up for Heavenly Father to see. Then I’ll help you mail yours.”

Allow me to share the experience of a faithful member of the Church who occupies a prominent position among the world’s microneurosurgeons. This is a position he has obtained, according to his own testimony, with the help of the Lord and through obedience to the Word of Wisdom. He joined the Church at an early age and promised himself to faithfully live the commandments. As the years went by, he had the opportunity of fulfilling two of his great goals—the opportunity to pursue a university education and to marry the woman of his dreams.
During this period of time something happened that totally changed the course of his life. One of his daughters became seriously ill with a brain disease which ultimately took her life. None of the efforts made in her behalf were sufficient to save her. During this frustrating and painful experience, which happened while he was a medical student at the university, he set a new and challenging goal, that of becoming a neurosurgeon. The fact that his daughter had suffered and died through a brain disease awakened in him the desire to study microneurosurgery, schooling that would be long and difficult.
Microneurosurgery requires, among other things, a great deal of physical discipline and dexterity. At this point in his life, while he was pursuing his studies, he discovered the blessings that come through obedience to the Word of Wisdom. He asked the Lord in humility and love that the promises contained in section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants would be made manifest in him so he could bless the lives of those who would depend on his skill.
During those difficult learning years, he worked untiringly to become the best in his area of specialization. As the years went by, he gained great dexterity in his hands and mastered the art and the skill necessary to work on the human brain. As we can imagine, any physical slip or unsteadiness in his hands could cause damage to his patients, perhaps injuring them for life.
As he studied section 89 of the Doctrine and Covenants, he obtained a strong testimony that when we refrain from taking into our bodies substances that are harmful to it, we are blessed with intelligence and a healthy and strong body. As a doctor, he knew that these promises were there, within his reach, and he had earnestly sought them in his own behalf.
As the time arrived for his proficiency exam, the final exam in his chosen career, he prepared himself with great care in order to perform to his very best and to demonstrate to the examining doctors the skills he had acquired. The day prior to the examination, he noticed some heavy trembling in his normally skillful hands, and in humility he prayed to the Lord, asking Him to make his hands firm and sure as they had always been to this point. The following day, he discovered with great alarm that there were unsure movements in his hands. He went off to a solitary spot, and, in deep meditation, he mentally searched for any sin he may have committed that would cause him to experience this problem. But in his search, he found nothing that might be contrary to the Word of Wisdom. Then he thought, “I need these promises to come to me now,” and he prayed to our Father in Heaven with all his heart that His guidance and protection would be with him.
The time came to perform brain surgery on his patient, and when the doctor saw his hands through the microscope, he noted with great emotion that his prayer had been heard and that his hands were steadier than they had ever been.
He felt a great surge of gratitude, and his sure and skillful hands flew in their activity, healing the damaged brain of his patient. The blessings and the promises of the Word of Wisdom were with him, and he was able to carry out this difficult surgery in an hour less than the normal expectation. It was a complete success, and he humbly accepted congratulations from the examining physicians. With gratitude in his heart for the success he had achieved, he returned to his home, and there, with his family, he reviewed the promises of the Lord that “all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones;
“And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures;
“And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint” (D&C 89:18–20).
Today as he visits some of the famous clinics and hospitals, and his colleagues have the opportunity of listening to him, he expresses to them and to members of the press: “First, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and then I am a microneurosurgeon.” Not all prominent men achieve the humility to be able to recognize the blessings of the Lord in their lives, which are the result of obedience to the commandments, as this good member of the Church has done.

I’ll never forget a lesson I learned as a young man, age 14, from a great leader. I went up to Scout Camp Kiesel east of Ogden in the summer of 1936. I reported at the lodge to our Scout executive. We called him “Uncle Dil.” You knew him as Elder S. Dilworth Young. Uncle Dil was our Scout executive. He had long legs. He was as tall as a pine tree to every young boy. He didn’t smile much, but he knew and loved boys.
I went up to the lodge and reported to him. I said, “Uncle Dil, I would like to pass my cooking merit badge.”
And then in his encouraging way he said, “Do you think you can cook without killing somebody?” You know, that really builds your self-image to begin with.
I said, “I hope so.”
Then he said, “Have you got a buddy who can run?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
He said, “Well, someone who can run up here to the lodge from your campsite every time you cook something.”
I said, “Well, Bob’s over here.”
“Well, all right, you send Bob up every time you cook something, and the examiner will come down to your campsite and taste it.”
I said, “Great! Who’s going to be the examiner?”
He said, “You’re looking at him.” Now there was nothing in the Scout book that said I had to pass my cooking merit badge to Uncle Dil. I mean, there were a lot of men in camp. Why Uncle Dil? Boy, I went back to my camp and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to become an Eagle Scout if I had to cook for Uncle Dil. I’ll never forget that week.
I had to cook an omelet. I sent Bob up the hill, and down the trail came Uncle Dil. I can see those long legs to this day. He came down to my campfire, tasted my omelet, and didn’t even smile. He just kind of grunted and walked away. Next I baked my oven bread in a reflector oven. I sent Bob up the hill, and down came Uncle Dil again. He tasted it and said, “It’s kind of doughy on one side, isn’t it?” Then I baked a bread twist on a stick over a fire. Then came the stew. I did everything that week, and never worked so hard in my life to try to please somebody. At the end of the week, just as we were breaking camp, I went up to the lodge and I said, “Uncle Dil, did I pass?”
He asked, “Did you do everything, LaMar?”
I said, “Well, remember you came down to our camp, and I cooked those meals for you.”
For the second time he asked, “Did you do everything?”
“Well, yeah, Uncle Dil, there was the omelet, the oven bread, the stew, the twist.” I enumerated all the things I had prepared.
For the third time he asked, “LaMar, did you do everything?” By then I was a little exasperated, I took my Scout book, opened it to the cooking merit badge, and went down every requirement, reading aloud and checking it off. I got down to requirement number ten. Number ten said, “Carve and serve a complete meal.” He looked at me and I said, “Well, I’ve done that many times at home.”
Then he said, “You’ll have no objection, then, to coming to my home a week from Sunday at noon to carve a roast and serve dinner for us.” I could have died right on the spot. I mean, no way did it say that I had to go to Uncle Dil’s home to carve a roast and serve a meal.
I prepared all week—we never ate so well in all our lives as we did that week. It was during the depths of the depression, but every day that week my mother had a different kind of roast, and I would carve it and make it look nice.
I got up on Sunday morning, nervous as could be. I went to priesthood meeting and Sunday School. Then I got on my bike and rode the two miles up the foothills to 24th Street and Taylor Avenue. Uncle Dil lived in a great big, three-story, red-brick house. The lawn kind of sloped down at the front. I took my bike and put it up by the old wooden porch. I climbed up on the porch and nervously knocked on the door. No answer. So I knocked a little louder. No answer! I said to myself, “Good, he’s forgotten all about me.” I got on my bike, and started to ride off of the lawn, and I had just reached the sidewalk when he came around the corner in his car with his family. They were just returning from church.
He asked, “Where are you going, LaMar?”
I said, “Just to park my bike over by a tree.” I didn’t dare tell him that mentally I was halfway home.
He got out of the car and invited me to go into the kitchen with Sister Young, “Aunt Gladys.” “She’ll have things there for you to do.” I went into the kitchen, and we began to get out the food that had been cooking during Sunday meetings.
Do you know that when you carve meat you carve it across the grain? Well, she brought out the roast. I had never seen a roast like that in my life, before or since. I couldn’t even find a grain. I went to work on it and tried to make sure that I got the slices even. I never worked so hard in my life. That roast had more gristle and bone than I had ever seen. Finally I got it all together and took it to the dining room.
We sat down at the table, and then Uncle Dil had the nerve to say, “LaMar, will you say the blessing, please?” Now there was nothing in the merit badge book that said I had to say the blessing at Uncle Dil’s house. Oh, I’d done it at home all right, but this was a little different. I said the blessing on the food, not sure if I was being judged on my cooking merit badge or my ability to pray.
Things went pretty well until halfway through the meal. Uncle Dil said, “LaMar, we’ve run out of bread. Will you go in the kitchen and slice some more bread?” Now that’s where I almost met my Waterloo.
I got into the kitchen. Aunt Gladys had baked fresh bread the day before. I was sure that Uncle Dil hadn’t sharpened his butcher knife for several years. I took that butcher knife and started on that bread, and the harder I sawed, the flatter that bread got. I’d get a slice off, and then I’d stretch it back to size and place it on the plate. Then I’d slice another slice and stretch it back. I sliced a third one and stretched it also. Then I got the fourth piece and stretched it. Let’s see—there was one for Uncle Dil, Aunt Gladys, Leonore, and young Dil. I decided that I didn’t want any more bread. I decided that four slices of bread were enough.
I took the bread back into the dining room, and we finally got through eating. Then I had to help clear up the table and do the dishes. When I got through, I said, “Uncle Dil, did I pass?”
He said, “LaMar, did you do everything?”
I said, “I surely hope so.”
My cooking merit badge was the toughest merit badge I ever passed in my life—lots tougher than lifesaving. But Uncle Dil was trying to teach me a correct principle. He was teaching me to do my best, to never take a shortcut, and I have never forgotten that lesson. I don’t think he did either.

A young mother was running late to a very important meeting one time. As she dashed from her bedroom, her little three-year-old stopped her and said, “Mommy. Mom.”

To which the mother replied, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Mom, I need to tell you something.”

“Not now,” said the mother with an impatient wave of her hand.

“Mom,” began the little girl again.

“Oh, what is it?” said the mother.

“I just wanted to tell you I love you!”

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
It’s the last Saturday before school starts, and everyone has an idea about the best way to spend it.
Dad just wants to relax with a fishing pole and doesn’t care if he catches anything.
Mom wants to spend the day with a good book.
Mandy wants to spend her time with her sketchbook, drawing birds.
Matt wants to go swimming to try out his new snorkel.
Good thing the Coopers know how to compromise and just have fun together.

In talking one day with her young daughter Elaine, Jean Shaw shared a personal insight. Jean told Elaine that she would not discover that “your faith is your own” until her parents died. Years later, when her mother passed away, Elaine recalled those words. Even in her grief, she realized she did indeed have her own faith in the Lord. Through believing the truth as it was taught her, receiving the ordinances of the gospel, and striving to keep her covenants, she had nourished her faith in the Savior. Her faith had grown gradually until now it could guide, comfort, and sustain her in the absence of her parents.

I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.

New Year’s Eve at Ramón’s houseHappy New Year!Happy New Millennium!
Sleepy, mi hijo (my son)?No, just disappointed. I thought the new millennium was going to feel different, but nothing’s changed.
I know what you mean. The reason is here in the scrapbook you were showing Tía Ynez. Do these photos look familiar?Of course. They’re from my baptism.
Did you feel any different after being baptized and confirmed?Well, yes—I felt clean and warm and good.
That’s because you really had changed. Your sins were forgiven, and you had the companionship of the Holy Ghost. In a way you were a whole new person. A new millennium just changes the calendar, but your baptism changed you.
Wow! My baptism was better than a once-in-a-thousand-years experience!

During my life I have found that it is very important for children to listen carefully to their parents. They can learn much from them. My father was a music student in Boston. He sat at a rented piano and played the music of Edvard Grieg, Frederic Chopin, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Robert Schumann. I can still hear that music and over the years I have learned to play most of it myself. It has added greatly to my appreciation of the world into which I was born. Those beautiful sounds have made a great contribution to my life, crowding out many of the uglier sounds we occasionally hear.

A 15-year-old son of a mission president attended high school with very few members of the Church.
One day the class was given a true-or-false test. Matthew was confident that he knew the answers to all except for question 15. It read, “Joseph Smith, the alleged Mormon prophet, wrote the Book of Mormon. True or false?”
He could not answer it either way, so being a clever teenager, he rewrote the question. He crossed out the word alleged and replaced the word wrote with translated. It then read, “Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, translated the Book of Mormon.” He marked it true and handed it in.
The next day the teacher sternly asked why he had changed the question. He smiled and said, “Because Joseph Smith did not write the Book of Mormon, he translated it, and he was not an alleged prophet, he was a prophet.”
He was then invited to tell the class how he knew that.

A number of years ago I was discussing with a group of 12-year-old girls the first line of the Young Women theme: “We are daughters of our Heavenly Father, who loves us.”
I handed out pieces of paper and had the young women write anonymously how they knew that Heavenly Father loved them. As they struggled to write, I heard such comments as “This is so hard” and “I’m not sure I do know.” I was particularly struck by Jocelyn, who had been in tears through most of the lesson. When I privately read their answers, I knew which crumpled paper was hers. She said simply, “Because He saved my mom.”
Her mother is one of my dear friends, and I too had been fervently praying for her. She had just successfully undergone surgery for a heart condition and was about to be released from the hospital when an artery in her spleen burst. Within minutes she was at death’s door. A team of doctors feverishly worked to revive her enough to prepare her for emergency surgery. Miraculous is the only way to describe her recovery. It was an answer to many prayers, including Jocelyn’s and mine. It was a powerful witness of God’s love.

The lesson I learned from this experience became even more important many years later when I had five teenage children of my own. Like many families, we occasionally found our family relationships a little strained or uneven. On one such occasion I felt like the key to family harmony was for my children to see things my way and act in ways I thought were right. They were not doing anything bad, I just felt they should change their attitudes to conform more closely to mine. To me, that seemed like the answer, but as I pondered the solution, the Lord spoke to me through my feelings. In my heart and mind came the message, “It is better to be one than to be right.”
I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. But I heard and felt it. After a lot of thought and prayer, I began to understand that it was more important for our family to be one than it was for me to be right. That realization pierced me to the core, and I could see that even if I were right about how things ought to be done, that knowledge alone would not bless my family. I remembered that the Lord had said, “Be one; and if ye are not one ye are not mine” (D&C 38:27). I realized that the only way to gain what we all really wanted was for us to be one and that if I insisted on holding to what I perceived as the moral high ground, we would not likely resolve our differences.
Most importantly, the message implied that I shouldn’t be expecting my children to change: I needed to change. Suddenly I could see that if I would change and do the things that would make us one as a family, everything would work out. The Lord truly helped me, and almost overnight I began to change. I focused on loving my children without conditions, without expecting them to change. I simply wanted to love them—and for them to love me.
That was not a dramatic change, but it was an important change of heart and mind. As my children became aware of the transformation taking place in their father, it was surprising how quickly we became one again. The strains we were experiencing just melted away. Harmony returned. Once again our home became a place of love.
Since those long-ago days my children have all married and now have their own families, and as parents my wife and I take such delight in them. We are all such good friends—best friends. My prayers were answered. Not the prayer to change my children, which is what I prayed for at first, but for the change that came over me as a result of my prayers. The Lord answered my prayers by helping me change.

One of the most challenging experiences of my life happened shortly after the passing of our 10-year-old daughter from brain cancer. The saying “You can’t take it with you” came with clarity as we looked around her room one Saturday afternoon.
Clarissa was gone, but her room still held the identifiable remnants of her earthly stay. We now had the daunting task of deciding what to do with her personal belongings. I knew that parting with a single item would not be easy, especially for my wife.
Dealing with the whirlwind of details associated with hospitals, chemotherapy, and radiation had left us little time to clean and organize.
Memories came as we packed up items she’d arranged on her headboard or bookshelf. They all held heartfelt meaning—from her favorite blanket, book, or necklace to her stuffed animals, schoolbooks, and football. My wife sobbed as we asked what to do with each item.
We gathered many of Clarissa’s books and took them to her elementary school for other children to enjoy. We gave her dresser to a neighbor. Some of her clothes went to cousins. Focusing on others helped make the difficult situation of parting with her things a little easier.

Claudiana: Shortly after Gustavo and I got engaged, I became very sick. We visited doctor after doctor, but none of them knew what was wrong with me. Most foods upset my stomach, and I spent weeks at a time in the hospital throwing up and losing blood. My quality of life was quickly diminishing.
Weeks turned into months and months turned into years, and I still had no diagnosis. The medicine that I was given to treat my symptoms made me swollen and caused me to lose my hair. I was soon unrecognizable.
I felt like a deformed monster and told Gustavo that it was OK if he wanted to break up with me. I didn’t want to compromise his happiness. But his eyes still shone whenever he looked at me, and he refused to leave my side. That was when I knew I had found true love.
After four long years, I was finally diagnosed with an aggressive form of Crohn’s disease and began treatment with a high-tech medication. My hair grew back, and my swelling disappeared. Five and a half years after meeting, Gustavo and I were finally married in the temple.

Sitting on a bench in New York City’s Central Park, Lynda Gunther takes small stitches in a quilt block while her children climb and slide and swing and run. For nearly 20 years she has been bringing her children to the park and stitching memories and values into bits of fabric.
“When Paul and I first moved to the city we had three small children,” Lynda explains. “Very few members of the Church had attempted to rear families in this city, and most people advised us not to try it. I thought of the small town where I grew up, of the independent and self-reliant women and men, and I wondered if I could bring those values into this new environment. I also wanted my children to be able to spend lots of time outside running and playing—so I began to bring them to the park. Sewing became a way for me to keep busy when I wasn’t playing with the children and also to deal with my uncertainties about living in the city.”
Lynda tried to incorporate the values of the people she admired into her new life in creative ways. Preserving food became for her a symbol of self-sufficiency, so when she couldn’t get fresh fruits and vegetables in the city, she made a list of all the things she remembered her mother and grandmothers putting into bottles and made quilt blocks representing many of those things. As she stitched, Lynda created a tribute to her pioneer ancestors and a family history for her children to enjoy. She also taught her family independence, hard work, self-reliance, the law of the harvest, and self-confidence in a new environment.
When the bottle quilt was completed, Lynda began working on a quilt featuring family stories. Other quilts have followed, including a memory quilt for each of her children. The tradition began when Lynda’s oldest child, Janelle, was seven years old. Lynda and Janelle collected Janelle’s best childhood drawings, special notes, and even a math problem and transferred them to blocks of white fabric. Lynda then assembled the blocks and quilted them on her kitchen table. By the time Janelle was baptized, her childhood was preserved in a quilt. Six other quilts, each unique and reflective of the child who helped create it, have followed. Lynda and her youngest daughter, Jesse, are now assembling the artwork for the eighth quilt.
The Gunther family-tree quilt is truly a linking of generations. Paul and Lynda, pictured in the ovals, were married in the Salt Lake Temple (top right) in 1966. Their eight children’s names wrap around the trunk of the tree. The acorns contain the signatures of Lynda and Paul’s siblings and their spouses. The branches of the tree represent the Gunthers’ ancestors. Lynda quilted their ancestors’ signatures onto the quilt, or if signatures were not available, she printed their names. The houses bordering the tree are representations of the places Lynda and Paul have lived.
Lynda encouraged the children to include pictures they imagine their own children would like to see. They have included drawings of family homes; self-portraits; and pictures of family members, favorite classrooms, playgrounds, and even the bus stop. The quilts are displayed on special occasions such as birthdays and other holidays.
“I would like to be able to write,” Lynda muses, “but that requires a cloistered environment, and I certainly don’t have that living in an apartment with a husband and eight children! I can work on these quilts at the park and at home and still be with my family. I was not trained as an artist, so when I began, I didn’t know what I couldn’t do—I was free to experiment and make my own creations. Some have not been as successful as others, but I like fabrics, and I like to work with them and make beautiful things with them.”
Lynda, surrounded by the fabric, the family, and the city she loves, explains, “This is the way I have recorded my own personal history and the history of my family.”

As a young married couple, my wife and I felt that trust and direction as we pled for the life of our firstborn, who lay in a coma with serious head injuries following an automobile-bicycle accident. Physicians later shook their heads when that young boy indeed recovered after having been diagnosed as having fatal injuries. We knew we had witnessed a miracle. You can imagine the joy that Sister Hansen and I felt earlier this year when I was able to ordain that boy—now a man—as a bishop.