Gospel Story Finder

“I have had many experiences that have made me realize that the Lord will help you to do the impossible. When you operate like this, you learn that keeping the Spirit is the most important thing.
“One day, we had a work crew organized, and we needed 13,000 fathoms of sennett (rope made from coconut husks) to tie the pieces of the roof on the McKay house together. I had received promises from many people that they would supply the rope, but when I went to pick it up, no one had it ready. After driving all over the island, I had collected only about 30 fathoms. I was discouraged, and so I complained to God. In my prayers, I said, ‘We are working hard, and yet I can’t get the help I need.’
“I had to stop at the mission home to confirm another appointment, and one of the supervising elders said, ‘Brother Kamauoha, I have some sennett you can use.’
“I thought, ‘How nice,’ but I was sure an elder’s little souvenir roll of sennett wouldn’t really help us. He went into his room and came out with this big roll. He handed it to me and said he had about 13,000 fathoms as he wanted to build a Samoan fale (house) with it when he got home to the U.S.
“You can bet I hurriedly went back to the Lord and retracted my complaining. I was truly sorry for ever being discouraged.”

When I was in high school, one of my friends invited me to a party and said, “Let’s go ask my father if we can borrow his car.” His father did not want to let him borrow the car. Then, when his father saw me, he said, “OK, I’ll let you borrow the car, but only if Benjamín will drive.”
This man knew that my family and I were members of the Church, that we didn’t drink alcohol, and that I would be a safe driver.
The reaction of my friend’s father helped me appreciate my parents’ teachings and the example they set. At home we had family home evening and family prayer. Sunday was a day of rest for us. These types of things were the gospel in action for us, and we enjoyed it a lot. My father often invited other members of the Church to come to our house to talk about the gospel on Sunday afternoons. We ate together, we talked about the gospel, and we shared a close friendship.

Another story involves Ruth, a seminary student, who felt she had no occasion to exercise her free agency. At home she was a servant to her inactive and very demanding mother and stepfather. At school she had been placed in a specific seminary class without any choice on her own part. She decided to drop the seminary class as part of her decision to use her free agency. After two weeks away from the class, she returned—she had made a decision with her agency, and it was a decision she felt good about.

“I want to tell all the members of the Church that I loved my mission very much,” said Cambodian member Eng Bun Huoch, who was baptized on October 25, 1998. He served a mission in Phnom Penh two years later. “Serving a mission is not easy, but it is worth it. I can’t describe how important and profitable it was to my life. My two-year mission instilled in me leadership skills and teaching skills and showed me how to be a better friend, son, and member.”
After returning home on July 17, 2002, Elder Huoch was able to find a job that improved his quality of life. His testimony had been strengthened, and he felt better prepared to deal with the challenges of life.
“I thank the Lord that He brought the gospel to Cambodia before I was too old to serve a mission,” he says. “I would be very sad if I missed the opportunity to do this marvelous work.”

Vincent Poulaert (11) did not always know that Jesus Christ is the Savior, that He and Heavenly Father love him, and that his prayers would be answered. But he knows it now.
Early each morning the Poulaert family reads the scriptures together. Last year they were reading from the Book of Mormon. One day they read about Jesus Christ calling the little children to Him. Sister Poulaert loves this passage of scripture and asked her children if they each had a testimony of Jesus Christ. Everyone said yes—except Vincent. “I was pleased that Vincent would be so honest,” Sister Poulaert said, “but I was concerned also. I asked him if he knew how to get a testimony, and he said he did.”
Some of Vincent’s family teased him about not having a testimony. That helped him decide to do all that he could to learn if Jesus Christ was the Savior. During the next week he studied scriptures about Jesus Christ and prayed about what he had read. The following Sunday his family noticed that he wasn’t eating. They asked him if anything was wrong.
“No,” he said. “Today I’m fasting and praying for a testimony.” It was hard for Vincent to fast all day, but he did it. That afternoon, with tears in his eyes, he told his mother that he now knew that Jesus Christ was the Savior and his Friend.

Andy’s little sister, Trisha, had been born with many health problems. She needed extra help to do even the smallest thing. Trisha was 18 months old, but she couldn’t walk or sit up or even roll over. She couldn’t feed herself and had to eat through a tube.
Andy’s daddy, grandpa, and uncles had given Trisha many blessings, and Andy wanted to do something to help her too. He set a goal to help her do the things she couldn’t do for herself.
Every day Andy looked for ways to help Trisha. When he saw her trying to roll over, he gently helped her roll from her tummy to her back. When she struggled to sit up, Andy supported her.
One evening after Andy had helped Trisha sit up, Mommy and Daddy sat down to talk with him.
“We know you love Trisha very much and want to help her,” Mommy said. “But it’s important to let her become as independent as possible. That means we need to let her do the things she can by herself.”
“But Trisha can’t sit up by herself,” Andy said.
“She can’t sit all the way up,” Mommy said. “But she can pull herself up partway. We need to let her do that.”
Andy knew how hard Trisha struggled to pull herself up. He didn’t want her to have to work so hard. “Why can’t I help her?” he asked.
“When she tries to do things by herself, it helps her to grow stronger,” Mommy said. “I know it’s hard to watch her try so hard to do something. I want to help her too, and then I remember that Heavenly Father is always there to help and bless her.”
“Will Trisha be sick forever?” Andy asked.
“She’ll always have some problems,” Daddy said. “But we know that one day she’ll be resurrected with a healthy, whole body, and that she’ll be with our family forever.”
Andy knew that his parents had been sealed in the temple, and that he and Trisha were sealed to them.
Andy thought about what he could do for his little sister. He knew that Heavenly Father loved him and Trisha and that He listened to prayers. “I can pray for Trisha,” Andy said.
“That’s the best gift of all,” Mommy said, and gave him a big hug.

It was April 1992—summer in the Philippines. Our family was spending a vacation at a beach resort in Bagac, on the Bataan Peninsula. As soon as we arrived, my brothers and sisters ran down to the beach and jumped into the ocean. My parents went to look for a cottage to rent.
Confined to a wheelchair, I waited in the shade of some coconut palms, feeling the cool breeze caress my skin. I inhaled deeply and felt my face break into a grin. I turned my gaze to the seemingly endless sea and watched the sun blazing in the sky, a brilliant ball of fire.
On the beach, people were enjoying the warm sand; their laughter was audible even from a distance. In the water, swimmers were engaged in all kinds of activities. I watched my younger brothers practice their strokes. Elsewhere, some young people were riding jet skis or propelling paddle boats.
I thought, How lucky these people are to have the freedom to fully enjoy the beauties of the earth!
And then a wave of self-pity washed over me. I could not do the same. I will live all my life in a wheelchair. A feeling of gloom settled on me. I felt as though an actual force was trying to destroy my faith in Heavenly Father.
I began to pray. I prayed with all the fervor of my soul for this feeling of depression to leave. Into my mind came words I had read in the Bible. At some happy day in the future, it said, “the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. Then shall the lame man leap as an hart [deer], and the tongue of the dumb sing” (Isa. 35:5–6). A familiar yearning welled up deep inside me. My fondest desire is to walk, but doing so is beyond my abilities.
I was startled from my thoughts by the laughter of young children. They were filled with the excitement of discovery as they searched the wet sand for seashells. Suddenly my spirits lifted, and peace filled my heart. Someday I would walk. Someday I would even “leap as an hart.” In the meantime, my physical disabilities did not prevent me from feasting my senses on the beauties of the earth, pondering my blessings, and praising the Lord for them. Bowing my head, I uttered a silent prayer of thanks for the privileges I enjoy.

I should like to begin by relating a marvelous vision Joseph Smith the Prophet had concerning the Twelve Apostles in his day, which has profound significance for me. Heber C. Kimball recorded, “The following vision was manifested to him [Joseph Smith] as near as I can recollect:

“He saw the Twelve going forth, and they appeared to be in a far distant land. After some time they unexpectedly met together, apparently in great tribulation, their clothes all ragged, and their knees and feet sore. They formed into a circle, and all stood with their eyes fixed upon the ground. The Savior appeared and stood in their midst and wept over them, and wanted to show Himself to them, but they did not discover Him.” (Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, 2d ed., Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, p. 93; see also History of the Church, 2:381.)

As I began, I referred to the vision of Joseph the Prophet concerning the Twelve Apostles in his time. No one need assume that the Twelve who failed to see the Savior because they stood with their eyes fixed upon the ground had in any way failed in their labors. As a body they continued strong and steadfast in their ministry. Their discouragement was only temporary. Their labors were heroic; their acts were bold and courageous. Joseph the Prophet, at the conclusion of that vision, was privileged to see the completion of the work of the Twelve. Heber C. Kimball records: “He (Joseph) saw until they had accomplished their work, and arrived at the gate of the celestial city; there Father Adam stood and opened the gate to them, and as they entered he embraced them one by one and kissed them. He [Adam] then led them to the throne of God, and then the Savior embraced each one of them and kissed them, and crowned each one of them in the presence of God. … The impression this vision left on Brother Joseph’s mind was of so acute a nature, that he never could refrain from weeping while rehearsing it.” (Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, pp. 93–94.)

Of course, returning home after such an experience is a challenge. I met a good brother coming out of the Mormon Handicraft store just before Christmas. He had been in buying his wife a Christmas present. As I was coming down the street, he ran up to me and said, “Don’t you remember me?” I had to be prompted a little. When we last met, it was in the mission field. Living conditions were certainly not like home. But there was a radiance about him and his wife as we had opportunity to be with them for a day and witness their work.

I said to him, “It must be great to be back home.” He hesitated a minute, and then said, “You know, I’ve had a difficult time adjusting. I feel that we should be back among the Saints in the Philippines. They needed us so much. I don’t find that same need here. Can’t you send us back on another mission?”
Mission presidents always respond the same when I ask them the following question: “What can I do for you?” The response invariably is, “Send us more missionary couples.”

Now, to all you great couples who are hearing my voice today, I want you to listen especially to these words. Life has been hard. I know that. You have worked diligently for the security you now enjoy. You have struggled, reared a family, and saved something to have and to enjoy during this golden period of your life. But just sitting around will not give you what you really desire. Climax these golden years with the soul-satisfying experience of full-time gospel service.

I hear you stand and bear your testimonies, acknowledging your love for your companion and for the gospel. If that is really true, you will be like Andrew or Alma—not content until you have shared the fulfillment you have found in the gospel of Jesus Christ in missionary service.

President Heber J. Grant has said:

“I feel sorry for the man or the woman who has never experienced the sweet joy which comes to the missionary who proclaims the gospel of Jesus Christ, who bring honest souls to a knowledge of the truth, and who hears the expressions of gratitude and thanksgiving that come from the hearts of those who have been brought by his labor to a comprehension of life eternal. So also do I feel sorry for those who have never experienced the sweet joy resulting from reaching out their hands and helping those who were needy. Assuredly there is more blessing comes to us from giving than in accumulating; there is no question of this in my mind. There is also more blessing comes to us in going forth to proclaim the gospel of Jesus Christ, and laboring for the salvation of the souls of men, than can possibly come to us by merely having a knowledge of the truth of our religion, and then remaining at home to mingle and labor in the ordinary affairs of life, and accumulate the wealth of this world that perishes with the using. One great trouble is that we ofttimes lose sight of what is the most valuable labor for us to perform, the labor that will be most pleasing in the sight of our Heavenly Father.” (Gospel Standards, comp. G. Homer Durham, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1969, p. 104.)

Bishops, will you please give more encouragement to the healthy, retired, or soon-to-be retired couples who are considering missions? Many are awaiting your call, reluctant to come forward and ask. How we need their maturity, their wisdom, and their experience in our rapidly growing Church!

Bishops, instill in these couples a desire and the confidence that they will need for this exciting service. They will not be expected to learn the same program as our young missionaries. Let them know that we want to utilize the talents they already possess after a lifetime of growth and development.

May the Lord bless you great, mature couples in the Church with an earnest desire to be anxiously engaged in His service.

I leave you my witness of the truthfulness of this great work, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Janean spent the day working with Lottie Dayton, putting size labels on clothing and hanging apparel on racks.
“If I weren’t here today, I’d just be sitting home, or maybe riding my horse,” Janean said. “This is more important—it’s more important to serve the Lord than to serve yourself. That’s what Christmas is all about, helping others. We had to put priorities in order. Sure, it was hard to squeeze everything in, especially when we were trying to do Christmas shopping of our own. But we were excited to come down here, and she’s so sweet …”
Her voice trailed off as she looked over at Sister Dayton, who was still hanging things on the rack as she softly hummed “Where Love Is.”
As young and old labored amid clothing baling machines, steam tunnels (used to remove wrinkles from clothing), label racks, and sorting tables, the workshop did turn out some Christmas magic after all. By the end of each shift, there were no young and old, no handicapped and nonhandicapped, just friends, co-workers, and fellow Saints.
The same spirit prevailed at a Christmas party ten days later.
“We brought all the workers to the stake center,” Nan Brian of the Uintah First Ward explained. “When they got there, we gave each one an ornament with his name and the name of one of the kids in the stake who had worked with him printed on it. Then we did all we could to make them realize we are their friends.”
That included a program of carols, stories, a visit from Santa Claus, and of course, the true story of the birth of Christ as recorded in the scriptures.
As the workers were escorted home and the youth of the Weber Stake returned to their final holiday preparations, there was a warmth and a glow about both groups. Some had learned that others still cared, and some had learned that caring is the solid foundation of December’s glorious celebration.

The next morning, Sunday dawns warm and sunny, with a sky full of puffy white clouds. Buenos Aires is a beautiful city of broad, tree-lined boulevards—think of it as Paris with palm trees. Later in the morning, sidewalks and parks will fill with people out for a stroll. For now, some of the busiest places are the LDS chapels, like the one in the suburb of Belgrano. Here you meet young people like Federico Casco. His dad was going to the United States on business, and Federico had the chance to go along and visit Disneyland. Instead, he stayed home so he could have four years of perfect attendance at seminary. Now he’s graduated, and he says, “It was a light in my life. It helped me obtain a stronger testimony and helped me decide to go on a mission.”

Going on missions is not easy for Argentine youth. The economy is just starting to improve after years of high unemployment and super-high inflation. There are very few jobs available for young people under 18, so saving money is tough. On the bright side, without part-time jobs, friends have more time for each other and for Church service.

Mauro Berta is first counselor in his ward Sunday School and an assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Florencia Gomez is Young Women’s secretary and teaches the Stars in Primary. And Guillermo Pitbladdo is Sunday School president. Sunday night finds them at the Pacheco chapel with other friends from their stake.

These are not just recent converts, clinging to seminary to learn about their new faith. Many of them come from second- and third-generation Latter-day Saint families. They have been taught the gospel in their homes. But Diego Griffith says, “Everything I had not learned during the fourteen years that I have been a member of the Church I learned in four years of seminary. That’s where I started to become more familiar with the scriptures and where I learned about the promises of the Lord.”

Besides, as Debora Walker points out, when you are a teen, there seem to be lots more temptations around, and without seminary “it would be much more difficult to resist those temptations.”

Maybe Juan José Zopetti sums it up best: “Seminary helps me primarily to increase my testimony of Jesus Christ—his love and his mission.”

That restored knowledge of Jesus Christ—his mission and commandments—that’s the gospel. That’s what Elder Ballard sent rolling forth across a whole continent nearly 70 years ago. And here at the center, where it began, LDS youth are making sure the wave is still building.

Who would have known that what began as a lemonade stand fund-raiser for Help a Child Smile would evolve into a carnival organized and run by Lindsay Schoen, with more than $10,000 raised during the past seven years?
Her provide-a-service idea first began with a lemonade stand that became a fixture near her Fielden Avenue home. Lindsay had already decided she would donate the money from her little business to Help a Child Smile, a nonprofit charitable organization that provides trips and gifts for sick Canadian children.
“The year after I had my stand, I went to [Help a Child Smile’s] big fund-raiser and I gave them $50 that I had earned,” Lindsay says. “I thought it was really cool. I didn’t even know how much money I had because I just kept all the money I made in a little box. Then I counted it out and gave it to them. I thought it was pretty neat.” So did the people at Help a Child Smile.
During Lindsay’s sickness, Help a Child Smile had selected Lindsay’s family for an all-expenses-paid trip to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. Lindsay had directly benefitted from people’s generosity, and now she wanted other cancer patients to experience the same thing she had.
That was when the grade-school businesswoman hatched the carnival idea. It was time to diversify, time to turn her lemonade stand into something a little bigger. Lindsay set a goal to make $100 at the first carnival, replete with a fish pond, a ring toss, and crafts table. She advertised the carnival by putting up posters on telephone poles around Port Colborne, and she sold tickets for 25 cents each. She even got people to donate some of the prizes, as well as food.
“I just didn’t know if anyone would come,” Lindsay says.
She couldn’t have been more wrong. By the end of that first carnival, the money she had made wouldn’t fit in her trusty box. “We made over $750,” Lindsay says.
Each year since, the carnival has been improved and upgraded. No longer is it held in the Schoens’ backyard. Instead, the front lawn of a water treatment plant hosts the pony rides, clowns, pie sale, and dunk tank—where Port Colborne’s mayor gladly agrees to let people try to knock him in the water. But since Lindsay knows the mayor personally, it wasn’t difficult convincing the politician he needed to participate. After all, he’d watched her struggle with the cancer she eventually beat.
“I didn’t mind getting knocked in the water,” says Mayor Neal Schoen, Lindsay’s dad. His Honor got wet all over again at Lindsay Schoen’s Seventh Annual Carnival, held last August. People pay for 25-cent tickets with a five-dollar bill, or they buy a lemon meringue pie for $100. After all these years, the people of Port Colborne seem to have the same vision Lindsay does, even if it does cause her to stress a bit.
“I just love doing the carnival. You can feel the Spirit when you do it,” Lindsay says. “And when I give the money to Help a Child Smile, I feel the Spirit so strong. It’s really cool.”
Funny how that works. Lindsay is doing her best to help some children smile, and it seems she’s the one doing all the smiling.

Growing up, I thought my family history work was done. By the time I was old enough to go to the temple, all my recorded ancestors’ ordinances had been completed. It didn’t seem like there was anything else I could do.
Then I found the records for my great-great-grandma Elva Butler.
Elva was born in Utah after her parents moved there with the pioneers. She made all her own covenants while she was alive, so I didn’t think I could do anything for her. But discovering her records turned out to be a huge blessing—for me!
I never met Elva, but after looking through her photos, journal entries, and letters, I felt like I knew her. She loved books and poetry, just like me! I admired how she trusted God during her personal hardships.
Because of her faith, my faith has been strengthened. I feel that she and my other ancestors are watching over me.

Teenage siblings, Latoya and Cruzze Sanderson, recently found comfort and answers to their questions as they met with missionaries and attended sacrament meetings and youth classes and activities.
Cruzze says, “Who I am now compared to where I was is a huge blessing from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. [At my baptism], after I came out of the water, I felt refreshed, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.”

Still later, when I was in my last year at Auckland University Law School, I had one exam left to finish my degree. I was married with two children, working, and second counselor in a bishopric at the same time. So life was fairly busy, and I was looking forward to being done with college so some of the pressure would be gone.
At 9:30 in the morning, I went to the law library to get “warmed up” for the exam at 2:30 that afternoon. As I was sitting there studying, I looked around. I couldn’t see anybody from my class there, and I thought that was a bit unusual. The Spirit said to me, “Your exam is about to start.”
I thought, “That can’t be right, because my exam is at 2:30.”
I ignored what I had heard and carried on studying. Fortunately for me, about five minutes later the Spirit said, “Your exam has just started.” I didn’t wait for a third prompting.
I ran down to the basement of a building where a board displayed all the exam times. There it was: “Company Law, B-28, 9:30.” I met the two examiners coming off the lift—the elevator. I said, “I know I’m late; I have made a mistake. Can I still get in?” They let me in even though I was 40 minutes late for the three-hour exam. I sat down, my heart pumping. I looked at the questions and thought, “I can’t do any of this!”
So I said a silent prayer: “Heavenly Father, I’m grateful for Thy promptings. Forgive me for ignoring the first prompting, but please bless me now so that I can finish.”
Peace descended upon me. I looked again at the exam and thought, “Ah, I know that one,” and I started writing. I stopped writing when the examiner said, “Time to finish.” Later, when I found out I had passed the exam, all I could feel was gratitude.

As Mom tucked him back into bed, Ben told her about the scuba diver, the broccoli, and the messy room. “Why does Heavenly Father answer some prayers and not others?” he asked.
“Heavenly Father always answers our prayers,” she said. “But sometimes the answer is no if we ask for things that would be bad for us. He wants us to learn here on earth. What did you learn at the swimming pool?”
Ben thought for a minute. “I learned that some things float and some don’t,” he said. “And that I have a nice brother who will help me.”
Mom nodded. “Then there’s the casserole. I’m sorry you think that broccoli is squishy, but it’s good for you. Why do you suppose Heavenly Father let you eat it?”
Ben sighed. “Because he wants me to be healthy and strong.”
“And finally the messy room,” Mom said. “Why didn’t Heavenly Father clean it for you?”
“I guess because it’s my job, and I need to learn to do it.” Ben sat quietly for a minute, thinking. “But when I asked Heavenly Father to help the doctors to make my ear feel better, the answer was yes,” he said.
Mom nodded. “Yes, it was. But did your ear stop hurting the instant you asked?”
Ben frowned. “No. Why not?”
“Heavenly Father wants us to do all we can to help solve our problems. What did we do?”
“We went to the doctor, and I took the medicine he gave me, even though it tasted yucky.”
Mom smiled. “Heavenly Father helped the doctor to give you good medicine, and He helped your ear to feel better.”
Ben rubbed his ear. “Sometimes the answer is yes, and sometimes it’s no.”
“And sometimes it’s ‘not yet,’” Mom added.
Ben hopped out of bed. “I’m going to thank Heavenly Father for helping the doctors to make my ear feel better,” he said. “And from now on, I’m going to try to ask for things that are good for me. Heavenly Father knows how to answer best.”
Mom gave him a hug. “I think that broccoli is making you smarter already!”

It wasn’t necessarily easy when, in December 1945, President George Albert Smith chose Elder Benson to serve as president of the European Mission. This was not just any mission assignment. World War II had only been over for a few months, and the Saints in Europe had largely lost contact with the Church during the war. Many of them had been scattered from their homes, had lost everything, and were in desperate need of welfare supplies. President Benson’s assignment was to locate members of the Church throughout Europe, get welfare supplies to those in need, and generally reestablish order in the Church organization there.

This was a demanding, even dangerous assignment. He knew he would be in Europe for at least one year. He could not take his family with him. Food was in short supply and being rationed in many parts of Europe. Bridges, roads, and buildings throughout the continent had been destroyed, and transportation was difficult to obtain. Even housing was hard to come by. Almost everything about his assignment was unusual and challenging. Aware of the odds he would face when he got there, Elder Benson headed for Europe with the belief that if he worked his hardest, even when things got difficult, the Lord would assist him.

Throughout the ten months he spent in Europe, Elder Benson encountered one difficult situation after another. Again and again he was faced with tough assignments that seemed impossible to perform, and repeatedly he found ways to get the job done.

By the time Elder Benson returned home he had accomplished a great deal. In a little over ten months he’d traveled 61,236 miles by plane, train, ship, automobile, bus, jeep and droshky, a two-wheeled, horse-drawn conveyance. He had located thousands of Saints throughout Europe and distributed tons of welfare supplies to those in need. Mission presidents were functioning in most European missions, and missionaries were proselyting in many countries. And the Saints had a renewed spirit of hope.

But none of it had been easy.

Rebecca Swanston, a 12-year-old member of the Mt. Zion Baptist Church, had a speaking part in this year’s program. She participated with two LDS boys, Jean Gonzalez and Jason Godwin. Rebecca’s lines were about the lives of prominent African Americans and their contributions to society. Rebecca will remember those important facts, but she will also remember her new friends.

“I probably wouldn’t know Jason and Jean if we hadn’t done this program,” she says. “We’ve had a great time. I can’t wait for next year’s Black history program.”

We are grateful for the beautiful publication the Liahona, which we eagerly receive each month and make the most of as a family. In the July 2006 issue, for example, we enjoyed great articles that helped us prepare our son for baptism and confirmation. The high-quality photography catches the attention of our little girl, who does not yet know how to read but can understand visual messages. On a Sunday afternoon we played “Sunday Box: Pencil Spin” and had a very good time. Family bonds were strengthened.Cazorla family, Spain

It was about 4:00 P.M. on a cheerless February day in 1977, and I was sitting in my office at the university, preparing for a night class, when the phone rang.
“Dad?” the voice came. “Mom said to call and tell you she’s taking John to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I asked. “What for?”
It was Kathryn, and she sounded rather nervous.
“Well … you understand … I was coming home in the car, and he wanted me to give him a ride on the fender.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “How many times have I warned you about …”
“But it was only about half a block,” she said, “and I was going really slow. He didn’t even get hurt until I stopped, and I told him I didn’t want him to get on to begin with.”
“Okay, that doesn’t matter. Just tell me what happened. How bad is it?”
“Not very bad. I mean, I don’t think so. He just sort of jumped off, and then fell over backward and hit his head.”
My anxiety had suddenly mounted. “Well, what’s his condition? Is he really hurt? Is he in a lot of pain, or what?”
“No,” she replied, “he’s just been acting kind of strange. He can’t remember things, and the fingers on his left hand keep curling in like he’s trying to scratch something.”
Moments later I had phoned the hospital emergency room and was talking to my wife, Sharon. “He’s not in much pain,” she informed me, “and his memory’s pretty well returned. They just want to keep him under observation for a while and maybe take some X-rays to make sure his skull isn’t fractured.”
“All right,” I replied and felt better. “I have to prepare for my night class, but call me if he gets any worse and I’ll come immediately.”
Darkness had settled in a faint wintry drizzle, and I was halfway through a three-hour class session when my son Tony, a member of the janitorial crew, appeared in the doorway. Just behind him was our good friend and neighbor Dr. Evan Memmott, head of the college audio-visual department. Both of them appeared very solemn. I will never forget, in fact, the expression of tragedy on Evan’s rugged, empathic countenance. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and in that instant I concluded that my son had died.
What occurred during the next few minutes is blurry; I was standing there in the hall, looking into their eyes, hearing the urgent agony of my own voice as though it were spoken by someone else. “What is it? What’s happened?” My thoughts mingled in relief and anxiety over the reply. Johnny was alive, but he was definitely getting worse and was having convulsions.
He was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed as we arrived, and was surrounded by his mother; Dr. Grant Way, our pediatrician; and two or three nurses. Johnny’s face was sallow, tinged with grayish green, his hair was a mess, and he looked terribly frail and vulnerable. They were holding a crescent-shaped pan under his chin, and there was blood in it. My stomach clenched.
“Johnny,” I said quietly and placed my hand on his shoulder with great care. “Are you all right?”
He actually smiled a little, spit futilely into the pan, and someone wiped his lips with a tissue. “I’m not feeling too well,” he managed. “I’d better lie back down.” Pretty courageous, I thought, especially for a kid of 13.
“All right.” I helped lower him to the pillow. “Do you want us to administer to you?”
He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. “Yes … I guess … only don’t press too hard.” I glanced at Evan, and we laughed a little. “No, we’d try not to press too hard.”
Later, conferring with Dr. Way in the hall, I learned that John had landed on the back of his head but had sustained a fracture on top, right down the middle, and that he might be suffering from subcranial bleeding, perhaps even a blood clot. Dr. Way glanced toward the bed and its occupant. “He is looking better now, though, isn’t he?” I nodded a bit dubiously, still offering silent prayers in hopes of building up some kind of reserve help.
They kept him there for the next 48 hours, but despite the excellent care, his mother stayed with him during the days, and his father stayed during the nights. At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of his scheduled departure, having made “steady improvement,” he suddenly developed intense pains. “I have a terrible pain in my head,” he moaned. “It feels like somebody’s cut right down the middle of it.”
The nurses had been making their rounds every 30 minutes at first, now every hour, observing him carefully, shining a light in his eyes to see if the pupils were properly dilated, but I didn’t wait. His description of the pain greatly disturbed me, and even as I left the room, he was tossing about, clasping his head and moaning. I returned moments later, having received approval to give him another mild pain-killer. A nurse would be there soon.
Soon, however, was too long. John made no response as I entered the room. “Johnny!” I said, “are you all right?” I bent over him, frowning, clasping his shoulder. “John? Can you hear me?” But his eyes were glazed, losing their color, and a tiny bubble was forming between his lips. He was turning gray again—receding, shriveling before my eyes. Dying! Absolutely incredible … absolutely true. Johnny!
I ran for the door. “Get the doctor in residence, quick!” I shouted. “He’s in a coma, and he’s fading fast!” A young nurse swished into the room—checked his pulse, his eyes, did other things (I don’t know what), and left, crying. Crying! Undoubtedly she had been trained not to display such emotion, but sometimes emotions take precedence regardless of the circumstances.
I’m not certain of the following sequence, but a call was placed immediately to Dr. Way, and I phoned Sharon moments later. She took the news with what can only be described as beautiful fortitude and asked one question: “Is there someone there who can help you administer to him?”
“I’ll find somebody,” I replied, asking her to phone family and friends and request their prayers.
I have never known doctors to arrive with such speed. Within the first two or three minutes a young intern, Ed Parker—a bearer of the priesthood—appeared, and somehow, before we even had time to perform the administration, Dr. Way was there as well. I don’t recall what I said during that blessing, but I do know that I made some strong, unqualified commitments to the Father of our spirits if only he would spare my son, his son. I do know that despite my failings, I have been a better man since. I do know that almost immediately after our administration, the light returned to John’s eyes, that he emerged from the depths of his coma, speaking a little, communicating all that was required to neurosurgeon J. H. Hauser, who had also arrived with remarkable swiftness.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Hauser explained that a large hematoma (blood clot) was exerting pressure on John’s brain and that it might still be growing. “We have two options,” he said, “One is to use drugs. That may help eliminate the clot, but we can’t really be certain of their effectiveness or the speed with which they will act. The other is to bore some holes in his head and remove the clot directly.”
“Please do exactly what you would do if he were your own son,” I said, and moments later Johnny was on his way to the operating room for surgery that was to last almost two hours.
“We’ll do our best,” they had said. That was all they said—no promises.
By now we had formed quite a congregation—his mother, Grandfather Allred (who spontaneously offered perhaps the simplest, most fervent and beautiful prayer I have ever heard), various medical personnel, several of our own children, and our neighbors the Memmotts—true Good Samaritans. We sat there together in the main waiting room, conversing quietly, and young Mike Memmott, one of John’s best friends, was blinking back tears. That fall in the road three days earlier had momentarily knocked John unconscious and left his head bleeding rather profusely. Bending over him in great anxiety, Mike had called John’s name, then actually picked him up and carried him into our home.
During the half hour that followed, we phoned our oldest son, Mark, then at the Language Training Mission in Provo, Utah, in preparation for his departure to Hamburg, Germany. We also phoned the Ogden Temple to place John’s name on the prayer roll and learned that someone else had done the same thing at the Salt Lake Temple. Shortly thereafter we received a call from the receptionist at the Language Training Mission in Provo. “President Pinegar took the liberty of placing your son’s name on the rolls at the temple here,” she said. “We hope you don’t have anything against it.” Of course we didn’t have anything against it.
It was such an incredible interplay of feelings! Such a sense of spirituality, of belonging, of family—not only our immediate kin, but all those others, virtually everyone we talked to, in fact! Friends of our daughters were now there also, and various acquaintances passing through the hospital had stopped to talk to us, offering words of concern and consolation. It seemed as though everyone knew our young son personally and truly loved him.
And yet, despite all those things—love, comfort, faith, buoyant warmth—there was the lingering feeling of fear, which was just as pervasive as the smell of antiseptic, the kind of fear that seems to shrivel one’s innards a little. At one point I encountered a doctor friend on the elevator and explained briefly our son’s condition. “That’s too bad,” he said. “The same thing happened to the Jones boy last week, the very same kind of accident. He never lived through the operation.”
Somehow that observation didn’t help to make me feel any better, nor had our son Mark’s earlier response to our phone call. “I always thought John was too good for us to keep him very long,” he had said. Pacing the hall outside the operating room, I glanced at the forbidding green doors marked “Surgery—Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted” and thought about that other boy, the one who hadn’t lived. I had met his father, and I knew in part his family’s grief, for at one point I had supposed that my own son was dead. At another, I had literally seen the life fade, and who really knew the outcome even now? No assurance of anything, only those final words: “We’ll do our best.”
Leaning against the tiled wall with one hand, I rested my head on my out-stretched arm. “Father in Heaven,” I asked, “why did that other son have to die? Why did his loved ones have to endure all that pain and sorrow?” I knew full well, of course, that answers are rarely given to such questions. “Is it right,” I inquired, “for me to ask that my own son be spared under the circumstances?” I remembered the blessing, my commitment to rededicate my life if only John could be spared. But who am I, the thought came, to be setting up conditions for the Lord? I should be constantly striving to live a better life regardless of the circumstances.
There was no one in the hall. I closed my eyes and continued. “Father,” I said, “I have no right to bargain or to establish terms. Thy will be done in all things.” Pausing, I struggled for some small particle of wisdom. “On the other hand, if we’re allowed to keep him, well, I can guarantee you this: it will certainly be great motivation.”
The surgery was pronounced a success, and I remember walking with my arm around Sharon out into the sunlit parking lot of that winter morning; we were trying to reassemble ourselves emotionally, breathing deeply the air of mortality, offering our thanks. The morning was very pure and bright, almost transparent.
I remember the night that followed—Johnny in the intensive care unit, head wrapped in white bandages like a swami, taking intravenous fluid, moaning occasionally, causing my heart to fibrillate slightly each time it happened. The following afternoon, having improved rapidly, he was returned to the pediatrics ward.
I remained in the hospital each night, Sharon taking the days so that I could continue my classes at the college nearby. And Johnny rapidly grew better, startling everyone—doctors included—with the rapid rate of his recovery. Periodically, however, there were the low points—the time, for example, I was lying with a blanket and pillow on the floor of his private room, and awoke to hear him crying. He was standing in the bathroom and didn’t quite know where he was. “What’s the matter, John?” I called.
“I don’t know,” he lamented, “I don’t know!” Guiding him back to his bed, I hoisted him into it.
“Are you having pain?” I asked.
“Do you need me to call the nurse?”
“No,” he sighed and turned his head away from me for a moment. “It’s just that I’m still getting headaches, and I keep thinking about those holes and not having any hair. “It’s just that … well, for a minute, I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t cope with it.
I paused, and then laid my hand on his brow with utmost care. “I understand, buddy. Just let your old dad cope with it for you, okay? Everything’s going to be all right, just great, in fact, and we’ll have you home before you know it. Your hair will grow back in no time.”
He had turned to face me now, and I could see his eyes, big and brown with luminous depths in his pale face. “Not like yours,” he smiled. All my own hair had fallen out a few years earlier.
“No,” I grinned. “Mine will have to wait the resurrection. But then, John, do you know what kind of hairstyle I’ll have?”
“What kind?”
“I’m going to have hair that is curly, thick, and bushy.”
“That’ll be great!” He began to laugh, but it hurt his head.
We remained together in the darkness with only a pale blue light from the parking lot shining dimly through the window, and I continued to look at him, marveling at the number of friends and relatives who had drawn even nearer as a result of our experience, the number of people, some of them total strangers to me, who cared and truly loved that boy.
“Remember a long long time ago when you were just a little boy?” I mused. “Well, you couldn’t, of course, because you were only about 18 months old, but it was the night after Robby was born in the old Dee Hospital on 24th Street. Anyway, you and I were the only ones home, and I guess it was about midnight or later. I came into your room to see if you were covered up, if everything was okay. The light from the hall was shining on your face a little, and there you were, wide awake, just looking up at me and smiling—like right now. So I sat down on the edge of our old rocker, and we looked at each other. That’s all we did. We were all alone, just looking at each other through the bars of that crib—looking into each other—for maybe 15 minutes. And you know something?” I paused. “That was one of the finest experiences your old dad has ever had.”
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”
My hand was on his wrist now, and I could feel the life there, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, all very steadily. Yes, strong and steady now, and it seemed as if we were going to keep him. It looked as if he would go on to become a doctor as he had planned, perhaps even a surgeon. It appeared that he would fulfill some special calling here on earth, for there had always been a special spirit about him, and at times he seemed to move along in something like a state of grace.
“John the beloved,” I said.
He peered at me inquisitively, not really comprehending.
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “Just rest now. Try to get some sleep.” It was the secret name I had given him that night long ago, the name reserved for very special occasions.