Gospel Story Finder

When I was nine years old, I committed a crime. I made a decision to steal a comic book from the small town store which kept an old twirling black metal rack over in the corner by the stacked wooden cases of bottled soda pop. The owner did not catch me stealing, but at home my parents were suspicious, knowing that I had no money to purchase the comic book. Prying the truth out of me, my mother finally marched me back to the store, where I confessed my guilt to the owner. He let me decide how to make full restitution and how I was going to go about learning not to steal again.
The store’s floor was made of old-time hardwood, and each evening he would throw sawdust down and sweep it to get up all of the dust balls and grime from the foot traffic of the day. That chore was assigned to me. I was sure that I would only have to do it for a few days. As I came into the store each afternoon after school to do my sweeping, the proprietor would nod his greeting and motion toward the broom and cardboard box of sawdust in the back. It was weeks before he told me one night that he thought I had swept long enough.
I relate this particular incident, not to rehash the sin, but to point out that it is the sweeping and the price I had to pay that I remember vividly. I still have the memory of taking the comic book, but the feelings of guilt, heartsickness, distress, and deep sorrow are long gone because I was helped to repent. I remember those long hours of sweeping now to remind me of the price of stealing. That encourages me not to be dishonest again.

President Kimball recites the following story about a goal he made when he was still a young boy: “When I heard a Church leader from Salt Lake City tell us at conference that we should read the scriptures, and I recognized that I had never read the Bible, that very night at the conclusion of that very sermon I walked to my home a block away and climbed up in my little attic room in the top of the house and lighted a little coal-oil lamp that was on the little table, and I read the first chapters of Genesis. A year later I closed the Bible, having read every chapter in that big and glorious book.
“I found that this Bible that I was reading had in it 66 books, and then I was nearly dissuaded when I found that it had in it 1,189 chapters, and then I also found that it had 1,519 pages. It was formidable, but I knew if others did it that I could do it.
“I found that there were certain parts that were hard for a 14-year-old boy to understand. There were some pages that were not especially interesting to me, but when I had read the 66 books and 1,189 chapters and 1,519 pages, I had a glowing satisfaction that I had made a goal and that I had achieved it.
And he continues: “I am not telling you this story to boast; I am merely using this as an example to say that if I could do it by coal-oil light, you can do it by electric light. I have always been glad I read the Bible from cover to cover.” (Ensign, May 1974, p. 88.)

Barbara had lived in a new ward for only a few months when the pandemic began. Like so many, she discovered that her plans had been turned upside down. She thought meeting new friends would be a wonderful experience, but instead it became a struggle. During a time of isolation, patterns of ministering had to change. She didn’t have much of a chance to get to know the members of her new ward. She asked herself, “How do I visit, serve, help, and love sisters when visiting someone isn’t possible? Even sending a text is hard when sisters don’t recognize my name or number because I’m new.”
She found it even more important to pray and listen for promptings in such circumstances. Sometimes she felt prompted to simply drop off a note. Other times she sent a text to thank a sister for her prayer in sacrament meeting or to express appreciation for the testimony of another sister’s husband. An occasional socially distanced visit on someone’s front porch helped fill her need for seeing and talking in person. One prompting led her to think of a comforting, delicious bowl of butternut squash soup, so she dropped off the recipe and a butternut squash.
It’s not how she had hoped things would go when she moved in. Isolation made the process of getting to know her sisters slower. But as she followed President Nelson’s counsel to increase her spiritual capacity to receive revelation, she overcame challenges, became a better ministering sister, and formed some close friendships.

Trying to write a message to the world caused some serious contemplation. For some of the girls it was not easy. The words were put on paper only after prayer and thought. Beth Story of the California Saratoga Stake said, “I don’t really know how I came to write what I did. After I found out I would be writing to a stranger about how I felt about the Church, I prayed. I really had a desire to write something that a person would pay attention to if he found it.” Jennifer Bezzant, a Beehive from Rigby, Idaho, also tells of the time she spent before writing her message. “I was really unsure as to what to write. No thought seemed to come. The Sunday came when we were to write our messages down in church, and I still hadn’t thought of anything. I was getting desperate. My Young Women president let me take my card home to pray about it over the week. On Tuesday of that week, when I knelt by my bed, I asked Heavenly Father to help me write a suitable message that would help someone. As I got up from my knees, I felt impressed to get my pen and write. The words just seemed to come, and I kept writing until I was finished. When I read over what I had written, I was surprised. It sounded so good, I couldn’t believe I wrote those words.” Heather Thompson of Rexburg, Idaho, also caught the vision of the broader purpose for the balloon event. She found that the thought she invested as she prepared her message was valuable even if no one ever received the copy sent aloft. Heather said, “I feel as if I wrote my message, not only to the finder of my balloon but to myself and my Heavenly Father.”
Young Women in some areas of the world were in situations that did not allow them to release balloons. Many of them sent their messages to Church headquarters, where they were distributed to girls in stakes that were holding balloon events. Shawna Bowcutt was one who asked that someone release her message for her. She wrote, “I live in Kinshasa, Zaire, and our branch has not yet been organized, so I am including my message in this envelope for someone to send up for me. I am one of two Young Women in our branch. Thank you for including me in this event.”
Five Young Women in Egypt put into action an alternate plan. It was inappropriate for them to release helium-filled balloons, so their adviser planned an excursion. They drove through a tunnel under the Suez Canal to the tip of the Sinai. There, following a sunrise service, the girls snorkeled over the edge of the reef and released their messages sealed in bottles into the ocean currents.
In many locations the most touching moment came when the signal was given and the balloons were released. As the balloons rose in unison, a shout of joy sent them on their way. Then it was quiet, but girls’ faces, some streaming with tears, were still upturned watching for as long as they could follow their balloons.
Andrea Smith from the California Saratoga Stake remembers that moment at Coit Tower in San Francisco. “As we let go of the balloons, I think everyone gasped. It was a beautiful sight, and I was overwhelmed with the thought of the wonderful testimonies and messages of the girls.”
Marilee Griffeth was one of 2,000 gathered in Rexburg, Idaho. She shouted with the rest as the balloons were released. “I felt a warm glow when the words were spoken, ‘Girls, release your balloons.’ A part of me rose with that balloon so that I shall never forget that day.”
Lance Wickman, the stake president of the Poway California Stake, wrote, “We watched, transfixed, as the balloons floated steadily heavenward until they disappeared into the clouds still gathered overhead. I cannot express the feeling that I felt—that we all felt—at that moment.”
The balloons made their journeys, and much like the parable in the scriptures, some seeds fell on fertile ground. A message written by Laura West in the Salt Lake Cottonwood Height Stake was found by one who desperately needed her encouragement. Laura had written, in part, “Keep your hopes up and rise like the balloon. Always have faith in Christ and Christ will have faith in you.” Her balloon was found only a couple of miles from where it was released. The man who found it wrote to Laura that he was a member of the Church but had fallen away 18 years earlier while he was in his teens. He told of his struggle to be reunited with his wife and children and the decision he made to come back to the Church. He wrote, “I’ve been reading the Book of Mormon and praying since Sunday night (the day after I got your letter). I went to the bishop of my ward that night and told him I knew it was time for me to straighten out my life. … If only you could feel the peace and tranquility that has come to me since I began the reading and prayer. It’s truly like the difference between night and day. To top off my own feelings that I’m on the right track, I picked up your letter. You said you hoped your letter would brighten my day. It not only brightened my day, it was a godsend! I will remember your letter forever.” He signed it “Your friend you’ve never met” and his name.
All the messages in the balloons were good seeds. Even though every balloon was not discovered and appreciated by someone, the messages still took root where they could be nurtured and cherished. Each message took root in the heart of the girl who wrote it. As Tahneam Merrill of Rexburg, Idaho, said, “I can sincerely say my testimony soared higher and farther than my balloon could ever travel. My message may not be received by anyone, but it was received by me.”

At the time, my mom and I were living in New Delhi. I was close to my aunt, so when I was 11, I went to visit her and Uncle Reza in Toronto for the summer. While I was there, my aunt invited me to church. In my first meeting, I loved seeing families sing the hymns together. I had never experienced anything like that.
“What is this place?” I asked my aunt after the meeting. “Everybody’s so happy and friendly. I want to know more.”
Two sister missionaries came and taught me the lessons. I knew I wanted to be part of what I was learning. The gospel made me happy, and I wanted to join the Church, so I did.
Tahira at her baptism with her Aunt Assiya, Uncle Reza, and Sister Jane Rogers, who taught Tahira the gospel.
I attended boarding school while growing up, so I had long summer vacations. My mom worked and my parents were divorced, so I began going to Canada in the summertime. My aunt and uncle became like second parents.
Uncle Reza, originally from Pakistan, enjoyed translating Church hymns into Hindi and Urdu. In sacrament meeting, we would often sing his translated versions of the hymns.
Uncle Reza, pictured above with the author, enjoyed translating Church hymns into Hindi and Urdu. “In sacrament meeting,” Tahira says, “we would often sing his translated versions of the hymns.”
Eventually my mom wanted to know more about the church her daughter and sister had joined. She met with the missionaries and was soon baptized. My mom and aunt made sure I went to Toronto every summer so I could attend church and participate in Church activities.
When it was time for me to choose a college, my aunt and uncle helped me get into Brigham Young University, where I met my husband, who is from Argentina. I often think about what brings our families together. Because of the Church, a young man from Argentina met and married a young woman from India.
As the music supervisor in the Church’s hymn-translation team, Tahira says, “I’m sharing the gospel through the hymns.”
Photograph by Christina Smith
Today, I am the music supervisor in the Church’s hymn-translation team. I work on projects in six different languages. I’m working on translating hymns into Nepali and Burmese, which is my mother’s native language. It’s fun and rewarding. I also work on Amharic from Ethiopia, Twi and Fante from Ghana, and Sinhala from Sri Lanka.
I love my work because music has come full circle in my life. Music was my introduction to the Church. Now I think about how many people will hear the hymns in their own language and be touched. I’m sharing the gospel through the hymns, and I can see how my work fulfills promises made in my patriarchal blessing.
My uncle and aunt have passed away, but through the hymns, I feel the legacy of their strength and testimony. My uncle loved sharing his testimony in song.
“Someday members of the Church will hear and sing these hymns in their own language,” he said. “People will understand what the hymns are saying, and the words will touch their heart.”
I get to be part of that project. It has been a great blessing in my family.
The author and her family at their home in Payson, Utah, USA.
Photograph by Christina Smith

As Melissa turned her attention back to the ward council meeting, she thought, “If only everyone could be surrounded by such loving friends and leaders as they progress toward the temple.”
Her thoughts were interrupted as she heard the Relief Society president comment on a sister in need: “She wasn’t at church last Sunday. I’ll make sure her visiting teachers let her know about the upcoming temple trip.”
“They’ve got some hard things going on right now,” added the elders quorum president. “I’ll follow up with their home teachers and see if there’s anything we can do.”
“The young women could help with babysitting,” said the Young Women president.
As Melissa looked at the faces of the members of the ward council, she saw genuine affection and concern. A smile spread across her face. “The Lord has prepared ways for His children to be protected and loved,” she thought. “The ward council!”

Jennifer and Melissa Peterson and Shawn Edwards, of the Council Bluffs Iowa Ward, Papillon Nebraska Stake were in the mood to win a contest, so they produced a video called “Glenn Miller: A Master Showperson and Arranger.” It won first place in their division of the International Student Media Festival.
Jennifer, Melissa, and Shawn wrote the narration for the video, mixed the music and narration, recorded still photos and film on video, and combined the video and sound. Glenn Miller might seem like an unusual subject for teenagers to pick, but they explained it this way: “We picked Glenn Miller because he was from Iowa and we like his music.” Their film won them the right to attend the International Student Media Festival Awards Conference in Orlando, Florida.

“Aloha,” Father said when he found Allie feeding the family cow, Spot.
“Aloha!” Allie replied. She and her family had lived on the Sandwich Islands for just a few months, but the Hawaiian word already felt familiar on her tongue.
“I have wonderful news. The king of Hawaii, King Kalakaua, is coming to visit our new chapel, right here in Laie.”
“The king!” Allie squealed.
“Yes,” Father said. “Now let’s go find your mother and brother so we can tell them the exciting news. We have a lot of work to do before he arrives.”
The next few days were a blur of activity. Father finished painting the chapel. Mother and Sister Partridge prepared a breakfast at the mission house for the visitors’ arrival.
“It will be fit for a king,” Mother declared. Allie giggled—never had those words been so true!
Meanwhile, hundreds of Saints came to Laie from all over the Hawaiian Islands for this special meeting. Hawaii now had over 3,600 Latter-day Saints. Nearly 300 had joined the Church since Father had received his mission call last April.
The night before the king’s arrival, Allie stood back with Father and admired all of their hard work on the mission house. Braided ferns covered the railings. Exotic flowers added bright splashes of color. The Hawaiian flag floated grandly in the breeze.
“I’m sure the king will love it,” Allie said. “I can’t wait to hear all about his visit.”
October 6, 1883, dawned bright and clear. Allie watched as Mother dressed in her best dress and left with Father to welcome the king at the mission house. Hours later, they returned with quite a story to tell.
“Hundreds of Saints lined the road and cheered as the king arrived,” Father said. “After the king ate breakfast with us, your mother and I took him to the chapel. It was so full that five hundred people had to stand outside the building!”
“Three choirs from different islands sang, and the king himself spoke to the crowd,” Mother added. “He thanked the Church for honoring the laws of the land and told us to continue our good works. Then we had a feast for more than a thousand people! There was beef, pork, chicken, watermelon, and corn.”
“But we had no plates, knives, forks, or spoons,” Father said. “We had to eat with just our fingers!”
“Even Mother?” Allie gasped.
“Even me,” Mother said with a laugh. “And I rather enjoyed it!”
“His majesty enjoyed it too,” Father said. “It was a very important day for the Church here.”
And our family got to be part of it, Allie thought as she watched the sun set over the purple and gold horizon. The day was ending, but things were just beginning for the Church on the Hawaiian Islands.

It is interesting to note that in addition to such testimonies about President Monson’s loyalty to the elderly, many unsolicited testimonials of his equally urgent concern for the youth of the Church are also offered. There is something perpetually youthful about President Monson which allows him to relate to all the members of the Church, but especially the young. He loves them, is conscious of them, and is devoted to their spiritual success.
Immediately after young Tom Monson’s discharge from the navy following the conclusion of World War II, he was called to serve as a ward clerk. One evening he sat silently taking minutes while the bishopric agonized over the obvious lack of success with the young people in their ward, including challenges within the MIA program. Apparently the young clerk took it about as long as he could and then said, “Excuse me, brethren, but may I say something about the MIA and the youth challenges in this ward?” He then launched into a rapid-fire and profound summary of not only what was wrong with their ward youth program but what could rather quickly make it right. Then, realizing he may have been too bold and too presumptuous, he said, “Forgive me. I think I have said too much,” and excused himself from the room.
He was no sooner out the door than the bishopric looked at each other and said, “What are we waiting for?” They immediately called him back into the room, released him as ward clerk, and called him to be the superintendent of the MIA. In six months the 6–7th Ward combined program, with its totally committed young superintendent, was the example to which every other leader in the Temple View Stake looked for their own youth activities.
That lifelong devotion to youth is currently reflected in President Monson’s 25 years of service on the National Executive Board of the Boy Scouts of America, a longer term of service rendered than that of any other man who has ever been seated in that distinguished circle. Jere B. Ratcliffe, Chief Scout Executive for the Boy Scouts of America, says, “I don’t know any person about whom I could say more good things than I can say about Tom Monson. For me, Tom personifies enthusiasm in its original meaning—‘God within,’ or literally ‘inspired.’ He lights up every meeting he is in. The LDS Church is blessed to have such a leader of youth.”
One associate says that President Monson relates well to youth “because he is still just a boy at heart. Have you ever seen him at a Utah Jazz or collegiate game? He follows every play with keen personal interest. Tom is a big man with big responsibilities, but he still displays the enthusiasm of youth.”
Somehow that observation rings true, especially when we realize that this is the 12-year-old boy who, when making his first visit to the Seagull Monument on famed Temple Square, spent time wondering how a person could get those nickels and dimes, which had been thrown there by the slightly more contemplative, out of the reflecting pool. Actually, Tommy Monson was very touched by that visit to Temple Square, returning to his ward to give the first talk he ever delivered—on that wonderful pioneer story of the seagulls and the crickets.

During the priesthood session of this past April general conference, I was seated on the stand as one of the five newly called General Authorities. We were sitting where the sisters of the auxiliary presidencies are now seated. I was feeling very nervous and overwhelmed with my new call.

When we were singing the intermediate hymn, I felt a strong impression that someone was watching me. I thought to myself: “There are more than 20,000 people in this building, and most of them are facing this way. Of course someone is watching you.”

While I continued singing, I again felt the strong impression that someone was watching me. I looked over to the row where the Twelve Apostles were sitting and saw that President Russell M. Nelson was turned all the way around in his seat, looking at where we were seated. I caught his eye, and he gave me a big smile. That smile brought peace to my overwhelmed heart.

After His Resurrection, Jesus Christ visited His other sheep. He called and ordained twelve disciples, and with that authority, they ministered to the people. The Lord Jesus Christ Himself stood among them. The Lord asked them to kneel and pray. I am not sure if the newly called and ordained twelve disciples were overwhelmed with their calling, but the scripture says, “It came to pass that Jesus blessed them as they did pray unto him; and his countenance did smile upon them, and the light of his countenance did shine upon them.”5 During the last general conference, a smile lightened my burdens in an immediate and extraordinary way.

Growing up in southern Utah, some of us sought employment at the many gasoline service stations that lined Highway 91, which ran through downtown St. George. My younger brother Paul, then 18, worked at Tom’s Service, a station located about three blocks from our home.
One summer day a car with New York license plates pulled in the station, and the driver asked for a fill-up. (For you under the age of 30, in those days someone actually came out and filled your car with gas, washed your windows, and checked your oil.) While Paul was washing the windshield, the driver asked him how far it was to the Grand Canyon. Paul replied that it was 170 miles.
“I’ve waited all my life to see the Grand Canyon,” the man exclaimed. “What’s it like out there?”
“I don’t know,” Paul answered. “I’ve never been there.”
“You mean to tell me,” the man responded, “that you live two and a half hours from one of the seven wonders of the world and you’ve never been there?”
“That’s right,” Paul said.
After a moment, the man replied, “Well, I guess I can understand that. My wife and I have lived in Manhattan for over 20 years, and we’ve never visited the Statue of Liberty.”
“I’ve been there,” Paul said.
Isn’t it ironic that we will often travel many miles to see the wonders of nature or the creations of man, yet ignore the beauty in our own backyard?
It is human nature, I suppose, to seek elsewhere for our happiness. Pursuit of career goals, wealth, and material rewards can cloud our perspective and often leads to a lack of appreciation for the bounteous blessings of our present circumstances.
It is precarious to dwell on why we have not been given more. It is, however, beneficial and humbling to dwell on why we have been given so much.
An old proverb states, “The greater wealth is contentment with a little.”
In his letter to the Philippians, Paul wrote, “Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content” (Philip. 4:11).
Alma instructed his son Helaman, giving him counsel that all fathers should teach their children: “Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if ye do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day” (Alma 37:37).
Alma said, “Let thy heart be full of thanks unto God.” The Lord desires that we give thanks. In Thessalonians we read, “In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you” (1 Thes. 5:18).
We should always strive to increase our gratitude. Gratitude may be increased by constantly reflecting on our blessings and giving thanks for them in our daily prayers.
President David O. McKay (1873–1970) said: “The young man who closes the door behind him, who draws the curtains, and there in silence pleads with God for help, should first pour out his soul in gratitude for health, for friends, for loved ones, for the gospel, for the manifestations of God’s existence. He should first count his many blessings and name them one by one” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1961, 8).
A constant expression of gratitude should be included in all our prayers. Often prayers are given for specific blessings which we, in our incomplete understanding, believe we need. While the Lord does answer prayers according to His will, He certainly must be pleased when we offer humble prayers of gratitude.
The next time we pray, instead of presenting the Lord petition after petition for some action in our behalf, give Him thoughtful thanks for all with which He has blessed us.
President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918) has instructed us that “the spirit of gratitude is always pleasant and satisfying because it carries with it a sense of helpfulness to others; it begets love and friendship, and engenders divine influence. Gratitude is said to be the memory of the heart” (Gospel Doctrine, 262).
In October 1879, a group of 237 Latter-day Saints from several small southwestern Utah settlements was called to blaze a new route and colonize what is today known as San Juan County in southeastern Utah. The journey was to have taken six weeks but instead took nearly six months. Their struggles and heroics are well documented, particularly their seemingly impossible task of crossing the Colorado River at a place called Hole-in-the-Rock. Those who have visited this place marvel that wagons and teams could have been lowered through this narrow crack in the red-rock canyon walls to reach the Colorado River far below. Once the Colorado was crossed, however, many other severe tests awaited them on the trail to San Juan County. Tired and worn out, early in April 1880 they faced their final obstacle, Comb Ridge. The Comb is a ridge of solid sandstone forming a steep wall nearly 1,000 feet high.
One hundred and twenty years later, our family climbed Comb Ridge on a bright spring day. The ridge is steep and treacherous. It was difficult to imagine that wagons, teams, men, women, and children could make such an ascent. But beneath our feet were the scars from the wagon wheels, left as evidence of their struggles so long ago. How did they feel after enduring so much? Were they bitter after the many months of toil and privation? Did they criticize their leaders for sending them on such an arduous journey, asking them to give up so much? Our questions were answered as we reached the top of Comb Ridge. There inscribed in the red sandstone so long ago were the words, “We thank Thee, O God.”
I pray that we might keep our hearts full of thanks and appreciation for what we have and not dwell on what is not ours. Let us adopt an attitude of gratitude in all we do.

I was thrilled when I passed the driving test and at long last was permitted to drive the family station wagon. My parents gave me a set of keys, which I proudly attached to my keychain, vowing to honor their trust in me. But one evening, while my parents were away, a heavy rainfall and a weak moment tested my good intentions.
My parents left my brothers and me for a few hours while they ran some errands. It started raining, and soon we saw large puddles outside of the house. We lived in an area surrounded by rich farmland, and whenever the ground was soaked by a good rain, fat earthworms (we called them night crawlers) would pop to the surface, almost like magic. When the rain cleared, we could see hundreds of plump night crawlers slithering along the slick mud around our garden and along the walkways.
My brother Bobby wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but he approached me with an idea for earning some money from the worms. He’d heard about a place across town that purchased night crawlers for fishing bait. He figured we could collect hundreds of night crawlers from the wet ground, drive to the bait store, sell them, and then be back before our parents returned. I didn’t know much about fishing or selling bait, but I knew I shouldn’t drive the car without permission. I rationalized that I knew how to drive safely and we wouldn’t be gone very long. But first, of course, we had to collect the worms.
It was still damp outside when we gathered flashlights and a few empty cans and began digging through the soft mud in search of the slithery creatures. The plan didn’t quite hold the attraction for me that it did for my brother, but I got past my squeamishness and grabbed my share of squirmy night crawlers. We spent some time picking worms from the mud and then realized that we needed to hurry across town to the bait shop. I didn’t know where it was, but my brother assured me he knew how to get there.
I followed his directions, and soon we found ourselves driving through dark and unfamiliar streets. We were miles from our home and safety. My brother was determined to sell the worms, but all I wanted was to get back home as fast as possible. Just as I was ready to turn the car around, we saw a dimly lit shed ahead of us, with people standing in line holding jars and buckets. I reluctantly agreed to stop at the shed just long enough to sell the night crawlers. However, the line moved very slowly, and more time passed before my brother finally made it to the counter where they weighed the worms and paid us for them. We knew we had been gone far longer than we planned.
When we pulled into the driveway, our parents were already home. My heart sank; I knew I would be in a lot of trouble for taking the car without permission. My stomach was tight as I remembered the numerous opportunities I’d had that evening to make better choices. We held our heads low as we entered by the back door, hoping to avoid attention. No such luck. But we were unprepared for the reaction.
Our parents sat at the kitchen table, their faces stricken with fear and grief. Tears poured down our mother’s face; our father’s eyes were red, and he was clearly distraught. Rather than greeting us with anger, they both cried out in relief that we were alive and safe. Then they asked where we had been.
I felt very foolish and childish as I offered my stammering answer: “Um … we were out selling night crawlers.” Their grief and emotion cut me to the soul. I would never knowingly or intentionally have caused my parents such hurt, but I knew I had done exactly that. I was acutely aware that I had not lived up to the trust and responsibility they’d placed in me, nor had I lived up to my own goals.
The lessons I learned that night were far reaching. I had given my parents my word, and I didn’t keep it. When we make a covenant with Heavenly Father, we have a responsibility to keep it. Just as my parents were thankful to see us come home, Heavenly Father welcomes us with love when we return to Him.
Eventually the trip my brother and I made to the bait store became part of our family folklore. For years it served as a gentle reminder that we always need to be on the right path. Otherwise, one of our parents was sure to ask, “Were you out selling night crawlers?”

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to his family’s car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.

“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.

“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.

A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.

“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.

Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”

Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.

“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”

Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”

Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”

“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.

“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”

“It was?”

“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”

“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.

“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”

Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”

“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

“Mormons sometimes discriminate against other Mormons.”
This feeling was expressed in a recent rap between returned Latter-day Saint servicemen and institute students and faculty at Idaho State University. The returned servicemen were invited to talk to student and faculty leaders and tell them how they felt about the institute. The surface niceties were soon forgotten because these men were encouraged to talk frankly about their problems.
The result? A new program of help and encouragement and a resolution on the part of members of the Student Association to go out of their way to make any newcomer to the institute feel welcome.
The servicemen’s comments were accepted at face value by faculty and students alike. President Robert E. Thompson, president of the Idaho State University Stake, summed up the feelings of most when he said, “We have always felt that we were extending the hand of fellowship, that we were welcoming the returned servicemen, but when the truth came out, we found we were falling down. We didn’t realize that they needed something special, something extra. Whether we agree that their assessment of us is correct or not is not important. The important thing is, they feel they need something more and we are not providing it.”
The returned servicemen expressed their feelings of being left out, of finding no place or organization for them.
“When you have been treated like a second-class citizen for so long, you expect to get shoved off the street. I spent four years in the Navy, and the whole time was an intensive training period on catching the cold shoulder. So I’m probably more sensitive than most about recognizing it,” said Terry Van Orden.
Of course, the problem is more complex than it seems. There are many reasons returned servicemen feel as they do.
“A soldier is often in a poor environment. It is unfortunate, but the worst of mankind seems to reveal itself during war. And maybe this is the reason returned servicemen don’t feel equal to returned missionaries. Missionaries are in a situation to see the most beautiful and uplifting parts of mankind; military people see the opposite. This naturally created a state of inequity in my mind; I didn’t feel as good as if I had been serving on a mission. And, of course, I wasn’t treated the same as a returned missionary. But the most important difference to me was that difference inside of me.
“For the first while it was natural for me to be hostile and suspect that people were not sincere because this is what I had been conditioned to expect. But finally I had to get hold of myself and say, ‘Look, these people are trying to help you, and they want to be your friends.’ It took me a while to realize this, but when I did, the change started happening to me, and I began to come around,” said Warren Mallen, a Vietnam veteran.
One ex-Navy man said, “I kept my testimony all the time I was in the service, but when I came back to my home ward, I didn’t feel accepted, and so I became totally inactive. Now because of this special effort at the institute, I really feel that I am on my way back.”
Of course, adjustments back to regular religious life have not all been negative. “The first few days at the institute were a pain in the neck for me because people were unfriendly. So I decided that I had to get involved. I got involved in everything I could, and soon people seemed more friendly,” commented Craig Naylor.
“I went into the service with four of my best buddies,” added Chip Herndon, an ex-marine who was wounded several times and spent a total of sixteen months in hospitals. “One stayed in and the other three died while they were in the service. So I felt like burying myself in the Church when I got home. I had a lot of time alone in the service, and I didn’t like being by myself. I was real glad to be active in the Church, even though it is still hard for me to open up at times.”
The institute panel learned other things about returned servicemen. They learned that there are more than a hundred of them on their campus alone who do not even feel welcome or wanted enough to let others know they are Latter-day Saints, let alone set foot in an institute class.
They learned that being busy and preoccupied with your own studies and assignments can easily be misinterpreted by someone else. “I’ve tried to come here several times during the last two years,” said Terry Van Orden, “but I couldn’t get used to walking down the hall and seeing my people walk by with their chins in the air.”
Those listening to the panel realized that it is common for people to prejudge others. Just as returned missionaries are loved, ex-servicemen are looked on with suspicion. “Talk to any mother; they will all tell you they would rather have their daughters associating with a missionary than with a serviceman,” commented one person. The group feeling was unanimous: “People don’t look at you as a person first and a serviceman second. They don’t care what kind of person you are; most people won’t even give you a chance.”
They talked about specific problems that seem to keep returned servicemen from trying to get back into Church life. Some haven’t been keeping the standards, and they feel they need help from someone who can understand them. Others expressed the idea that it is only natural after feeling the spirit of true love and brotherhood from sincere people to want to reevaluate their own lives.
As a result of this session, a special seminar is held regularly at the institute. Some twenty returned servicemen are now attending, and they have been assured that they are loved and wanted. Here they discuss everything from the gospel principles to career advice to how to combat the feeling that girls are afraid of them. During the seminar they are making friends and beginning to feel at home at the institute.
Discovering how any child of God should be treated was one benefit of the returned servicemen’s session and its resulting seminar. People now understand and practice the quintessence of the gospel. Once these wonderful principles were applied, the servicemen’s seminar became a living, breathing part of the Student Association at Idaho State University. At the same time it promises to be a very important missionary tool.
Institute students and faculty learned several important lessons from this experience that could help you not only to relate better to others but also to be a better follower of the Savior.
“We should not be interested in the history of a person’s problems. If a guy is smoking, we are not going to put him down for that. We simply need to let him know that we are his brothers and sisters, that we want to help him, and that we care about him. We are not interested in what he was but in what he can become.”
“Many people are basically shy and have a hard time communicating—not the passing-the-time-of-day kind of talk, but really expressing their feelings from deep down inside. In order to do this they have to want to express their feelings and then feel comfortable about how they will be received.”
“It is easy for people who are extra sensitive to feel that they are being looked down on. In addition to the servicemen, non–Latter-day Saints on this campus feel that the Mormons are cliquish and that we look down on them because they are different.”
“Those returned servicemen who seemed to feel the best adjusted were welcomed back into their home wards with a ward party. Then they were asked to report to the bishop and the stake high council about their experiences and their conduct as ward members while they were away. This personal interest made them feel accepted and on more of a par with others in the ward who were returning from school or missions.”
“The most positive experiences these brethren had while they were in the service were when others reacted to them first as people and then as soldiers or sailors, not the reverse.”
Whether in the United States or Japan, people belonging to branches were generally more friendly than people in wards. An ex-sailor said, “One sister in a little branch in Japan kept a three-by-five-inch card for every serviceman who visited there. She and her husband would take you home, and you knew you really had a friend and a place to go if you were ever there again. This kind of experience is the gospel in action to a serviceman.”
“Many returned servicemen have experienced what they call a crash course in growing up. Even though they may be the same age chronologically as other students, they had to grow up under fire on a night patrol or crouched in a bunker with mortar rounds zeroing in on top of them, and so they have good reason for seeming a little older and a little more serious in many ways.
“Because of these kinds of memories, it is harder for them to be as light-hearted and gay as the average college student. They require more drawing out than most.
“It is natural when we see a person from a minority race at the institute to sort of go out of our way to be friendly. But we often tend to by-pass the average-looking student because there are so many of them.”
“There are many Latter-day Saint returned servicemen on this campus, but you can’t recognize them. You go to the student union building and you know that some of the people you see are returned servicemen, and yet you don’t know which ones. We have had some success in locating them by working through the registrars office and also by asking returned servicemen. Terry knew twenty Latter-day Saint returned servicemen on campus who were not affiliated with the Church in any way.”

Mercedes became a dedicated visiting teacher herself. She and her companion, Olga Barros, visited an elderly sister who lived with her daughter, who had an intellectual impairment. One day Mercedes and Olga arrived to find the daughter distressed and confused. She said that her mother had been tired after lunch and had lain down to rest. When the daughter tried to rouse her, she refused to wake up. At that very moment the visiting teachers arrived.
Since I lived nearby, Mercedes ran to get me while Olga massaged the old woman. We called a doctor and did everything we could for the mother until the doctor arrived. How remarkable it was that the visiting teachers had arrived at the very moment when we could call the doctor and calm the frightened daughter!

Bert was left fielder on the Cubs Little League team. But most of the time he just sat on the bench. So when he did get a chance, he knew he had to do his very best—he had to be a winner.
One day during a game their left fielder kept dropping the ball. Suddenly the coach hollered, “Bert, get out there. I’m taking Fellini out of the game.”
“Does he mean me?” Bert asked in surprise. He clutched his mitt, thrilled and half scared.
“Sure, sure,” answered a teammate, poking Bert to make him move. “Hurry!”
Bert sprang up from the bench. “OK, coach!” He hustled out to the field. The coach wants me in now, he puzzled, with a Sox player on first and the score tied?
Bert ran toward the third baseman, a boy named Harvey.
“Be ready,” Harvey said. “They’ve got some big hitters coming up.”
“You bet,” Bert declared, punching his mitt hard with his fist. He’d show them. He just had to do a good job. And if he could, it would be the greatest feeling in the whole world. Suddenly he felt confident about his playing. All week he’d been practicing snagging flies and scooping up ground balls. He remembered what their coach always said—“Play to win: that’s what counts.”
The coach motioned to Bert to go farther back. A strong hitter must be coming up, the boy decided.
The Giant player, number eleven, came up to bat—a big guy. The pitcher wound up and zinged one over the plate. Number eleven swung … and missed. But there was plenty of power there. If he connects with the ball, it’ll really go, Bert thought. His hands felt hot and slippery. The batter swung again. What luck! Strike two. Then there was a foul ball. But what a crack of the bat! The ball went so far over the fence they had to send two kids out to hunt for it.
The batter took his time now. He rubbed his hands and hiked up his pants. Bert shivered in his shoes.
Suddenly the batter swung again, and snap went the bat. He had hit the ball, and it was coming like a bullet … straight toward left field. It was coming right toward Bert now, high and fast. Bert leaped in the air, reaching. It was like trying to catch a bird out of the sky. Then he fell over backward, rolling and rolling.
“Oh no!” Bert cried, his face full of dust. But he got back on his knees, and his hands were still clamped together. Everyone was shouting. He stood up. He held out his mitt and there was the ball cradled in it. Am I lucky! he thought excitedly. What a miracle. It could have been a homer—should have been, really.
Harvey ran over and pounded him on the back. “Great catch, Bert. He almost had a homer!”
“Yeah,” Bert said with a grin. “It was a lucky catch, wasn’t it?”
“Way to go, Bert!” the coach called, smiling.
Boy! Being a winner’s the greatest, Bert thought.
But just then Bert saw the batter walking back toward his team. He was all slouched over, and his cap was pulled down low over his face. He gave a quick rub to his eyes. And Bert realized that even winning isn’t one hundred percent perfect … for everyone.

Lidia trudged up the long farm lane, not even turning to wave to her friends still on the school bus. Her mind was too heavy with her problem: What can I possibly find between now and tomorrow morning to take to the class auction? As if a new language, a new school, and new friends were not difficulties enough, now she would have to go empty-handed to the auction.
Her problem was instantly forgotten, however, when she opened the cottage door and saw a letter on the floor. Mr. Williams, the owner of the farm where her parents both worked, must have pushed it under the door. It bore an official-looking return address, and it had a Red Cross emblem in the upper left-hand corner. She knew that she would have to be patient until her parents came home for supper; then she would read it to them. Without the advantage of school, which Lidia had in this new country, her parents’ knowledge of English was still scanty.
If only the letter contained some good news about her uncle! Lidia propped the envelope up against the only ornament on the bureau, a little blue glass pony. As her fingers touched the figurine, she prayed fervently that it would soon be reunited with its mate, the one that used to sit by its side in their house in Poland. When they had sadly made plans to leave their beleaguered country and go to America, not knowing when—or even if—they might meet again, the two Jelinek brothers had each taken one of the glass ponies, praying that they would be together again one day.
Mr. Williams, who admired the pony one day and was told the story, had written to the Red Cross, asking for information. Surely this letter would tell them that Uncle Jan was now in this country too!
Lidia snapped out of her reverie and got out pots for the vegetables that her mother had prepared earlier. As she set the table, she looked on all the cupboard shelves. There was nothing that she could take to the auction sale tomorrow! Not a trinket, not a spare dish, nothing. There were only the bare necessities that the Williamses had kindly provided for them. The auction, with its proceeds going to the Junior Red Cross, was an annual affair in the country school, but it was a new experience for Lidia. She dreaded being the only one in her class not to add some object to the collection on Miss Pearson’s desk.
The door suddenly opened, and Lidia rushed with the letter to greet her parents. And while they waited apprehensively, she stumbled through the unfamiliar phrases as she read the letter to them. Then, as she came to the closing sentence, she slowly read these discouraging words: “We are sorry that we have found no trace of your brother. However, be assured that we will keep trying …”
“I’ll wash,” Father said quietly, “then we’ll eat supper.”
After the usual prayer of thanks for food and shelter, Father told of a sick cow that was now getting well; Mother had helped Mrs. Williams clean the attic of the rambling old farmhouse.
“And how was school, Lidia,” Father asked.
The girl kept her eyes on her plate as she answered, “Fine, Father. Fine.”
“But you are very quiet,” Father pursued. “You have trouble at school?”
“No, no trouble.”
“So?”
“Well, there’s an auction at school tomorrow, and I should take something.”
“What is an auction?” Mother asked.
“Oh, everybody takes something, then the teacher asks for bids, and the one who bids the highest buys the book or whatever. The money goes to the Red Cross.”
“That is good,” Father said, nodding. “The Red Cross helped us many times. Here, take this.” Fishing in his pocket, he drew out a crumpled dollar bill.
“No thanks, Father,” Lidia said, pushing it away. “I have money of my own from weeding. But we are supposed to take something that can be sold.”
Father’s eyes looked around the room. “There is so little here.”
Lidia’s face crumpled. “I know,” she blurted. “There’s nothing I can take—nothing in this place!” She hung her head to hide her smarting eyes and wished that she had kept her words in check.
The girl waited for a rebuke; instead, her father got up slowly and went over to the bureau. He stood a minute, then he came back with the glass pony in his hand. “Take this,” he said quietly.
Lidia’s eyes widened. “The pony?”
Father nodded.
Lidia fingered the smooth blue glass and touched the dark eyes. Nobody spoke. She was touched by her father’s offer, and she sensed that her smiling, nodding parents were thinking back to happier days when there were two little ponies standing together on the top of a piano.
In the morning, the glass ornament sparkled on Miss Pearson’s sunny desk, and it brought the highest bid of one dollar. Nancy Crane, its new owner, wrapped it carefully in tissues and put it in her lunch pail.
At supper that night, Lidia described the sale and told her parents that Nancy said that she would take good care of the pony.
“It’s good,” Father said, smiling, “that the pony helps the Red Cross in a very small way.”
While Lidia was wiping the dishes after supper, a knock on the door startled them. Looking past her father at the open door, Lidia saw her schoolmate Nancy. With her was a tall man.
“Hi, Lidia,” the girl called. “This is my father, and we’ve come to see you about the glass pony.”
As they sat around the table, Nancy’s father took the glass pony out of his pocket, set it on the table, and began explaining: “I couldn’t believe it when Nancy brought this home. Your Lidia had told her that it was but one of a pair and that you left the other in Poland.”
“Yah,” Mr. Jelinek replied, “with my brother.”
“Well, folks,” the other man paused dramatically. “I’ve seen the mate to this pony.”
Lidia saw Father’s hands clench tightly, and Mother’s hand cover her mouth. “You are sure of this?” Father whispered.
“As sure as my name’s Walt Crane. I saw it only a few months ago.”
“How, Mr. Crane?” Lidia asked. “I mean, who had it?”
“A young fellow came asking for work. I didn’t need any extra help, but I knew that my cousin in Grand Falls did, so I drove him there. I saw the mate to this pony when I helped him settle in.”
“This place, is it far?” Lidia asked.
“About a hundred miles. Listen, folks, come home with me, and I’ll phone my cousin. As best as I can recollect, that young man did look like you, Mr. Jelinek. He must be your brother.”
The Jelineks were almost too happy to talk as Mrs. Crane and Nancy took them back home—Uncle Jan would be with them again tomorrow!
Lidia gave Nancy another grateful hug, then said thoughtfully, “It’s really funny. Just yesterday a letter from the Red Cross said that they had not found Uncle Jan yet but that they’d keep trying. And it was actually through the Red Cross auction today that we have found him!”
Nancy had happy tears in her own eyes. “My grandma always says, ‘God often works in mysterious ways.’ And I guess that it must be true. I’m just glad that I could help Him this time.” She slipped the glass pony into Lidia’s pocket. “Keep it, Lidia. Soon they’ll be a pair again.”

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
Our small western town had one of the better rodeo grounds in the area, and it was an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the deserted grounds and let our imaginations run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and wrestled the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the honeycomb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and each took a honeycomb from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, hide your honeycombs,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Good evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we were beginning to feel uncomfortable.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out rather late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us uneasy. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.”
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our honeycombs and returned them to the hives.

In his senior year he finished 15th in the cross-country nationals. Then came the golden indoor season that was to vault him into the aristocracy of the running world. He somehow managed to talk his way into the Sunkist Invitational meet, even though his times really didn’t qualify him for that level of competition. There he went head to head in the two mile with the great Suleiman Nyambui, the University of Texas at El Paso star. Doug had never beaten Nyambui, the silver medalist in the 500 meters at the Moscow Olympics, although as members of the same college athletic conference, the two had competed many times. This time Doug stayed right behind Nyambui throughout the race.
“When Suleiman moved out to take the lead, I stepped right out behind him. I stayed right on his tail. I decided that what I needed to do was surprise him when I went around him. It’s twenty-two laps on the indoor track for two miles. So I said, ‘with two laps to go, I’ll make my move.’ So that’s what I did. I made it right at the top of the turn. I cut a little close, and I just brushed him with my arm, and I think that kind of surprised him. I brushed by him on the outside just as he looked to the inside to see where everybody was. I think he was kind of startled, and by the time he recovered I had six or seven yards on him. And then I just ran like crazy. He never caught me. Indoors the race is often won by the man who makes the first move and doesn’t die. The crowd was amazed that Suleiman could be beaten, especially by me.”
This was a victory that any athlete could treasure for life, even if it was followed by no others, but in this case both Doug and most knowledgeable track people sensed that it marked a great turning point in his career, the beginning of something big, a rite of passage from just another good college runner to something different. Doug was edging into that elite circle of athletes who can be described as “world-class.”

Seven years ago, our son Daniel died by suicide.
The day of his death, we didn’t know where he was. We called all his friends, hospitals, and the police, but nobody had seen him. Daniel had been struggling with depression and suicide ideation for five years, so my wife and I had a feeling about what might have happened. Finally, my wife, Celi, got hold of his roommates, who found him in his room.
I think that losing a child might be the worst thing to happen to a parent. And nothing can take away that pain, but the people around you can do much to help you through your grief. During that horrible time, we did not lack for family, friends, or help. From the very first night we found out he was gone, people reached out. Our neighbors, Daniel’s friends, and our Church leaders came over. Relief Society sisters brought meals, and anonymous donors contributed enough for our needs.
Our bishop later told us that many people had wanted to help but didn’t know how. And so they asked him, “What can we do for the Hunts?”
It hasn’t happened often, but sometimes when people hear about Daniel, they don’t know what to say or how to treat us. I think it’s like when we don’t know how to approach someone who speaks a different language. We don’t know what to say or worry about saying the wrong thing, so instead we just don’t talk to them. But please reach out. Loss is lonely and can be isolating. The fact that we were surrounded by so many who did reach out made all the difference.
One thing we appreciated was how many stories we heard about our son. We do not worry for Daniel. We know what kind of kid he was. We know he was sick, and we know that “the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). And Daniel had a big heart. We know that. But to hear people tell their own stories about Daniel was wonderful.
Nate Olsen was one of Daniel’s friends. They had been buddies since first grade. When Nate had to come home early from his mission for medical reasons, Daniel immediately invited him to lunch. Nate told us how Daniel had been there to listen, love, and encourage—in a time when Nate felt lost and alone. As Nate said, Dan was the kind of person who truly cared about people.
It’s important to be the person you are and to admit you’re human. Sometimes we need to ask for help, to reach out—even when we’re the ones hurting. We can let others in and let them see who we are.
Seven years later, it’s still hard. Sometimes Celi will suddenly start crying, saying, “I miss my baby. I miss my baby.” But she has expressed that she has had comfort through those times—spiritual comfort. Spiritual comfort is perfect communication. Seeking spiritual comfort is the best way to feel perfectly included. And this spiritual comfort includes the human angels who feel inspired to come and help.
Sheri L. Dew, former Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, once shared a story about a General Authority who asked how to tell if someone is a true follower of Jesus Christ. The answer confused me at first, but now I fully agree: “The way you can tell if someone is truly converted to Jesus Christ is by how that person treats others.”1 The Christlike way to treat others is with respect, love, and compassion—no matter who we are or what we’re going through.