Gospel Story Finder

When I was about nine years old and attending elementary school here in Salt Lake City, all of the youth in the city’s schools were asked to fill out a form indicating what we wanted to be when we grew up. The lists were then to be placed in a waterproof metal box and buried beneath a new flagpole which graced the entrance to the City and County Building grounds. Years later, the box was to be opened and its contents made available.
As I sat with pencil in hand, I thought of the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” Almost without hesitation, I wrote the word cowboy. At lunch that day I reported to my mother my response. I can almost see Mother now as she admonished me, “You get right back to school and change that to banker or lawyer!” I obeyed Mother, and all dreams of being a cowboy vanished forever.

Brigham Henry Roberts (pictured at age 27)
Have you ever missed your bus? When Brigham Henry Roberts was nine, he and his friend missed their wagon train! They spent a little too much time picking berries, and the company took off without them. The boys made a mad dash for the disappearing wagon train, but stopped short when they saw three Native Americans on horses directly in their path. As the terrified boys inched forward, the three men just watched them without moving or smiling.

The pressure must have been a little much for Brigham. Suddenly, with a wild yell, he flung his berry-filled cap and ran wildly past them.

“They say [Native Americans] never laugh, but I learned differently,” he later said. “As the race for the train continued, I saw they were bending double over their horses with their screams of laughter.”3

The memory of Dr. David Chen is indelible in the minds of all who knew him. David grew up in northern China, attended a military academy and served in Chiang Kai Chek's army. When the army collapsed and were scattered by the communist forces, David suffered immense privation as he fled south, living from hand to mouth, and scrambling for his life. He was helped along the way by kind peasants.
At great risk to his life he swam across the bay and found his way through fortifications into Hong Kong. At first, he lived on the streets, but met Mormon missionaries, was converted, served a mission in Hong Kong, then came to BYU-Hawaii on a work study scholarship. He studied under Dr. Jerry Loveland, went on and got his Ph. D. at the University of Utah, and came back to teach.
David married his wife Nallie, served as mission president in Hong Kong. He later became a traveling elder for the Church to accompany general authorities back to China. Before he passed away he was a highly regarded and frequent lecturer back in universities in northern China and in Beijing.
I had the privilege of standing with some of you here at the baptism of Wong Yue in which David, dying then of cancer, bore a powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He truly was one of the remarkable Chinese pioneers in the Church. At his funeral David was likened unto the apostle Nathaniel in whom Jesus said was no guile. He was greatness unaware of itself. As the great Pharaoh of Egypt said unto his servants about Joseph Can we find such an one as this is, a man in whom the spirit of God is. Such was David Chen.

Once again I am grateful for the experiences of my childhood and the lessons I learned. When I was 8 years old my parents bought us a snow cone machine. When they came home with this glorious invention and plugged it in, my family and I watched with anticipation as the ice was crushed into fine powder right before my eyes. My mouth began to salivate as I thought to myself, “Snow cones anytime we want. Mom and dad you’re the best!!” That was before I realized there was a catch. Not only would we be eating the snow cones, we would be selling them to. Now let me paint a picture for you. Imagine the summer months in Mesa, Arizona. On average the temperature would rise to 110 degrees. My siblings and I mounted a three wheeled bike with a large basket attached in the back, a cooler filled with crushed ice, the stickiest syrup you can imagine, oh, and don’t forget a whistle to blow to let everyone know we were coming. We were told to head to the ball fields, where we spent many hours in the hot sun selling these snow cones. Today they have child labor laws, but back them I think the motto was, “Anything that doesn’t kill them will make them stronger. This experience taught me to work and work hard. It made every subsequent job seem like a piece a cake. NO job was beneath me, as long as it was in an air- conditioned room. It instilled a work habit that enabled me to assist in supporting my family especially during those early years of marriage when the jobs we had were nothing to brag about.

A friend told me of an instance when she was inconsolable. She felt such sorrow over a family tragedy that on one day she could not even leave her home. Unannounced, a Relief Society sister came to her door and said, “I had the feeling you needed me.” The sister did not probe or ask for details but rather enfolded my friend in her arms and asked, “Would you like to have a prayer?” After their prayer the sister left. That kind touch and sensitive approach did much to heal my friend’s broken heart.
This loving Relief Society sister not only listened to the Spirit, but she acted upon that prompting. In a real sense, she showed that the virtue found in the doctrines of salvation had touched her so profoundly that she worked daily to be Christlike. Her actions reflected her personal understanding that “charity never faileth.”

“Recently I was able to travel with more than 100 other young men and young women from the Hamburg Germany Stake to the Frankfurt Germany Temple to do baptisms for the dead and to attend a youth conference. The trip, however, didn’t start out exactly as I had thought it would.
“We stayed in a youth hostel in Bad Homburg. The hostel is a really old building with dim rooms and old furniture. Some of the youth in our group, who had expected the comforts of home, were disappointed by their first impressions and wanted to go home.
“Our feelings began to improve, however, as we became involved in the activities and workshops of the conference. Each morning we had a devotional in which many of our personal questions were answered. And one evening we had a fireside with Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Seventy, who is a member of our Area Presidency.
“During the rest of the trip, I didn’t hear anything else about going home. As we became more unified in our purpose, the worldly environment as well as the just-for-fun activities became less and less important. I frequently had the feeling that a lot of us had come on the temple trip actually hungry for spiritual experiences. Many of us had those righteous desires fulfilled by our experiences in the temple. Tears of gratitude were shed, and friendships became stronger. Nowhere on this earth have I felt closer to Heavenly Father than in the baptistry in the temple. How marvelous it will be when I can go to the temple and receive my own endowment and enter the celestial room!
“At youth conference and in the temple, we felt the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. When we returned home, we took many memories with us—not of our less-than-ideal accommodations, but of the Spirit we had felt in our hearts.”—Julia Hardell, Hamburg Germany Stake

Darcey closed the door behind her. Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table reading. She looked up and said, “You were supposed to be home by twelve.”
Darcey nodded mutely. The expression on her mother’s face told her she was in more trouble than she had been in years. Yet at that moment she felt only an overpowering sense of relief that made her want to run to her and tell her how good it was to be home.
But she could only stand there, her hair and clothes reeking of cigarette smoke and beer. She felt like a dead skunk.
They said nothing more. Her mother got up and turned off the kitchen light. Darcey went up to her room. She undressed, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling, wondering how she could have been so gullible. How could Wendy be like that, she thought.
When she woke up the next morning she was still exhausted, but she couldn’t go back to sleep. So she showered and dressed, then slipped out the front door and walked up the street to Wendy’s house. Wendy’s parents were on a trip to Seattle, so Darcey went around to the deck. Wendy inevitably forgot to lock the sliding glass doors when she got home. As she stepped inside the house, Darcey found Wendy slumped over the kitchen counter.
“Morning,” said Darcey.
Wendy stared and peered around at her, slowly bringing her hands up to her ears. “Not so loud,” she whispered, hoarsely.
“You look awful,” said Darcey.
“Just a hangover.”
Darcey took the car keys out of her pocket and placed them carefully on the counter.
“Thanks,” said Wendy. Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t tell, did you?”
Darcey shook her head.
“Yeah, my dad would kill me if he found out. You know, you tell your parents; they tell my parents; everybody gets into trouble over nothing.”
“Me, tell? I’m the one who got the ticket.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Wendy, this is serious. I’ve got to go to court. What am I supposed to say?”
“That we were in my crummy old Escort, and no harm done. Okay?”
Her voice had taken on a scolding tone. Darcey looked past her, at the design of the wallpaper on the far wall. When she looked back, Wendy had fallen asleep.
Darcey left her and went home, heading for her room. The car was all Wendy cared about now, and that had been the first really stupid lie of the whole evening. How could she have thought that Wendy really had permission to drive her father’s sports car. But make one lie believable and the rest fall right in line. Darcey had been told they were going to a party at Steve Margerson’s, but somehow they ended up in Schenectady at Union College.
“It’ll be great,” Wendy had insisted, over Darcey’s objections. “Besides, you’re in my car. So you’re stuck. Anyway, nobody’s going to make you do anything, and it’s about time you went to a real party, one that’s not for little kids. Besides, Glenn says they’re all really smart. You can talk about intelligent stuff with them.”
Yeah, Darcey thought bitterly, intelligent stuff. Wendy had told everybody that her brother Glenn—a Union College junior—had invited them. She had told them she was two years older than she was. She told lies the whole evening, while Darcey hid in a dark corner of the living room, losing her hearing to the blast of the stereo, nibbling on potato chips, and not daring to touch anything liquid.
Then in the momentary lull between songs, someone complained to Wendy, “I thought you said she’d be fun.”
“Oh.” Wendy had replied. “She’s the designated driver.”
At least they stopped trying to get her to drink after that. But by the time she had convinced Wendy to go home, she found herself with the responsibility of taxiing inebriated party-goers around uptown Schenectady.
She had finally headed home across the I-890 business loop, thankful that none of her passengers had thrown up on her. In fact, now, on a bright Saturday morning, with an empty stomach and a headache, she could have written the whole episode off as a learning experience—if only she hadn’t taken the Broadway exit.
Darcey sighed. Whatever was going to happen would happen. The one redeeming consequence of really messing up was that her parents would take a good long time figuring out a proper punishment.
At school on Monday, Mary McMacken rushed up to Darcey and said breathlessly, “You really went to a party at Union and got stopped for drunk driving?”
“I didn’t get stopped for drunk driving,” Darcey gasped. “Who told you that?”
Mary was taken aback. “Wendy,” she said. “Anyway, how was it? I mean, the party. Were there any neat guys there?”
“No!” Darcey replied, with a vehemence that stunned Mary into silence. And then she couldn’t think of anything to say, so she turned around and walked away.
But Darcey couldn’t get away from it. All of her friends were just as inquisitive—or for reasons Darcey could not understand—just as impressed. The day was almost over before she caught up with Wendy. “Hi, Darcey,” Wendy said, pleasantly.
“You said you weren’t going to tell,” Darcey burst out. “Everybody thinks I got stopped for drunk driving.”
Wendy shrugged. “It was a drunk-driving checkpoint, Darcey.”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“So what? For once in your life you’re actually an interesting person. I was only doing you a favor.”
“I don’t want to be an interesting person,” said Darcey, biting her lip, knowing she hadn’t said what she meant.
“Darcey,” Wendy said in an exasperated, condescending tone of voice, “I mean, sometimes you can be a real, uh, oh, forget it.” Wendy briskly walked away.
Wendy’s words stung all the more because Darcey knew that for a brief moment the party had sounded daring and exciting. But all she wanted now was to be her uninteresting old self.
Darcey threw her books on her bed. Then suddenly she caught her breath. The room was clean, too clean. Of course, it was wash day. She quickly rushed downstairs, into the kitchen, around the corner, down to the basement. She stopped before reaching the last step.
Her mother glanced over her shoulder at her while folding towels. “How was school today, Darcey?”
Instead of answering, she sort of nodded. She turned around and went back to her room.
When her mother came in Darcey didn’t look up. Her mother sat on the bed next to her. She took a folded slip of paper out of her pocket and handed it to her.
Darcey took the ticket glumly.
“Darcey,” said her mother, choosing her words very carefully, “I know it must seem like your father and I go to great lengths thinking up reasons to discipline you. But we have very vivid imaginations, and we inevitably imagine the worst that could have happened. What we really want to know is that you’re all right.”
Darcey turned to her mother, and the tears came. She explained what had happened, about driving home, the checkpoint at the Broadway exit, and the police. She’d had to do all those things she’d only seen before on TV—walking along a line on the pavement, touching her nose with her fingertips, trying to convince the police she wasn’t drunk. And she hadn’t had her purse with her, so she didn’t have her driver’s license.
After what had seemed an interminable conversation with his sergeant, the officer handed her the ticket and said, “Driving without a license. Court date’s in two weeks. Bring a parent or guardian.”
The whole time Wendy had staggered about shouting, “Darcey, c’mon. Let’s go home. Darcey, I wanna go.” The officer had escorted Wendy to the car, buckled her in and said, “Don’t let her have the keys.”
This episode would have to go down in Darcey’s life as an unapproachable low in her definition of personal humiliation.
Two weeks later she was in court as the bailiff called her name. Darcey and her father approached the bench. The judge examined her file briefly and then turned to his clerk and said, “Mel, there’s an attachment here.”
The clerk shuffled through his papers and came up with a torn, half-sheet from a legal pad. He handed it to the judge, who read it and said, “Well, young lady. It seems we have some extenuating circumstances here. Let me see. The car belonged to your friend and she had driven you both to the party where a bit of drinking was going on—against the law for someone of your age, I might add.”
“Yes, sir,” said Darcey, wondering how he had known all that.
The judge saw her expression and held up the paper. “Note from the officer on the scene. Well, next time you might consider a taxi. The court appreciates the reasons you drove without a license, but ends don’t justify the means. Nevertheless, I don’t think we have an actionable offense here. Though I might suggest to your father here that a month or two wouldn’t be too long a time for your driving privileges, being what they may, to be suspended. And if you haven’t taken your defensive driving course yet, I will have the court require it.” He banged his gavel on the table and said, “Case dismissed. Next case.”
“Well, let’s go,” Darcey’s father said simply.
To her dismay, Darcey’s father took the judge’s advice seriously. She went six weeks without driving.
As for Wendy, no one told. Not Darcey, not her parents. But a week after the incident Wendy’s father found a crushed beer can under the front seat of his car, and it was a brand he never touched. The cat pretty much worked its way out of the bag after that and Wendy ended up being grounded for a million years.
And everybody agreed that it didn’t make her a more interesting person at all.

I can remember as if it were yesterday the first time that I attended general conference. I was just a young boy, and my wonderful parents brought me to the Tabernacle so that I could have a special, spiritual experience early in my life. We sat in the balcony here at the left of the podium, where I could look down directly at the General Authorities.
It was a great thrill for me to see President Heber J. Grant for the first time. I particularly remember how President Grant joined in the congregational singing with such fervor and how uncomfortable the hard, wooden benches seemed to me even at that young age. I remember looking at the upholstered, individual seats occupied by the Tabernacle Choir and deciding that someday I would sing in the Choir and have a comfortable, reserved seat for conference. Well, somehow the lines of communication got mixed up. This was not what I had in mind at all.
I have been so humbled by this unexpected calling, and I do not have the vocabulary to express how I felt when President Thomas S. Monson issued my call. Certainly the words of Nephi took on a significance for me that I had never before felt:
“I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Ne. 3:7).
I feel that scripture has great significance for everyone in the Church, no matter what his calling might be. Experience has taught me that the Lord does prepare the way if we are diligent and faithful in doing our part.
The wisdom of Elder Russell M. Nelson has also been helpful, for he taught that we are not called to positions of leadership for what we are but for what we may become. I have a lot of “becoming” to do to be able to serve the Lord as he would have me do.
I pledged to the Lord the day that I was sustained that I would serve him with all my heart, might, mind, and strength; I reaffirm this now to the First Presidency, my Brethren, and all of you. Whatever is needed in this sacred service, I will be willing to do. But I need your faith and prayers, and I hope that I may always be worthy of them.
I want to publicly express my love and heartfelt gratitude to my wonderful wife, the mother of our nine children, who has been at my side for almost forty-five years. She has been such a source of strength and has always sustained me in my Church callings, even though her load has been very heavy with her own callings and the responsibility of motherhood and the home.
I feel great appreciation for the wholehearted support which I have always had from my parents and extended family. To my own dear children, their wives and husbands, and our twenty-seven (as of 8:25 this morning) beautiful grandchildren, I express my love and appreciation for their tremendous support, for their faith and prayers in our behalf, and for all the joy and happiness that they have brought into our lives.
I am grateful for my assignment in the Brazil Area Presidency with Elder Gibbons and Elder Camargo and the opportunity to serve once again with the warm, wonderful people of Brazil. I have been especially blessed in being involved in various ways in the growth of the Church there over the last forty-eight years and have seen that growth go from fewer than 200 members in 1940 to more than 250,000 members today.
As we attend the various stake conferences, it is thrilling to meet the young leaders whom the Lord has raised up—men such as President Eraldo dos Santos. He embraced the gospel as a young boy of seventeen. When he elected to accept a mission call, he was disowned by his family and put out on the street with his meager belongings. He served faithfully, however, and later was led to a beautiful young convert girl. They were sealed in the temple and are rearing their family under the covenant. Still under thirty years of age, he is successful in his business and is a great leader in the stake. How the Lord blesses the faithful members of the Church!
Sister Sorensen and I recently had the opportunity to tour the new Fortaleza Mission. It took us back to our own missionary experiences. During his presidency, a mission president receives hundreds of weekly letters from his missionaries concerning many different subjects. Most of those I received were very spiritual, expressing the missionary’s gratitude for the opportunity to serve the Lord and his testimony of the importance and truthfulness of the work. I have saved most of them. They are precious to me. One touched my heart profoundly. Elder Costa, a native Brazilian missionary, wrote in his last letter to me before we left the mission field:
“President, perhaps with the passing of time, I will forget your appearance or how you walked or things like that, but your love for the gospel and your testimony I will never forget.”
If I am to be remembered at all by the membership of the Church, I hope it will be in this manner, for I do have a great love for the gospel and for all the members of the Church everywhere. I do not feel at ease sitting in these red, upholstered chairs, but I have a sincere, burning testimony of this work. May the Lord bless me that I may touch the lives of those he loves throughout the Church. May I be guided and directed by him always, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“Your dad and I need to talk to you about something serious. Could you come sit on the couch?” Mom asked.
Boy, did I get nervous, because “something serious” always meant bad news. But I couldn’t remember doing anything bad enough to make Mom and Dad look so unhappy.
My hands were sweaty, and it seemed like forever before Mom finally started to talk. She sounded like she was going to cry. “I don’t know how else to say this,” she said. “Jennifer’s dad died last night.”
Died? Jennifer’s dad died? I looked over at my dad. How could Jennifer’s dad be gone?
“His heart just stopped,” Dad said, quietly. “Even though Jennifer knows she’ll be with her dad again one day, she’ll need your love and friendship now, more than ever.”
I went to my room to be alone. Jennifer was my best friend. What was she feeling? How could I possibly help her? I couldn’t imagine how sad I’d be if my dad died. I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to guide me. Then I called Jennifer. “Hi, how are you doing?”
“OK.” She didn’t sound OK to me. “I’m packing my stuff. Mom and I are flying to Washington. That’s where … where the funeral will be. Dad’s from there.”
“Could I feed Soots for you while you’re gone?”
“Thanks, but Mom left a key with Sister Hawley, and she said she’d feed him.”
“When will you be back?”
“Monday night—late, I think.”
I didn’t know what else to say but that I was sorry. Then I hung up.
I had until Monday to find a way to help Jennifer. I got some books, stickers, a teddy bear, and some of her favorite candy and put them into a basket. Then I wrote her a letter. I told her all the things that were too hard to tell her on the telephone. I told her how much I loved her and that she could share my dad. I drew balloons across the top of the letter and put it into the basket. Mom helped me wrap the basket in cellophane, and I put a big pink bow on top.
I wished I could do more. Finally I thought of something. I ran to the phone and called Sister Allred, our Primary president.
On Sunday, the Primary worked together to make a card on a big piece of paper. Everyone wrote a note and drew a picture for Jennifer. They sure did a great job!
Monday afternoon, Sister Hawley opened Jennifer’s house for Sister Allred and me. We hung the card in Jennifer’s living room, and I put the basket beside it.
I thought about Jennifer as I took a last look at the room. At least she’ll know we care, I thought. I felt peaceful as I went home.
Tuesday, Jennifer still wasn’t back at school, so after school I went over to her house. When she opened the door, I gave her a big hug. She didn’t seem to want me to let go. Jennifer talked about the funeral and her dad for a long time. I just listened.
“Thanks for the basket and the letter,” she said. “It was really nice.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I said. “I wanted you to know how I feel.”
“It means a lot to me,” she said. “The funeral was so hard! And when we were coming back, I felt like Mom and I were all alone, and I was scared. Then I came home and found all this.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I went home. My prayer had been answered. And helping Jennifer feel better had made me feel better too. I plan to keep helping her as long as she needs me.

Photograph courtesy of Women’s cougar rugby (BYU)
When my rugby coach told our team that our quarterfinal game in the national championship tournament was scheduled for a Sunday, all I could think was, “Why now?”
My team, the 2010 Brigham Young University women’s rugby team, had been preparing for the championship all season. We were looking forward to playing the team that had defeated us in the tournament the year before. I was confident we could win—we had some of the best players in the nation. We wanted to prove ourselves to the rugby world by winning a national championship, but it turned out that Heavenly Father had a different path for us.
Tournament officials had assured us that our games would be scheduled on Friday and Saturday, but because of a mistake, the games were instead set for Saturday and Sunday. We did not find out about the mistake until five days before the tournament, which was being held in Sanford, Florida, USA. Since women’s rugby was not an official BYU team at the time, the decision of whether to play or not was ours to make. We chose not to. It was a unanimous decision, and no one complained.
Playing on Sunday was not even an option. For me, it never had been. My parents taught me to keep the Sabbath day holy, and I honored that commandment my whole life. Obeying Heavenly Father’s commandments was more important than a rugby game.
But knowing that we were doing the right thing did not make it any easier. We were disheartened as we flew to Florida knowing that whether we won or lost, Saturday would be our last game.
After arriving in Florida, we received a call from a New York Times reporter who wanted to cover our story. We were stunned. We never expected anyone to care about our choice to honor the Sabbath, much less a national newspaper.
On Friday, at the time we would have been playing if the scheduling mistake hadn’t happened, we went to the Orlando Florida Temple to do baptisms for the dead. After we performed the ordinances, the temple president spoke to us. He pulled out an article that had been written about us and read some of the comments readers had posted online supporting our decision.
Later our coach read us more comments he had received. Latter-day Saints and others thanked us for our example and told us that it was refreshing to see people sticking to their standards. Their words lifted our spirits. That is when we began to realize the impact that we could have even without becoming national champions.
I knew that Heavenly Father was aware of us, but I never thought anyone else was watching. The response to our decision gave us a new purpose for being in Florida: we weren’t there to win, but to stick up for our standards.
Saturday came, and we won our game 46 to 7. Afterward we walked up to the officials and told them we forfeited the game we were scheduled to play on Sunday—which happened to be against the team that defeated us the year before. I was disappointed that our season ended this way. I wish we could have played this team, but I don’t wish we played them, or anyone, on the Sabbath.
Dozens of articles were written about us, and we continued to get supportive letters and emails. By sticking up for our standards, we reached more people than we ever could have if we had won the championship.
I have learned to trust Heavenly Father to lead me to a better path than I have in mind for myself. My team wanted to prove ourselves by becoming champions, but now I realize that Heavenly Father wanted us to make a different point entirely. He led us to the opportunity to be examples when we thought no one was watching, and He was able to use us for good because we chose to obey.

Soon after, the bishop called me into his office and asked me to prepare to go on a mission. Since I was so shy, the idea overwhelmed me. I stalled.
Another school year ended, and I returned again to Rio Blanco. But I was the only member there, and I felt lonely. If the Church is really true, I reasoned, maybe I should tell others about it. I began to visit my friends and relatives in their homes each day after work to teach them the gospel. Several of them wanted to join the Church. I called mission president John F. O’Donnal and told him that there were eight persons in Rio Blanco ready for baptism. He was delighted to come and make the arrangements.
Like my bishop, President O’Donnal asked me to serve a mission. As a delaying tactic, I explained that there were no priesthood leaders in Rio Blanco. I told him I would go on a mission after he sent someone. He transferred two missionaries there the very next week. So I reluctantly filled out my mission papers.
As I expected, my mission was very demanding. But I have never regretted the decision to serve. Although my father has died, my mother is now a member of the Church, as are all but two of their fourteen living children. Four of their sons have gone on missions, and two more are preparing. Most of us have church callings.

There was a time early in our marriage that my wife and I were driven to a place from which we had no power to extricate ourselves. I'll spare you the details, but competent medical professionals didn't give us much hope of keeping our firstborn child, a son. Heavenly Father knew we were coming though and prepared a way for us. He raised up a doctor who believes in miracles. He gave my good wife the courage and faith of Job. He taught us that because He was willing to give up His son, we would have the opportunity to keep our son. In each step along the way, we knew that He knew. I am grateful for His omniscience, and I have felt His guiding hand in putting me in the right place at the right time to learn what I needed to for employment, to meet my wife whom I love, to guide me to where He wanted me to be employed, and to help us raise four wonderful children.

On one occasion Sister Shumway and I were at the beautiful temple of Cochabamba, Bolivia. Elder and Sister Dallas Jones, from Silver City, New Mexico were the managers of the temple patron housing. A young family had traveled numerous hours to be in the temple. Shortly after showing the family to their room, Brother Jones returned to see how they were. The father was boiling some water.
"Are you preparing some soup?" Brother Jones asked.
"No," was the response. "We have spent all of our money on transportation and lodging and have none left for food, and we thought hot water would be more nourishing for the children than cold water."
Brother and Sister Jones quickly prepared tuna sandwiches. The family was fed, they rested through the night, and the next morning entered into a house of glory where covenants were made and blessings promised through continued faithfulness.

Set tries to be kind to others, even though people aren’t always kind to him.
“There was a guy at school who had some health problems. Also, his glasses didn’t work very well, and he sometimes bumped into things. One day he fell down, and people made fun of him. I didn’t—I went and helped him up. Soon, he stopped coming to school. I saw him later at his birthday party, and he was in a wheelchair. I tried to help him have a good time at his party. He was my friend.”

One youth described how he first experienced the spirit of worship. He had been marginally active through his Aaronic Priesthood years. When he attended sacrament meeting, he usually sat in the back with a group of his friends, and he was less than a model of reverence.

One day, however, he came in a little late, and there were no seats by his friends. He sat alone, and for the first time in his life, he closed his eyes during the prayers, he sang the hymns, he listened to the sacrament prayers, and he paid attention to the speakers.

About midway through the first speaker, he found tears welling up in his eyes. With some embarrassment, he carefully glanced around; no one else seemed emotional. He didn’t know for sure what was happening to him, but the experience changed his life. It was during that meeting that he really started his spiritual preparation for his mission. He felt something, and fortunately, he acted and thus sustained those feelings.

It seems like not so long ago I was but a boy, young and green with eyes unmellowed, but believing I was indeed extremely wise. I was no expert at baseball, but my bedroom was adorned with photographs of baseball heroes—especially those of Pete Dillard. Pete was a famous professional player whose parents lived in our town, and he came every summer for a week with his family to visit them. It was kind of fun to see him around town, shaking hands with everybody and sometimes joining in a neighborhood game and signing autographs afterward. But I never seemed to get close enough to him to even say hello. One day when I was approaching a crowd of fans around Pete, I overheard a boy say, “Hey, Pete, how did you ever get so good at baseball?”
Pete shrugged his shoulders modestly, smiled, and said, “Lots and lots of practice.” But then he paused for a while as if he remembered something and added, “Maybe it’s because I once had a Sunday School teacher who loved me. All of us called him Chief.”
And then Pete was gone.
Most of my experiences with baseball consisted of playing games with my dad and a sprinkling of friends on hot summer evenings. When Dad didn’t have meetings or if he didn’t have to work late at the office, he usually spent some time with me. After dinner we often played catch out in our front yard until way after the street lights blinked on. I still remember his calm, deep voice as he called out to me, “Good throw, Son” or “A little higher, boy” or “Nice curve, John.”
Then other boys would come straggling over one by one and stand and watch us, and Dad would stop the game and invite them to join us. If we eventually accumulated enough people, we’d begin a game of baseball. Everybody liked my dad—almost as much as I did.
There was a boy who lived directly across the street from us, Homer Johnson. He had a mop of red curls, pale thin skin that revealed his veins clear through, and thick, thick glasses. He hardly ever came out of his house. My mother said that he had had a lot of illness. But every so often I’d see his piercing eyes watching us from an upstairs window as we played ball. I’d try not to feel those eyes, but I could not ignore them.
One day just when we had chosen up sides for a game, my team was short one player. But that didn’t matter, because I had all good players. Then suddenly Dad turned his head and said in his calm, deep voice, “Oh, hello there, Homer. Want to join us?”
I reeled around, and there was Homer standing across the street in front of his house, his hands in his pockets. He fidgeted a lot, but slowly he dragged his feet and crossed the street. As he neared, I noticed that he was thinner and smaller than he looked to be from his window … and he didn’t look very strong.
I turned toward my father. “Dad …” I tried to whisper. But he had already walked over and put an arm around Homer. Now they were both walking toward us.
“John needs one more man on his team,” Dad was saying. “You can be an outfielder for now.”
I felt my ears burn. Dad caught my eye, and I think he knew how I felt—he always did. But there was something in Dad’s look that silenced me. I picked up my ball and mitt and stomped off to my position.
The other team scored two home runs. And then it happened. Someone smacked the ball out into the field toward Homer. I saw him position his hands to catch the flying ball, and then … splaatt! His glasses flew, and he was holding his nose, with blood dripping from beneath his hands. Dad had him lie down on the grass to stop the bleeding. Then he sent him home to wash up. Fortunately his glasses hadn’t broken.
After Homer left, I said, “Dad, he’s no good as a player. He shouldn’t be on anyone’s team ’cause he’ll make it lose.”
Then in a low voice so no one else could hear, Dad said, “He’s a child of God, John. Always remember that.”
I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everybody, so I just tromped off and continued playing ball, but my ears were burning. I didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. I resented being preached to.
Homer didn’t return the next day or the next. But the following week he was back again, standing in front of his home, fidgeting and staring at us. As we pitched and threw and shouted on my lawn, I could not help but feel two penetrating eyes on us. Then I heard Dad’s voice inviting him to join us, and again I felt my ears turn hot. As I glanced over at my father, I saw a pleading look on his face as he gazed back at me.
That night I lay in bed, wide-eyed. I had thrown off the covers, and still my bedclothes stuck to my back. I heard a rustle. Standing in the doorway was Dad. “You still awake, Son?”
I nodded, and hoped that he could see my response in the dark. His large angular figure came toward me, his gentle eyes sparkling in the dark. I thought of Homer and looked away.
He sat beside me, and I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Son …” he began softly. “Things are getting tight at the office, and I’ll have to stay late at work for a while.”
My heart fell.
“But I have one day reserved just for you,” he continued. “Pete Dillard is going to be in town in a couple of weeks, and they’ve asked him to speak at a fund-raising dinner for crippled children. I have two tickets for you and me.”
Suddenly I was smiling. “Dad!” I shouted. “You mean I get to see Pete Dillard for real! Boy, oh, boy! Wait until my friends hear about this!”
Even though I had this exciting event to look forward to from that day on, things were not the same when my friends and I got together to play ball on the front lawn. Without Dad, we often got into squabbles, and one of the fellows would go home mad. Sometimes Homer would stand at his front door, watching us. But nobody invited him to play ball. So he just stood there all the time with his piercing, piercing eyes.
At last the day of the dinner came. There was Pete in the front of the hall, shaking hands with people and looking really interested in what everyone had to say to him. I don’t remember what was served. My only thoughts were about the baseball that I set beside my plate for Pete to autograph after the dinner.
When it was time for Pete to talk, he arose confidently. He didn’t give the speech we all expected, but said only a few words. Again he mentioned Chief, the Sunday School teacher I had heard him talk about sometime ago.
“I was awkward and clumsy as a boy,” Pete said, “but it was the confidence that Chief had in me that gave me what I needed in my long struggle to become the person that I wanted to become.”
Then he sat down. People began crowding around for autographs. I picked up my ball and started up front. Suddenly I realized Dad was next to me, waiting to meet Pete too.
Finally our turn came. I held my ball up for Pete to autograph. But Pete was staring past me with a funny look on his face, arms outstretched.
“Chief!” he cried. “What are you doing here?” And he threw his arms around my dad.
“I’ve lived here for five years,” Dad replied. “I’ve tried to get hold of you every time you’ve been in town, but you’re an awfully busy man!”
On our way home in the car, many unanswered questions filled my mind. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find the right words to express them. All I could say was, “Dad, you’re great, you really are. Even Pete Dillard thinks so.”
The next evening seemed so empty without my father. I stood in front of my house, waiting for the neighborhood boys to start coming by to play ball again. Idly I tossed a ball into the air, marveling over the happenings of yesterday.
Suddenly I became aware of two piercing eyes upon me. I tried to ignore them, but they were there nonetheless. Then the scene of Pete Dillard embracing my Dad flashed through my mind, and the word Chief! seemed to ring out loud and clear. And I realized then that I yearned to be like my dad.
I found myself slowly crossing the street, walking up the steps of the house opposite mine, and knocking on the door.

The Burley Theatre in Burley, Idaho, is a single-screen theater. While I was a young child and preteen, Clayton Bryan, “Mr. Bryan” to us kids, was the manager, and he appeared a somewhat fearsome man. It seemed to my young mind that he would just as soon kick you out of the theater as look at you—at least if you were misbehaving. As a 16-year-old, I got a job as a projectionist at the Burley Theatre. Through working for him, I learned that Mr. Bryan was not the fearsome man of my childhood.

The Harris Theatre, another single-screen movie theater about a block and a half from the Burley Theatre, was owned by the same man and was managed by Mr. Bryan’s wife, Kathryn. Given the proximity of the two theaters to each other and the half-hour difference in starting times of the movies shown at each, it was possible for me to be the projectionist at both of them. After starting the movie at the Burley Theatre and taking a few minutes to make sure all was running well, I would walk to the Harris Theatre and start the movie there.

The days of the dual-projector booth that allowed movies to be shown by alternating the reels between the projectors were over. The Burley Theatre had implemented a platter-projection system. All reels of the movie were spliced together and wound around a removable metal spool in the center of a platter. To play the movie, the metal spool would be removed and placed on an empty platter. The film would be pulled from the center of the full platter, threaded through the control mechanism of the platter, which was called the payout unit, then over a series of rollers to the projector, through the projector and sound head, and finally over another series of rollers to the empty platter, where it would be secured to the metal spool, around which it would be wound to be ready for the next showing of the movie.

As the movie played, the payout unit controlled the rotation speed of the platter system to ensure that as the movie was pulled off of the full platter and wound onto the empty platter, it maintained an even tension, thereby preventing the film from breaking. To keep centrifugal force from spinning the end of the film off the full platter at the outer edge, a suction cup attached to a small metal plate was affixed to the full platter to hold the end of the film in place.

One night I started the movie at the Burley and then, as usual, went to the Harris to start the movie there. When I got back to the projection booth at the Burley, I was horrified to see that I had failed to securely fix the suction cup to the full platter. As a result, the cup, its attached plate, and the loose film end had been spun off the platter. While I had been away, close to a reel of film had been pulled off the platter and tied in a huge knot.

With scissors I cut the film closest to the edge of the full platter, stopped the platter long enough to really secure the suction cup, and then set to work fixing the mess. Quickly abandoning my attempt to untie the knot, I made several dozen cuts in the film until I had flat lengths of film to work with. Then I began matching up ends and splicing them back together until I finally had a single complete length. With Mr. Bryan’s help, I was able to splice this repaired section to the film still on the platter and then let it wind back on, all without stopping the movie. To this day I don’t remember how we managed that feat.

Even though I had learned that he was really a kind man, the fearsome Mr. Bryan of my childhood was in my mind as I repaired the film. For my carelessness, I expected a tongue lashing at the very least. But instead of condemning me, he calmly and frankly forgave me while also admonishing me to learn from the mistake and to be certain that it didn’t happen again. That night Clayton Bryan gave me the gospel gift of compassion.

Prayer at Gethsemaneby Del Parson“For, behold, the Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him” (D&C 18:11).
Del Parson
Christ is my hero. I love to read about Him and His life. It is humbling to try to portray Him in art.
My art has been greatly influenced by the guidance given in my patriarchal blessing. It gave direction for my work. Early in my career, my wife and young daughter were in a car accident. At that time I felt as if the Holy Ghost showered me with comfort and God’s love. This love is what I try to express in my paintings of the Savior.

Twenty years ago, I was named the new president and CEO of Deseret Book Company, which was facing stiff challenges. The company had been losing a lot of money and every part of its business was being disrupted. I knew nothing about turning a company around and was in way over my head.
A few months into my job, President Gordon B. Hinckley—who had appointed me to this position—called me to his office to ask how things were going. I described the problems I was uncovering and said, “President, I don’t think I’m smart enough to turn this company around. I wish I were smarter.” To which he instantly responded, “Sheri, I wish you were smarter too.” After he finished laughing, he said, “Are you smart enough to hire smart people?” I thought for a moment and said, “Yes, I can do that.” “Well, then, go hire the brains,” he said. “Hire people you trust who will make you smarter.”
In essence, President Hinckley was saying, “Sheri, you probably aren’t smart enough to turn Deseret Book around by yourself. But if you’ll hire smart people and listen to them, you can do it.”

Most Sundays our small chapel receives members from other countries who visit us during their vacations. Usually, when they attend sacrament meeting, they sit together as a family in the same row. But one Sunday in March, we had many visitors and among them a family comprised of parents and their two children. Their oldest son, about four years old, walked into the chapel and decided to sit next to me. Teddy, which is his name, greeted me and we chatted briefly. During the sacrament meeting, Teddy asked me with much interest, what the name was of each hymn we sang. Listening to each hymn, he gave a thumbs-up with his small hand that he liked it, while remaining reverent for someone his age. He also played with his book that had drawings of animals, which required him to place stickers and create different animals. At the conclusion of the sacrament meeting, Teddy stood up, gave me the drawings as a gift, put his name on them, hugged me tightly, told me “It was a pleasure to meet you” and said goodbye in the most loving, sweet, and pure way that only a child can do.
In that very special little moment, I could feel the pure love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. It came through Teddy’s embrace when I needed it most.
This scripture came to mind from Isaiah 25:4 that says, “For thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shadow from the heat.”
I could see that my prayers for comfort and strength were answered through the embrace and love of a child. Just as God showed love and comfort to me as His child through Teddy, we too can be instruments of comfort in God’s hands for someone else.