Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago in the early spring, I took little Shelly’s hand in mine, and for hours we carefully picked our way from one rock to the next along the creek bed shaded by some tall trees. The gurgling water was like a musical accompaniment to the dance we were creating as we would take a step, hesitate, take another, and then wait a moment to secure our balance.

Before long, we were drawn to an open meadow where some large cottonwood trees had been recently cut. Making my way through the tall grass, I held Shelly’s hand in mine as she cautiously placed one foot ahead of the other, walking the full length of the tree and back again. We noticed in that springtime tender green shoots forcing their way through the earthy floor and the winter snow receding toward the mountain peaks. It seemed as though all of nature bore evidence of God’s creations and his love for us.

Our afternoon activities continued until the evening breeze reminded us that our special day was coming to a close. Approaching the narrow, steep garden path leading to my home, I let go Shelly’s hand, allowing her to go first. Our hands struck together for a moment. A bond had formed from the warmth of the day through our shared adventures.

Just before reaching the clearing near the house, we stopped. Bending down, I lifted Shelly up to see into a little nest built by a robin in the branch of a tree.

At the close of this memorable day, before tucking my little niece (whom my sister shares with me) into bed, we knelt together while she expressed her own thanks which included the creek, the slippery rocks, the big tree, and the robin’s nest. Feeling a renewed appreciation for those same wonderful blessings, I tucked the covers around her and bent down for a goodnight kiss. Reaching up with both arms around my neck and pulling me close to her, Shelly whispered, “I wish we were in the same family.”

“Shelly, my dear,” I quickly explained, “we are in the same family.”

“No, I mean the very same family. My last name is Larsen, and your last name is Kapp, and that isn’t the same. I mean if you were my sister and we had the very same last name.”

Even though she was very young, I felt that she might sense the security of our eternal relationship if I could awaken within her a great eternal truth. “Shelly, we really are in the very same family. You see, we are all our Heavenly Father’s children, every one of us, and that makes us in one great family. We are brothers and sisters, and Jesus is our Brother, too, our Elder Brother.”

“Then, what is Jesus’ last name?” she asked.

“Shelly, we know our Savior as Jesus the Christ.” With the pure innocence of youth, she began to make us all one family by securing this relationship as she linked my first name with the surname “The Christ.”

“Oh, no, my dear. We don’t put our names together like that.”

“But why not?” she asked.

Wanting her to be aware of the sacredness of our relationship with the Savior, I tried to explain. “I guess maybe it’s because sometimes we are not good enough. I don’t feel worthy yet.”

With that, she raised up on her little elbow. “What do you do that’s wrong? Why don’t you stop doing it, and then we can all be in the same family? We can all use his name.”

As I pondered the answer to her simple questions, I heard in my mind words as though I was hearing them for the first time. And yet, it had been only two days since I had attended sacrament meeting, where I had listened to the same words. I had heard them with my ears often before, but now it seemed different. It was as though I was hearing them with my whole heart and soul:

That they are willing to take upon them the name of thy Son, and always remember him, and keep his commandments which he has given them. [D&C 20:77]

Wasn’t this the very thing that we were talking about—the responsibility of taking upon oneself that sacred name and committing to try always to remember him and keep his commandments?

At the rooster’s first call, Juan Carlos opened his eyes and peeked through the cracks in the wooden wall just above his head. The darkness was fading. Today was his first day to help Sister Fuentes make tortillas. Time to get ready, he thought. He slipped from his hammock to the dirt floor below and went outside to wash himself in the cool water from the pump.
Stake conference would be in two months, and last week President Garcia, his branch president, had announced that a General Authority would be coming. That was fantastic, except for one thing—the city boys would all be wearing either fine Panama shirts or white shirts and ties. Even Juan’s father had a Sunday shirt. One of the North American missionaries who’d completed his mission and gone home had given it to him.
Juan Carlos had only one shirt. His mother had stitched it from a flour sack. He wore it every day of the week, even to church on Sundays. It embarrassed Juan to wear a flour-sack shirt to church, even though they met in a one-room home, and he’d told his father so. His father had just said, “Remember, son, the Lord looks on the inside of a person, not the outside.” But last conference, Juan had felt so uncomfortable about his shirt that afterward he hadn’t waited in line to shake anyone’s hand and he couldn’t even remember what the speakers had said. This conference would be different, however—thanks to the tortillas.
Juan loved Sister Fuentes, the Primary teacher—their little branch had only four families and six children. She was also the village tortilla maker. It was hard work to soak and grind the corn, haul buckets of water, and search for firewood in the forest up the hill. Tortillas had to be made early, for before breakfast nearly every family in the village would send a child to her with a small coin to buy some of the steaming, thick, pale, perfectly even circles of dough that she had patted out. Before they left to work in the fields, the men wanted hot tortillas. And later, for lunch, they would eat them cold, folded over some beans.
Saturday Sister Fuentes had come to his home. “Juan Carlos,” she said, “I am looking for someone to help me. So many want tortillas in the mornings! I have tried, but I just can’t make enough for everyone by myself. I was wondering if you would help me. It is very hard work, but I will pay you two lempiras every week.”
Two lempiras! That was a lot of money—why, he could earn enough before conference came to buy a white shirt, if he saved carefully!
Sister Fuentes was already working when Juan Carlos arrived on Monday. The morning passed quickly. He built the fire, hauled water, and ground corn between two stones. He was amazed to see how fast her hands could fly as she worked with the masa (tortilla dough). After the tortillas were sold, there were pots to scrub and wood to gather for the next day.
Day after day he spent his mornings working. Sometimes it was hard to leave his hammock while others in his family still slept, but he just imagined wearing a new white shirt to conference and shaking a General Authority’s hand, and it became easy. Every Saturday he tied two more little silver coins into his handkerchief and hid them under a rock in the corner of his home.
Nearly every week President Garcia traveled by bus to the big city on business. On his last trip to town before conference, after his usual errands, he had a special purchase to make, for in his pocket was Juan’s money, still tied in the handkerchief.
The shirt was beautiful! It was sparkling white, with four pleats down the front and shiny buttons. Juan had never seen such a beautiful shirt. Carefully he folded it and put it back in its crinkly sack. In just a few more days, he, Juan Carlos, would wear it to conference. He certainly wouldn’t be embarrassed then.
The next morning, Juan, anxious to tell Sister Fuentes about the shirt, ran all the way to her home. He was surprised to find her still lying on her cot. That wasn’t like her at all. Then his eyes shifted to her ankle, and a cold chill ran down his spine. It was swollen to twice its usual size, and the purple and black colors told him the injury was serious.
“The clinic nurse thinks that it is broken,” Sister Fuentes said. “She has no way to treat broken bones, so I must go to the city to the hospital if I want it fixed. Otherwise, I must stay in bed for a very long time.”
Traveling to the city and then to the hospital by taxi would be very expensive. Juan knew that few people from the country could afford it. Several villagers limped from poorly healed bones, and Juan remembered how his grandmother’s hand had hurt her for many years after she broke it. As he began making the morning tortillas alone, he promised in his heart to help Sister Fuentes get to the hospital—no matter what! A plan had already formed in his mind when he hurried home that day. …
A soft breeze blew the scent of flowers through the louvered windows and over to the church bench where Juan Carlos sat. How very warm he felt inside. His sister, Lizeta, was on his lap as usual. Sister Fuentes was on one side, her ankle and foot covered with thick white plaster. His father and mother sat on his other side. He listened carefully to the speakers and was sure that this was the best stake conference ever. The closing prayer was said, and a few minutes later—it was a million times better than he had imagined—he was shaking hands with the General Authority.
“Juan Carlos,” the General Authority said, “I would like you to know that the Lord loves you and is proud of you.”
Juan Carlos’s heart was flooded with joy. His father was right—the Lord did look on the inside, not the outside. No one had even noticed his flour-sack shirt. Not even Juan Carlos.

And so began my swimming career.
There’s not much equipment required for swimming. The main thing is a good suit, and I had one—large, navy blue, boxer-style trunks with red trim. It had a pocket in front with a flap and a big red button. This not only added to the suit’s classic appearance, but also provided a handy place to keep my locker key.
Unfortunately, despite the flap and button, the key still tended to fall out. So I’d pin it to the waistband. Eventually, this began to break down the elastic, requiring me to fold it over two or three times to keep the thing up.
After one year on the team I had actually improved. But the following year our school hired a new coach.
Mr. Brockman coached at the local swim club. Under his direction real changes took place. For example, he made us practice four and a half hours a day, Monday through Saturday, with Sunday as an optional practice day. He would watch us all to determine where we would do best. Mr. Brockman decided I would compete in the 100 butterfly, although I’d swum distance events the year before.
Deep down I knew the reason was that no one else could swim that stroke. But part of me wanted to believe, maybe, just maybe, somewhere inside he saw a glimmer of talent.
Mr. Brockman was putting his trust and confidence in me, and I wanted to do my best for him.
Halfway through my junior year I noticed some improvement. Not only was I finishing races, but sometimes I actually placed. I still remember the first time I didn’t come in last. I thought I’d done something wrong like jumping the gun or something.
By my senior year I finally felt like a valuable contributor to the team. It was not uncommon for me to come in second. I had qualified for district championships and was close to breaking my event’s school record.
Then one day Mr. Brockman took me aside.
“Doug,” he said, “you’re three seconds from breaking the school record. I think you can do it and do well in the district meet. But it’s going to take a lot of work. I want you to give it all you’ve got and come to every practice—including Sundays.”
Suddenly a dilemma faced me. What do I do? I’d always been taught to keep the Sabbath day holy. But I really wanted that record.
Sure it was just a swim meet. But no one in the history of the Bernard family had ever competed in a sport, much less broken a record. This was the classic story of the underdog rising triumphant against all odds. I wanted this more than anything else in the whole world.
I went home and spoke with my dad about it. He told me he knew I’d make the right decision. That Sunday at church I talked to the missionaries. They reminded me that if I kept the Sabbath, I’d be blessed. After thinking about it all day, I made my decision. I’d work extra hard at every practice, but I would not swim on Sunday.
On the day of district championships, I stood on the starting block and thought, This is it. This is my last chance to prove myself. This is the last chance I have to break that record.
We took our marks, the gun fired, and we were off. And when I touched the pool wall at the end of the race, would you believe I came in first?
Of course I didn’t. And I didn’t break any records. I almost died out there. My breathing was out of sync with my stroke, I started swallowing water, and when I finally crawled out of the end of the pool I looked like a drowned kitten coughing and choking on the deck.
Later I cried. How could this happen? I’d kept the commandments. I’d avoided Sunday practices. So where were the promised blessings?
Later I realized the lesson I’d learned. Sometimes, even when we keep the commandments, blessings don’t always come the way we think they should.

Like you returning missionaries, I had to leave home again, because of a call from the Prophet. Four years ago, my husband and I sat across the desk from President Hinckley. He said, "Brother Hafen, I would like to extend to you a call. Your first assignment will be to the Pacific Area. You will be living in Sydney, Australia." Then he turned to me and said, "How does that strike you, Sister Hafen?" To which I could only gasp, "President Hinckley, that really strikes me." He chuckled. I wept. I was NOT thinking of new landscapes of growth for me. All I could think of was how far away Australia was. (Yet now that I am barely back, the Olympics are just making me homesick.)

Honestly, in some ways I didn't want to go. It meant leaving family, friends, and students. We would not be welcoming our son Mark, when he returned from his mission. We would not be decorating the Christmas tree with our youngest, Rachel--in her second year here at Ricks. I would be leaving my mom and dad who were in their mid-eighties. I would be leaving my neighborhood, and the morning bike rides with Mt. Timpanogos directly over my handlebars. I had never lived away from the Utah/Idaho landscape. When it came time to board the plane, I didn't exactly dance down the LA concourse for the 13 hour flight to Sydney. I was scared. But as far as it is to the other side of the world, the journey I was about to begin was less a journey of miles than it was a journey of my heart. I didn't realize it then as I fastened my seat belt, but I was about to discover the depths of my heart reflected in the depths of the Australian landscape.

I’m a landlubber, and to me one life preserver would have seemed as good as another. But not anymore! What changed my mind?
I attended a safety exhibit. The exhibit stressed accident prevention and covered safety in many situations.
The display that intrigued me most was water safety. A beautiful large blue and white boat caught my eye. Over the bow lay a variety of familiar pieces of lifesaving equipment. On each piece was a simple card. The card read YES on the pieces of equipment that were safety approved; NO on those that were not. I was dumbfounded. I thought all life preservers were approved and would save life in an emergency. I expressed my surprise to the gentleman who was in charge of the display.
“Most people think they’re perfectly safe,” he said, “but that’s the tragedy of it. Now take this skier’s vest. It will protect the skier from getting his ribs broken if he should hit the water hard when making a high jump. The belt will aid him some, but he needs this life jacket to be protected from drowning. Ski belts are not approved because of insufficient buoyancy and failure to ensure face-up flotation.”
He picked up an orange, U-shaped life jacket. It had a YES sign. “Inside this life jacket are strong waterproof plastic bags. They’re filled with kapok and surrounded with this heavy water-repellent canvas. You could float for days wearing this,” he said. “It’s designed to save life.” He put it on demonstrating it for me. “It fits securely around the neck. This holds the head up out of the water,” he said.
“Now, let’s compare this approved vest with this piece of equipment over here.” He rested his hand on the familiar khaki canvas vest with a NO sign on it. “This is nothing but a death trap,” he said. “It’s about as helpful as a bucket of cement. It can become saturated with water in 15 or 20 minutes. When it’s saturated it weighs 29 pounds. The weight of the human body is 10 to 11 pounds when in water. You put this 29 pounds around your neck and it just drags you down.”
“That’s terrible!” I protested. “Why are they allowed to manufacture such death traps? They’re worse than nothing at all!”
“You’re right.” he said emphatically. “They are just a money-making deal. There is no guarantee they will save.”
As I drove home, I thought how foolish I had been to assume all lifesaving equipment would do the job. I began to wonder if I was making other incorrect assumptions that were potentially as dangerous. Then a very striking comparison entered my mind. There are many different philosophies of life, but not all are designed to save. Some, like the khaki vest, can even be death traps.

Ten-year-old Olivia curled upon her side and tried to go back to sleep, even though she knew that it would be impossible. After all, it was Christmas, 1843. Well, just barely, Olivia thought as she counted the twelve chimes that echoed softly from her mother’s clock.
Last Christmas, she’d lived far away in Leek, England. Then Grandpa Rushton had listened to the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “These men speak the truth,” he’d said. Three months later, Olivia and her entire family were baptized along with Grandpa and Grandma.
Leaving England to join the Saints in America had been a very hard decision. Would Grandpa be able to sell his silk business? What would Papa do? Would Baby James get sick and die like Mama’s other baby? And what about Grandma Lettice? Olivia would have been terrified to leave her home if she were blind like Grandma.
After a lot of prayer and asking the Lord, Papa knew that they needed to follow the counsel of the Prophet Joseph Smith and join the Saints in Zion.
And now it was Christmas, even though Christmas in Nauvoo was very different from Christmas in England. There, everyone enjoyed crackling Yule logs, the singing of carols, and the exchanging of presents. In Nauvoo, many people didn’t celebrate the day at all. Mama said that it was because of their religious customs before they joined the Church. But that didn’t seem like a very good reason to Olivia. If only we could have Christmas like we did in England! she thought with a sigh.
Just then, she heard muffled voices by the front door. Olivia slid out of bed and tiptoed across the cold floor. “Mama?”
Her mother and father were bundled up!
“Where are you going, Mama?”
“What are you doing up, Olivia?” Mama whispered. “You should be in bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep—and then I heard you.”
“Well, go back to bed,” Mama said. “Grandma Lettice asked us to go singing with her.”
“Singing? Now? May I come, too?”
“It’s cold outside,” Papa said.
“I don’t mind,” Olivia replied. “Please?”
Mama and Papa exchanged glances. “Well, all right,” Papa said. “But you’ll have to dress quickly. We don’t want to be late.”
Olivia changed into her warmest clothes, then followed her parents into the chilly darkness. The cold stung her face like an angry slap, and her breath turned into puffy clouds. “Where are we going?” she asked. “Are we going to sing a song I know?”
“You’ll see,” Mama said.
Just as she was wondering how much farther she’d have to walk, she saw her aunts and uncles, Grandma Lettice, and several neighbors gathered together outside the Mansion House at the corner of Main and Water Streets.
The Prophet’s house! Olivia caught her breath. Are we going to sing to the Prophet? she wondered.
“All right, everyone,” Grandma Lettice whispered. “Just as we rehearsed it.”
For a split second, Olivia wondered if it had been a mistake to come—she hadn’t rehearsed anything. But in only two notes, Olivia realized that she did know the song. It was one of the songs in Sister Smith’s new hymnal. She took a deep breath and sang with the rest of the carolers.
“Mortals, awake! with angels join,
And chant the solemn lay;
Love, joy and gratitude combine
To hail th’ auspicious day.”*
Soon lights flickered to life, and windows of the Mansion House opened. The Prophet Joseph Smith, his family, and all of his boarders looked out.
“Who’s singing?” someone asked.
“How lovely,” whispered another.
“Are there angels outside?”
Although Olivia wasn’t an angel, she certainly felt like one as a wave of warmth spread from the top of her head to the very tips of her toes. How happy the Prophet looks, she thought.
When they’d finished, Olivia was certain that she saw tears in the Prophet’s eyes as he thanked them for their beautiful serenade and blessed them in the name of the Lord.
“Merry Christmas,” Olivia called as the singers left. She decided that she didn’t want to be back in England, after all. She belonged here with her family, the restored Church, and the Lord’s prophet. She couldn’t think of a better Christmas gift.

When I was in the sixth grade, my class went to the Marin Headlands (California) State Park for a weeklong field trip. After a long drive on the bus, we unpacked our belongings and settled in to our bunk beds. We started talking excitedly about what activities lay ahead of us over the next week. Slowly, the conversation changed, and somehow the subject of religion was brought up. One person after another briefly stated what faith they belonged to. I didn’t want anyone to know that I didn’t go to church and was different from them. However, they noticed that I wasn’t participating in the discussion.
“What are you?” my friend asked curiously.
“I don’t go to church, so I guess I’m nothing.”
“You can’t be nothing. You have to be something!”
I decided to ask my mom what she was, because I thought that whatever she was, I must be the same. “Mom, everyone in my group at camp goes to church except me. They told me what religions they were and when they asked me what I was, I told them that I was nothing. I’m nothing, right?”
“Yes, I guess that’s right,” my mom said assuredly.
“But they said I have to be something,” I complained.
My mom repeated herself, “If you don’t belong to a particular church or religious group, then you are no religion at all.”
Two years went by, and I didn’t think too much about religion or the religious discussion we had had until my best friend invited me to attend a camp with her during the summer. After getting my parents’ approval, I excitedly told my friend that I could go. There were a lot of fun activities but also classes about principles and stories in the Bible that were brand new to me. I enjoyed learning about them, and I learned how to look up scriptures in my new Bible given to me by my friend. By the end of the week, I was “saved.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but there were other people that were “saved” too.
I asked my parents if it was all right if I went to church with my best friend’s family every Sunday. They agreed. Unfortunately, something came up the next Sunday, and I wasn’t able to go. One week after another went by, and for one reason or another I did not go to church. The good feelings from camp slowly faded away. My freshman year of high school began, but my best friend and I drifted apart. Now I knew there was no chance of going to church with her family.
“Mom, can we go to church?” I asked several times, but I never really got the answer I was looking for. One day was different. Instead of the usual reply, she answered, “Well, I do know of a church we can go to. I know that they teach good things, because I used to go when I was little. I can take you to that church—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” That was the first time I learned she ever went to church, even though I knew my grandparents went to church.
I was more than satisfied with this answer. I was finally on my way to becoming something.
My mom, sister, brother, and I were finally going to church! My grandmother helped by locating which church building to attend in the area where we lived. Looking back, I do remember feeling welcomed.
Over the next few Sundays, I was welcomed like a friend that hadn’t been seen for some time. When people noticed that I was new, they smiled and extended their hand to greet me and introduced themselves. I went to Young Women with the girls. I was 15 and belonged to the Mia Maid class. I quickly made friends despite my shyness. Everyone made me feel comfortable. My sister was in the Beehive class. Being four years old, my brother went to Primary. He didn’t like going by himself, so he always made my mom go with him. I think she enjoyed it. She sang children’s songs and relearned stories from when she was younger.
The missionaries came to our house and taught us the lessons. I was delighted when they came over. Even though they were around 20 years old, they knew a lot about the scriptures and the gospel of Jesus Christ. They had a special presence and a warm glow about them. I soon found out that other members of the Church had that glow as well, including my Young Women teacher, who always let me know how happy she was to have me in her class.
I became good friends with a girl named Julia. We decided to be “buddies” at girls camp. Even though I don’t like camping or hiking very much, I really enjoyed the entire experience. There was a different feeling at this camp. Our counselors made a special effort to see that we were having a good time and that everyone was included in all the activities we participated in. During the week, we had devotionals, a nature walk to learn about different plants, a first-aid class, and campfire skits. There was also a service project that everyone in the camp happily participated in. In fact, the service project table was always crowded with volunteers. All through the week there was a sense of organization, cooperation, and friendship.
On Saturday morning, the last day, everyone got together around the campfire, and whoever wanted to stood up and told the others of their testimony of the Church and expressed their gratitude for their family, friends, and what a great and memorable experience they had at camp. Most of them cried while they talked, and I cried along with them. I was surprised to see my sister go up on stage. She said how happy she was to come to this Church and how thankful she was for her family, especially me. That was one of the first times she had ever expressed her love for me as her sister. Once she sat down, I got up and sat next to her. I told her how grateful I was for what she said, and we cried together. We really made a special connection.
We continued going to church and taking the missionary lessons. As the weeks went by, I learned much more about the Church. I wanted to do the right things. I began reading the Bible and the Book of Mormon, praying, eating good food, dressing modestly, and trying to live a Christian life. After trying all these things, I felt good about myself.
My mother, who had not wanted to go to church, continued to participate in the missionary lessons and continued to take us to church every Sunday. We made the decision to be baptized, and my mother, sister, and I became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on June 3, 2000. This was a decision that has changed all of our lives. My brother was too young to be baptized, and my stepfather did not share in our beliefs, but he always supported all of us in our Church-related activities and meetings.
We now have numerous friends that we would not otherwise have if we had not gone to church. We participate in many community service projects and have become happier people. I went on to receive my Young Women in Excellence award and attend community college. After high school, I became active in the single adults ward, where I met a wonderful returned missionary. We were married and have now had our first child.
Through all these experiences in the Church, our family has grown closer, and we are striving to become an eternal family. Seven years after our baptism, both my stepfather and my little brother made the decision to join the Church and were baptized together on January 20, 2007.

Teenagers from the priests quorum of the Kansas City North Ward are brightening the lives of some elderly inner-city residents by helping repair their homes. Since last winter, the group has rebuilt steps and added porch railings to several older residences.
“It was hard, grueling work at times, and my toes nearly froze,” said David Nielsen, one of the young men. “But it makes me feel good to help people who can’t keep up their homes just because they are elderly or too sick.”
The boys came up with the idea when the group’s leader, Matt Kessler, read about the Metropolitan Lutheran Ministry’s need for volunteers to help weatherize inner-city homes for the disadvantaged. The following Sunday in priesthood meeting he suggested the young men volunteer. The priests decided it would be a great service project. They contacted the ministry, which provided them with home referrals for the group to get started. A local lumber company provided the materials for the project.
Most of the boys had little or no experience in carpentry before the project began. Brother Kessler taught them the basic skills they required and supplied the tools the young men used. Most of the work was done by hand. “The project gives the boys an opportunity to serve people and see another part of life which they are not accustomed to,” said Brother Kessler. “We also wanted them to know how to build something when we finished.”

I’ll never forget our family reunion the summer I turned eight. It was at the sawmill site on our mountain homestead. Our family is a big one, with lots of uncles and aunts and big and little cousins—especially Lucinda. She’s just my age. Our birthdays are both in July.
The ranch has a meadow, a creek, a pollywog pond with a zillion frogs, ponderosa pines, and lots of things to do and places to play. Lucinda and I made little fences and houses out of pinecones and wildflowers, and our people and animals were pretty rocks and twigs.
The reunion was two days and nights of fun. The first night, when the canyon breeze whispered through the pine trees, Papa lit a campfire that felt good. Everyone brought folding chairs and circled the fire. The sun was setting in a sky of pink and gold. Uncle Jake strummed his guitar and began to sing, “Just a Song at Twilight,” and Papa and Mama and all of my uncles and aunts joined in. I felt like heaven itself had come to our reunion. Nothing could have been prettier. Stories and songs filled the evening. We sang songs like “You Are My Sunshine” and “Red Wing,” and we giggled while we sang “Plant a Watermelon on My Grave and Let the Juice Soak Through.”
The second night, after our marshmallow roast and singing, Aunt Venice told us about the time the Savior came to America and blessed the children. When Lucinda and I snuggled into our beds, we lay looking at the stars while we talked about the angels that had come down among the children.
The next morning after breakfast, we cleaned up camp and packed to go home. We were sad to leave. I wished we could have stayed forever. Lucinda and I walked out into the meadow while the cars were being loaded. The penstemons were blooming tall and pinkish white. In one of their snapdragon-like blossoms was the shining black rear of a big bumblebee.
“Hey, look, Lucinda,” I cried.
The blossom’s lips were pursed snugly around that fat bee. I tapped the stem to see if he would back up, but he didn’t. So I tapped harder. “He likes it so much he won’t come out,” I said.
“He’s so full of honey, he’s taking a nap,” Lucinda remarked.
Papa honked the car horn and shouted, “All aboard.”
“Are you riding with us?” Lucinda asked.
“Thanks,” I answered, “but I think I’ll go home with my family. I want to show Robbie my bumblebee. He’ll love it.”
Car horns honked again and Lucinda ran. I picked my bee-flower and started to run, then tripped on a morning-glory runner. I lost my bee in the tall grass and couldn’t find him. Cars were leaving, and some of them had already crossed the creek. By the time I got back to camp, the last car was pulling out. It was my family. I yelled, “Hey, wait for me!” but they went right on. I knew my parents would think I was with Lucinda, because that was the way I had come.
I ran as fast as I could, but it was no use. No one looked back. The cars crawled in a dusty caravan over the bumpy road and vanished around the bend. And there I was. Alone.
The only thing I could think of was to keep running. Maybe someone would have to stop. I ran until my lungs burned. I stopped at the gate, which was wired shut. I’d have to climb over it. I remembered a nearby mountain road where someone would see me and take me home.
As I reached for the bars to pull myself up onto the gate, a warning thought came into my head. Firmly it said, Don’t go out that gate.
I stepped down. “The only way to get home is to climb that gate,” I said to myself, so I put my foot on the bottom bar. This time the thought shouted, Don’t go out that gate!
I was already panting from running so hard, and now I was shaking. I leaned against a tree to think. Home was seventeen miles down the mountain. The road was twisty and steep. Papa called it a slow road. It would be a long time before the folks got home and discovered I was missing, and then a longer time before they could get back to find me. If I could get out onto the road to catch a ride, I might get home before they missed me.
Then I remembered my parents warning us all to never get into a car with a stranger. Something terrible might happen. My heart was pounding and a sob stuck in my throat, but I was determined not to cry. I knew I wasn’t alone, because of the warnings that kept me from climbing over the gate.
I could hear the trickle of the nearby creek. I sat on its bank and watched the water splash over the rocks. My thoughts went back to last night’s get-together around the campfire and Aunt Venice’s story. The sweetness of her telling about how Jesus came to America after the Resurrection comforted me. How wonderful it was when He kneeled in the midst of the little children. I felt His love as He blessed each one of them. How beautiful it must have been with all of the people looking up and seeing heaven open and angels descending in the midst of fire and encircling the little ones.
I’m one of the little ones, I thought. It seemed like those very angels were with me. A song filled my heart. I found myself softly singing, “I think when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men, How he called little children like lambs to his fold; I should like to have been with him then.”*
“Thanks, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. “It’s good to know that I’m not alone.”
With time on my hands, I enjoyed the wildflowers and the bluejays, the woodpeckers and the squirrels, the chipmunks and the wrens. Finally I got sleepy. I gathered armfuls of bracken ferns and stacked them for a pillow on the shady tabletop of a huge tree stump that had been timbered off years ago, and curled up for a nap.
I slept so soundly that I didn’t hear anyone coming through the gate. Mama’s kiss and her tears on my cheek awoke me. Opening my eyes, I saw her and Papa bending over me. The bursting happiness that was mine can never, never be forgotten. I wanted to shout to all the world the goodness of our Savior and Heavenly Father, and the preciousness of families.

Casey wiped the inside of the bus window, trying to see the frozen world outside through the blinding snow.
“It’s coming down really hard,” Andy remarked beside him.
“Looks like a blizzard!” Casey exclaimed.
“Won’t our moms be surprised at our getting home from school at noon!” Andy chortled.
“I’m going to play video games all afternoon!” Casey announced.
“Lucky you!”
“Ask your mom if you can come over.”
Andy beamed. “OK! If she says no, I’ll call you and moan over the phone.”
Casey chuckled. “Don’t call till after lunch!” He licked his lips. “Mom fixes the best grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup and a glass of cold milk! It sure beats our cafeteria food.”
“It sure does. Here’s my stop—I’ll call you.” Andy hurried to the front of the school bus to get off.
After Casey got off the bus, he scurried along the lane toward his house. As the snow piled higher, his house seemed farther than ever from the road. It sure will be good to get inside! he thought as he reached the door.
“Mom?” He hung up his cap and coat. “School let out early! I’m home! Mom?” He went into the kitchen and circled into the living room. No Mom. He ran into the laundry room and looked for her. Where was she? He was home—cold and hungry!
He looked out the window and toward the garage. The doors were closed, so he knew she hadn’t gone anywhere in the car.
He raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom?” he shouted as he ran to his parents’ bedroom door. Then he stopped abruptly. “Mom?”
He tiptoed to the bed. She was covered with a quilt pulled high around her chin. “Mom?” Gently he touched her shoulder.
Her red-rimmed eyes barely opened. Casey touched her forehead lightly—it was hot! “Mom, you’re burning up! Should I call Dad … or Grandma?”
Her eyelids closed, then reopened. “Water, honey—a glass of cold water,” she said weakly. “With ice.”
Casey hurried downstairs to the kitchen. “Pitcher, pitcher,” he muttered. “Where’s the pitcher?”
He found the pitcher on the shelf beneath the breakfast counter. Quickly he filled it with ice and water and started back toward the stairs. Then he spun around and returned for a glass and a straw.
“Mom.” Casey slid a hand under her head. “Here’s your water.” He lifted her head and put the straw between her lips. “Drink, Mom—it’s ice water.”
She sipped the water, and Casey felt her skin burn beneath his touch.
“I’m calling Dr. Marshall!” he announced.
“I talked to him, honey. He said it’s just the flu.”
Just the flu? She looked awfully sick! “What’d he say you should do?”
“Just take aspirin, drink liquids, and get plenty of rest.”
“Aspirin—did you take some aspirin?”
She nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes.
Casey held her hand for a long minute. Coming home from school, he had only thought of himself. Now he was concerned about her.
Quietly he tiptoed from the room. The phone rang, and he grabbed it right away so it wouldn’t disturb her. “Colby residence,” he whispered with his hand cupped around the mouthpiece.
“Casey?” Dad replied. “What are you doing home, Son?”
“School let out early because of the snow, Dad, but Mom’s sick! She’s in bed, and I gave her some ice water. Can you come home early?”
“I talked to your mother and Dr. Marshall this morning, Casey. He told her to go right to bed and stay there. I’ll stop at the pharmacy on my way home and pick up some things that may make her feel more comfortable, but the doctor said the flu simply has to run its course. I’ll try to get home early, Son, but with the roads as they are, I doubt that I’ll get there much sooner than my usual time. Is everything else OK?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like it that Mom’s sick.”
“She probably got it nursing us a couple weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“If you need me, call. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Casey ate a sandwich and drank some milk, then went back upstairs to check on Mom. Gently he put a damp cloth on her forehead. He felt the heat pouring out of her, and he suddenly felt awful. What if something happened to her? What would he and Dad do without Mom? She was always there for them. Please, Heavenly Father, make Mom better, he prayed silently.
When the phone rang again, her eyelids fluttered.
“I asked Mom, Casey,” Andy said on the other end. “The snow’s let up a little, and she said I could come over.”
Casey sat on the carpet with his back against Mom’s dresser and the phone cupped close to his face. His eyes were on his mother’s sick face.
“Sorry, Andy. Maybe another time. My mom’s sick, and the doctor told her to rest.”
“All your mom’s going to do is sleep, I bet!” Andy said. “Why don’t you come over here?”
Casey thought about how Mom had taken care of him when he was sick. “Thanks, but I’d better stay here. If she needs me, I want to be here. I’d better go now, Andy. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait! My mom wants to know if there’s anything she can do.”
“Tell her thanks, but everything is under control.”
“What about dinner?” Andy asked. “Can she send something?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to make waffles for me and Dad.”
“Waffles? When did you learn how to make them?”
“The frozen kind, Andy,” Casey explained. “Anyone can make them.”
“Well, OK. I’ll talk to you later, Case.”
Casey put the phone back on the nightstand. He pulled the quilt higher around Mom’s shoulders so she wouldn’t get a chill. As he tiptoed from the room, he smiled. It felt nice taking care of her for a change.

Five years ago, I accepted the true gospel of Jesus Christ and was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. Since then, I was nourished by the good word of God through leaders, teachers, callings, and sweet members. One Sabbath day, I was touched and inspired by a testimony borne by a 6-year-old primary kid on his temple experience. I was so much moved and inspired that I decided then to prepare myself along with my family to go to the temple.

An older granddaughter stated, “I have been considering marriage in the near future and have been making some tentative preparations. When Grandfather heard of my plans, he and Grandmother came down to see me, gave me some possible temple dates, offered other suggestions, and in an hour the entire thing was coming together. He said that evening, ‘You need a plan; if it doesn’t happen, you’re out nothing. You can cancel, but you can’t just materialize a wedding. Things just won’t fall into place if you don’t plan ahead.’”

Another false philosophy that appeals to the Mr. Hyde side of our natures is that peeking into pornography is harmless. This is a terrible deception. Pornography is as addictive as cocaine or any illegal drug. I recently received a heartbreaking letter from an excommunicated man whose soul is filled with sorrow and regret. With his permission, I quote the following from his letter: “I hope that this letter will confirm to any who have doubt that the path of destruction only reaps sorrow and grief and no sin is worth this price.”

He goes on to state: “I have brought grief and sorrow upon myself. Only now do I fully realize the great destruction that I have brought upon myself. No selfish or lustful desire is worth losing your Church membership for. I have brought terrible grief to my wife and two wonderful children. I am grateful for my wife’s great efforts to help me overcome my sins. My wife has been a victim of my sins and had to endure great sorrow and suffering. I long for the day that I can again be a member of the Lord’s Church and for our family to be an eternal family.”

The letter goes on to admit: “My sins are a direct result of my early childhood addiction to pornography. Without a doubt, pornography is addictive and is poison. Had I learned early in my life to apply the power of self-mastery, I would be a member of the Church today.”

Let me tell you about some individuals who have truly learned and applied these concepts in their own lives. Melanie Hall and Marty Tidwell were typical BYU students. Like you, they were extremely busy with their studies and their jobs. But they both found time to take the initiative to get involved. Among other things they were involved with Special Olympics, field trips with the American Fork Training School, and BYU Management Society community clean-up projects. Melanie was from Durango, Colorado; and Marty was from Prineville, Oregon. Melanie’s uncle was Marty’s home ward bishop in Oregon. So one year Melanie’s aunt invited her to their home for Christmas, and she arranged for Melanie to ride to Oregon with Marty. Thus, Melanie tells me their first “date” was prearranged by her aunt and was 14 hours long! They eventually fell in love and married, and after graduation they worked for a while in Portland, Oregon, and then moved to Singapore, where they work today.

Several years ago a woman in their ward, Leearne DiMichiel, was trying to adopt a baby girl from an orphanage in Cambodia, and she asked Melanie to accompany her there to help clear up some medical issues with the baby. Before leaving, they made baby quilts and collected toys and clothes for the children at the orphanage. But once there they met two little boys who changed their lives forever.

One was 18-month-old Ratana, who was very near death. He had both AIDS and tuberculosis, and at the time they saw him, he was nothing more than skin and bones. He was lying on a towel he had just vomited on, and he was naked except for a dirty cloth tied around his waist as a diaper. When Melanie and Leearne tried to get close to him, he would cover his mouth with his bony hands, whimper, and turn away from them as if to say, “You mustn’t look at me. I’m too sad.” They sensed that he knew something was wrong with him, and he seemed embarrassed for anyone to pay any attention to him. The other baby, Han, was four months old and weighed only four and a half pounds. When Melanie asked the ladies working at the orphanage what was wrong with Han, they repeatedly said, “No mama, no papa, not enough milk.” With that response, the two women knew what they had to do. They agreed to pay for private care for both Ratana and Han. Immediately both boys were cleaned up and taken care of. Melanie tells me:

It was such a moving thing to watch Ratana take it all in. He went from being a child left in the corner with nothing to a child who was getting the attention he deserved. He was calm and serene as the ladies fixed him up. He had a peaceful, relieved look on his face.

Less than a week after the two women returned home, Ratana died—but since the day that they’d found him he had been dressed, fed, cared for, and loved. What a blessing to him and to them that they had taken the initiative to become involved. Because of this experience, Melanie, Leearne, and others sponsored other critically ill babies. They even hired an artist to paint murals of nature scenes and Disney characters on the walls of the orphanage.

Now what about Han? Well, Melanie and Leearne introduced him to Sister White, the wife of the mission president. She agreed to visit Han frequently and serve as a surrogate grandmother. He responded well to the love and attention and was eventually adopted by a family in Hawaii.

This was only the beginning. Over the years, as they continued their efforts with fund-raisers and baby showers for these children, word seemed to spread magically and many other individuals and organizations became involved. The work continues today. Three years ago the Tidwells adopted an 11-year-old Cambodian girl themselves. With her adoption, Melanie and Marty needed to redirect their focus to their new daughter. Even though she is not as involved today with the Cambodian efforts, Melanie continues helping in other areas.

As Sister Johnson and I were raising our children, we encouraged each of them to learn to play a musical instrument. But we would allow our children to take music lessons only if they did their part and practiced their instrument each day. One Saturday, our daughter Jalynn was excited to go play with friends, but she had not yet practiced the piano. Knowing she had committed to practice for 30 minutes, she intended to set a timer because she did not want to practice even one minute longer than was required.

As she walked by the microwave oven on her way to the piano, she paused and pushed some buttons. But instead of setting the timer, she set the microwave to cook for 30 minutes and pushed start. After about 20 minutes of practice, she walked back to the kitchen to check how much time was remaining and found the microwave oven on fire.

She then ran into the backyard where I was doing yard work, yelling that the house was on fire. I quickly ran into the house, and indeed, I found the microwave oven in flames.

In an effort to save our home from burning, I reached behind the microwave, unplugged it, and used the power cord to lift the burning microwave off of the counter. Hoping to be the hero and to save the day as well as our home, I swung the flaming microwave in circles with the power cord to keep it away from my body, got to the backyard, and with another swinging motion flung the microwave out onto the lawn. There we were able to extinguish the fiery flames with a hose.

What had gone wrong? A microwave oven needs something to absorb its energy, and when nothing is on the inside to absorb the energy, the oven itself absorbs the energy, becomes hot, and may catch on fire, destroying itself in a pile of flames and ashes. Our entire microwave went up in flames and burned because there was nothing on the inside.

Some time back a small, bent, elderly woman came to my office. For the purpose of this talk I shall call her Mary Olsen, although that is not her name and she would not wish her identity disclosed. She said she had just come over from the temple. She took from her purse her checkbook. She said that she had been a widow for many years, that life had not been easy for her. She had a great love for the Lord and his Church. She had faithfully paid her tithing all her life. She felt she would not live much longer. Now, she said, she felt she ought to be doing more to help than she had done. In a hand shaky with age, she wrote a check for $5,000. She handed it to me. I noted the address where she lived. It was in a poor neighborhood. I confess that as I looked at that check tears came into my eyes. I have held many larger checks than that in my hands. But as I held the check of this widow woman, I was almost overcome by her faith and the seriousness of the trust that was mine in the expenditure of her consecrated contribution.

My dear young friends, we—you and I—are trustees of that which has been given to the Lord by Mary Olsen and thousands like her whose devotion is as great and whose sacrifice is as certain. This beautiful campus, with its many programs, is a consumer of a very substantial portion of the widow’s contribution. She gives her offering to the Lord, and she is then released from responsibility. The responsibility then becomes mine—and yours!

Each one of us has a short window of opportunity to learn to yield our hearts to God—that is, to use mortality to become more like our Savior by learning to love others as God and our Savior love us. To illustrate this I will share one last story.

I knew a man who lived in Sugar City, Idaho, when the Teton Dam broke in 1976. I heard the story from one of his friends, and I spoke with him some years ago before he passed away to confirm its truthfulness. I share it with you to illustrate how a man can come to love God and yield his heart to Him—can give God his agency, so to speak, because he only wants to do what God would want him to do and not what he himself would want to otherwise do.

In 1974 President Spencer W. Kimball had asked members of the Church to fix up our homes, our barns, and our yards.16 President Kimball told us that nonmembers of the Church would judge the truthfulness of the Church by how well we took care of what we had been given, which, by the way, I know to be true. After President Kimball had given the Church this counsel, my friend was out in his front yard one morning painting his fence and planting petunias with his wife. He had painted his barn the week before. His family had about 40 acres of land, and they were raising their seven children with the help of 40 milk cows. You get the picture.

A neighbor stopped in front of his home. The neighbor asked my friend what he was doing painting his fence and planting those flowers in his front yard. My friend kindly reminded his neighbor that President Kimball had asked us to fix up our homes and our yards. He then said to the neighbor that he wanted to be obedient.

My friend’s neighbor chided him a bit, saying, “Painting your barn and fence and now planting those flowers—that’s not going to increase your milk production any.”

My friend simply said something like this: “You are probably right, but President Kimball has asked us to do it and I want to do it.”

Within two weeks the Teton Dam broke and more than 200,000 acre-feet of water came down the Snake River Valley, destroying virtually everything in its path.17 I don’t know if you can envision what more than 200,000 acre-feet of water is like. It was a wall of water about 10 feet high and seven miles wide. Thinking of it more like an engineer, it’s 200,000 acres of land covered with more than one foot of water, or one acre of land covered with a column of water more than 37 miles high.

All of my friend’s milk cows died. His barn was severely damaged. His house was mostly destroyed. The fence in front of his home—the one he had been painting just a few days before—was gone, not to mention the petunias.

A few days after the flood, my friend saw his neighbor—you remember, the one who chided him a bit for fixing up his place. Only this time he said, “Aren’t you sorry now [with a certain spin on the word now] you took that time to paint your barn, fix your fences, and plant those flowers?”

My friend Marion hesitated for just a moment and then said, “No, they were ready to be taken.”

My friend had learned to use his moral agency in his window of time wisely. By his obedience to a prophet of God he was preparing himself to be taken—preparing himself to stand in front of our Heavenly Father with a character more like our Heavenly Father and our Savior Jesus Christ. This too is your opportunity and mine, brothers and sisters.

When I was nine, I had friends who used to swear a lot. I thought if they were doing it, maybe I could too. I talked to my parents, and they said it wasn’t the right thing to do. Then I prayed to Heavenly Father and felt that it wasn’t right to swear.
It was one thing to not swear, but I decided to ask my friends to stop as well. It was a little bit hard to stand up to my friends, especially the ones I didn’t know well. Most of my friends accepted my wish. But others said, “This is the way I talk, so if you have a problem with it, I can stop hanging out with you.” That was hard at first, but then I realized they weren’t my true friends.
Sometimes if you hang out with people, you eventually get used to the way they talk or act and you can forget what’s right or wrong. Making the right decision when I was nine has helped me make other good decisions since then. It taught me that I could make good decisions by talking to my parents and praying. I can know what I need to do.
Even though I knew my parents’ opinion was right, I decided to pray as well to be sure about what I was doing, especially when it came to not hanging out with some of my friends. No matter how old we are, Heavenly Father is always there for us. I know I can rely on Him to tell me what I need to do.

When I started my first job following Graduate School, I was hired as a caseworker at the Youth Services Center in St. Anthony, Idaho, which served as the State institution for incarcerated delinquents. I was assigned to work at the cottage which housed the older youth on the campus. When introducing me to the inmates, the psychologist pronounced, “This is Mr. Miyasaki. He has a black belt in karate, so no one mess with him.” I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I didn’t and the legend began. By the way, the only black belt I had was used to hold my pants up. However, rumors flew, and I quite enjoyed the instant respect and fear. Then one night I was called to come in as there was a fight in the dorm. We decided that we needed to place one of the boys in lock-up until the situation cooled down. As I escorting this young man to the lock up room, we first entered a small locked cubicle that was a safety area between the hallway and the lock up room, with just barely enough room to have two people standing together. In these crowded quarters this young man challenged, “Okay, Mr. Miyasaki, let’s see what you got. It’s just you and me.”

A quick twinge of fear of exposing my lack of martial arts skill arose, but I quickly countered with, “Oh, you don’t want to do that because I going to plant this right foot into your left jaw.” He then replied, let me in lock up, I was just kidding. What he didn’t know was if he would of said go for it, I would asked him to kneel down. In contrast with my dependence upon a faulty image, again, the Savior has shown the perfect example of being steadfast and immovable in those situations that were most trying, For in his life despite the world judging him to be a thing of naught; “…wherefore they scourge him, and he suffereth it; and they smite him, and he suffereth it. Yea, they spit upon him, and he suffereth it, because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men.”[19] The Savior never faltered or relied upon worldly measures of power and strength in the end of his mortal existence, for He knew who He was and was steadfast and immovable, as His will had moved to be swallowed in the will of His Father’s. So it is the task of each of us to move to that same state.

A year and a half after my wife, Rebeca, and I married, the company I worked for closed. Suddenly I found myself unemployed.
Rather than look to be hired by someone else, I felt prompted to start my own company. I knew that this challenge could be a complicated one, so I turned to Heavenly Father to confirm what I had felt. Prayer played a vital role in that initial decision and has continued to be crucial since.
In August 2003 I started my own company doing painting, gardening, landscaping, and maintenance work. Things aren’t always easy when you have your own company, especially when starting out. At the beginning of one month, Rebeca and I needed to pay rent for our home. We didn’t have a penny. So one morning we prayed that we might somehow obtain the money we needed. Later that day I was hired for a job that paid enough to cover our rent.