Gospel Story Finder

Painting the signs has helped Raegan and Rylyn through challenges. “When Kendall was sick, there were times we didn’t really want to be in the house because it was hard for us to see. So we decided to go and paint, and that lifted the load a lot,” Raegan says.
Kendall eventually passed away at age 16. Raegan says, “It was hard, but we knew that families are forever. We knew that even if we didn’t have much time with her, if we do our part, it’ll help us be closer to being with Kendall and Kallen again.”

The enemies of Joseph Smith have made out over and over that he was shiftless, lazy, indolent, that he never did a day’s work in his life.10 But a document exists that contains reported recollections about Joseph Smith as recorded by Martha Cox. One of these comes from a woman, identified as Mrs. Palmer, who knew him in his early life when she was a child.11 As a girl—years younger than him, apparently—she watched him with others of the boys working on her father’s farm. Far from his being indolent, the truth is that, according to this account, her father hired Joseph because he was such a good worker.12

Another reason was that Joseph was able to get the other boys to work. The suspicion is that he did that by the deft use of his fists. It is my belief that one of the feelings he had of unworthiness, one of the things for which he asked forgiveness (and his account shows that he did pray for forgiveness prior to the visitations of Moroni), was this physical propensity. He was so strong, so muscular, so physically able, that that was one way he had of solving problems. This troubled him. He did not feel it was consonant with the divine commission he had received.13

Mrs. Palmer’s account speaks of "the excitement stirred up among some of the people over [Joseph’s] first vision." A churchman, she recalls, came to her father "to remonstrate against his allowing such close friendship between his family" and the boy Joseph. But the father, pleased with Joseph’s work on his farm, was determined to keep him on. Of the vision, he said that it was "the sweet dream of a pure-minded boy." Later, the daughter reports, Joseph claimed to have had another vision; and this time it led to the production of a book. The churchman came again, and at this point the girl’s father turned against Joseph. But, she adds significantly, by then it was too late. Joseph Smith had a following.14

After about a year of working on my mission application, I gave it to my bishop to submit it to the stake president. To my utter surprise, my bishop lost the file containing my passport and medical records. This was a huge ordeal for me. That night, I got on my knees and cried my heart out, pleading with God to make it possible for us to find the file. After my prayer, I told Heavenly Father that if we did not find the file, I would work on another application no matter how long it would take.
A few weeks later, a miracle happened: my file was found at the premises of my stake president’s company. The security guard had been keeping the file all this while since he did not know the owner.
This experience strengthened my faith in Christ, that He is mighty to save.

What I charge you with today is what I charge myself with, which is to discover more creative solutions to working these concepts into our everyday lives. You can tell this has changed my life a lot. I hope you can tell that it really has. When I was working on this research four years ago, I came home with a chapter from a book that showed these data analyses, and my wife read it. She reads everything I write. She tells me pretty honestly when it’s not so good. She read the chapter and said, “I think this is really something. I think we can use this.”

“Yeah, we should give more,” I answered. “We should write bigger checks. We should take this seriously.”

She said, “No, no, no. I think we should do something bigger. I think we should adopt a baby.”

And I said, “Sweetheart, it’s only a book.
But I had no argument. We had to do it. And we did it. It was the best thing we ever did. And that changed our lives even more.

As for your money being cheerfully refunded, I can’t guarantee that, but I promise you that this stuff really works. It works—if you want—because of God in heaven, or it works—if you want—because of your neurochemistry, but it really works, and I leave you with that and one more thought.

As an American citizen and as a person with great delight to be here at BYU and living in this great country, one of the things that I’ve learned as a result of my research is that I’m a happy prosperous person because I live in a country with people who serve. Because you give to your churches and the causes that you care about here in Utah, I have a richer, happier, and healthier life even though I live in Washington, D.C. So for all that you do between your student life and your giving and your missions and everything else that characterizes your life of service that helps me so much, my last words to you are thank you.
© Arthur C. Brooks.

My husband and I recently attended a commencement exercise for our oldest son, Tom, who was graduating from law school. On graduation day, as I strained to get a glimpse of Tom in the sea of caps and gowns, my eyes searched for his face, but my heart and mind were traveling through time to years gone by. My momentary vision was blurred by a flood of memories mixed with tears. Let me share just one of those memories with you.
I remembered a little boy of three who was trying to write his name. I had written T O M for him on a piece of paper and then left him to practice while I bathed the baby. A little later he proudly showed me his finished product: M O T, it clearly read. Because of my experience as a school teacher, I was aware that young children often read and write in reverse, a condition that sometimes continues into adulthood. Fortunately, it turned out that Tom’s problem was easily solved, but at that moment my mind was full of possibilities and solutions.
I suggested that he should write the T first. He came back again a few minutes later with the same result: M O T.
I put my hand on his to guide him, explaining that we would begin with the T first, but he pulled away from me insisting, “I always start with the T and you always say it’s wrong. I just can’t do it.” And with that, he tore the paper into little pieces and threw them away. He was in no mood for a writing lesson, so we went for a walk. Later that night, when he felt like trying again, we got out a new sheet of paper. He wrote his name in big letters (this time for his dad). I watched him from across the room, and he was right. He did start with the T. His problem was that he then moved to the left with the next two letters instead of to the right!
Before I had a chance to explain that our child’s self-esteem was at stake, his dad teased, “Oh, I didn’t know we had a little boy named Mot.” Well, at that point, the evening was all over for Tom. No amount of praise for the well-formed letters or suggestions that we would help him do it right consoled him. Right there, at age three, Tom believed he was a failure. As I sat by his bed and soothed him to sleep, I knew better. I saw potential in him that he could not see in himself. I knew, though he did not, that he would learn to write his name, but that was not the important point. Even if he never learned to write his name he would not be a failure in my eyes.
As I watched his little body relax into sleep and reflected on the day’s events, I felt very much the protective parent, and I wondered how often our Heavenly Father sees us in just that same way. Hasn’t he told us, “As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; … And when ye see this, your heart shall rejoice” (Isa. 66:13–14). How many times when we see ourselves as failures does Heavenly Father wish he could pick us up from despair, hold us in his arms and tell us that we are not failures, and that if we will have faith, he will help us overcome our trials?
Certainly it would have been easier for me to have written Tom’s name correctly every time he wanted it on something, but I knew that the only way he would learn would be for him to do it himself. My job was to show him how, to point him in the right direction. In the same way, our Heavenly Father wants us to grow through our own experiences. This means he probably won’t solve our calculus problems for us, pay our tuition, write our English papers, study our chemistry, or turn our roommates into perfect people. But he will help us and give us direction—if we ask for his help. As we do the work, our Father in Heaven will help lift our burdens. You might think of it as a joint effort. Remember the Lord’s promise to us: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:28).
Eventually, Tom was writing his name everywhere (yes, all three letters in the correct order). We found Tom written in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house, on a piece of paper taped to his bedroom door, in crayon on the kitchen countertop, and in the dust over and over on our unwashed car. With that last accomplishment he proudly took me outside to show off what he had done. The look of triumph in his eyes made me certain that no amount of three-year-old spit and dust could possibly harm the finish on a car. I gave him a hug and didn’t even suggest that we would need to wash the car soon.

In my early 20s, I realized that reading the scriptures, consistently, was not an easy thing for me, and I struggled! One day, after being taught the importance of reading the scriptures in Relief Society, I decided to ask the Lord for help. When I arose from my prayer, I picked up the Book of Mormon and simply opened it. The chapter that appeared was Alma 32, and I'd like to quote verses 27 and 28: "But behold, if you will awake and arouse your faculties, even to an experiment upon my words, and exercise a particle of Faith, yea, even if ye can no more than desire to believe, let this desire work in you, even until ye believe in a manner that ye can give place for a portion of my words.
"Now, we will compare the word unto a seed. Now, if ye give place that a seed may be planted in your heart, behold, if it be a true seed, or a good seed, if ye do not cast it out in your unbelief, that ye will resist the Spirit of the Lord, behold it will begin to swell within your breasts and when you feel these swelling motions, ye will begin to say within yourselves---It must be a good seed, or that the word is good, for it beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me."
Brothers and Sisters, I was amazed! For I knew that the Lord guided me to Alma 32:27-28 in answer to my prayer. The process of learning to read and love the scriptures did not happen over night. But gradually, line-upon-line precept upon precept, it began to take place as stated, the word enlarged my soul, enlightened my understanding, and became delicious to me. Of this, I testify!

You may feel that upward pull tonight. I did one afternoon when I came to understand, as I hadn’t before, how much I need the Atonement, what I could do to make it work in my life, and what evidence I could have that it was working.

It was in a place like this, but not so large. It was the hour of a devotional at Ricks College. I wasn’t the speaker; I was sitting there, just behind and to the right of the speaker. I’ve still got the book, here in my hand, that I held that day. It still has the words in the margins that I wrote then, although the page and the book show signs of use.

In my memory, the room that afternoon was almost as light as the sunshine, and as warm. The speaker was Elder A. Theodore Tuttle. I suppose there was a spotlight on his face. Stages always seem light when you’re on them. But the brightness was in more than what I saw. It was inside me that day. I think it happened because I walked into that room with the yearning President McKay says will come to everyone. And for me that day it was irresistible; I was in the right place with the right preparation.

I had been trying hard, and yet I wanted to know: “Isn’t there something more I can do?” And Elder Tuttle told me there was and that I would need the Atonement of Jesus Christ working in my life to go where I wanted to go. And so that afternoon lives on the pages of this book, and in my life. In case you’re having one of the days President McKay said you would, I thought I ought to pass it on.

That’s how Elder Tuttle began. He talked about how someone had passed it to him. He said he had taken a trip to South America on assignment with Joseph Fielding Smith, then a member of the Council of the Twelve. That was in the days when you went to South America by ship. Elder Smith could have used the time to rest. And he could have let Elder Tuttle rest. But he didn’t. He organized daily scripture study, sitting on the deck in those wooden slat chairs most of you have only seen in old movies. They read their scriptures together, and they discussed them, and they marked them. And so what I have written on this page, in the margins, was written by Elder Tuttle in his Doctrine and Covenants on the ship’s deck as Elder Smith taught it to him. I can only imagine who passed it to Elder Smith. And now I’m passing it on to you.

This page is the second sheet in the old edition of the triple combination, section nineteen of the Doctrine and Covenants. On the bottom, in capital letters, is written: REPENTANCE. And then an arrow leads to a notation that reads: “Greek word. To have a new mind.”

In the very back of my book I had already written a list of words, gospel concepts, and then, for each, a key scripture. Doctrine and Covenants section 19 became the scripture where I would ever after turn to find the network of scriptures on repentance I got from Elder Tuttle’s days of being tutored on the deck, sailing south. This was before the invention of the topical guide, which I suppose is why I don’t build those networks anymore. But he did it for me, and so around the margins of that second page of the nineteenth section I have written ten scriptural references I got that afternoon with his brief description of why they matter. Somehow he got them all taught in less than an hour, and into my heart. He was a master teacher. I won’t try that. But I will give you the few scriptures that have made the most difference—all the difference for me—in knowing how to reach for that something better you and I sometimes feel drawing us up.

The first is not in the margin but is from the section itself. I heard it that day with new meaning. It begins with the fifteenth verse.
Therefore I command you to repent—repent, lest I smite you by the rod of my mouth, and by my wrath, and by my anger, and your sufferings be sore—how sore you know not, how exquisite you know not, yea, how hard to bear you know not.
For behold, I, God, have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer if they would repent;
But if they would not repent they must suffer even as I. [D&C 19: 15–17]

As he read those words that day, I felt the overwhelming suffering of the Savior. And then two things dawned on me. First, if I could not repent to qualify for his atonement for my sins, I must suffer to the limit of my power to suffer. And, second, with all the requisite suffering of my own, with all I could bear, it would still not be enough. I would still be forever shut out of the only place where there will be the warmth of family, the family of my Heavenly Father whom I have loved and whom I miss, and that of my family here. Somehow I had gotten the idea that the choice was between repenting or not. And then I realized that whatever pain repentance might bring in this life, it was certainly no more than the pain I would face if I did not repent here, and yet that later pain could not lift me home. It could not bring the mercy I needed.

A determination flowed into me both to stay as far as I could from sin and to gain a confidence that my sins were being remitted. In that moment, the penalty for taking chances with sin or with forgiveness loomed larger than I had ever imagined it could. I wanted with all my heart to know both that the Atonement was curing the effects of sin in me and that I was being strengthened against future sin. I wanted confidence whereas before I had been content with hope.

Wyoming can be a cold and snowy place in the wintertime. That’s why one troop decided to make snowshoes. During the fall they were looking ahead to the Klondike derby coming up in January. They wanted an activity that could prepare them for winter camping.
Under the direction of their Scoutmaster and deacons quorum adviser, the young men went online to find a pattern and instructions for making snowshoes out of rawhide and wood. “We realized this project was going to take a long time,” says Sam F., deacons quorum president, “but we were all excited, and we had a plan.”
As the young men worked on their snowshoe frames, they discussed how they could help others in the quorum who were less active, and they made a plan to visit them. “We visited every boy on our list and invited them to come to Scouts,” Sam says. “We told them we were making snowshoes for the winter campout coming up.” Having a clear goal was helpful in drawing other boys to the troop.
As the snowshoes progressed, so did the quorum. Six young men started the snowshoe project, but soon others joined in, including one of another faith.
John B.’s friend, Timothy N., was active in his church, but it didn’t have a Scout troop, so he started coming with his friend. His brother, Thomas, even joined the ward’s 11-year-old Scout patrol and earned his religious award. He was then presented with the award at his own church service.
While the young men and leaders worked, they made religious connections between wrapping the rawhide tightly and bringing their quorum together.
Jacob D. started coming regularly to the Scout meetings. His mother, Heather P., later thanked the troop for welcoming her son and their family. Other young men who had never attended church came to the Scout meetings to make snowshoes.
By January, the snowshoes were finished and each young man had a pair to use during the Klondike derby. Aiden H. said what they all felt about making snowshoes: “It was fun because we got to use them!”
“We learned a lot about enduring to the end on a project and about strengthening our quorum through Scouting,” Sam says. “My snowshoes will last a long time, and whenever I see them I’ll remember this experience, as well as the great friends we made in our troop and quorum.”

Jenny knew something special was going to happen that Christmas of 1938. She had just been baptized. Her baptism had been so special that she knew Christmas would be special too. But she didn’t know how it would be special.
On Christmas morning Jenny woke up early. She heard Dad and her brother Marcus go out to milk the cows, and she knew she had to stay in bed until they came back. That was the rule on Christmas.
“Mayda,” she whispered to her older sister. “Mayda, are you awake?” Jenny wanted to talk about the special day, but Mayda was still asleep. So was Herbie, who slept in a crib across the room. He was only two years old, but she would have been happy to talk even to him.
Jenny sighed and thought about the day ahead. Maybe the special thing would be something under the Christmas tree.
“A Shirley Temple doll!” she whispered. That’s what she hoped it would be—a Shirley Temple doll with curly yellow ringlets, eyes that opened and shut, and frilly clothes with dainty little shoes! Jenny already had a doll, but it was a rubber baby doll with hair and eyes just painted on. When Jenny put the doll to bed, its eyes stayed wide open, staring up at her. A Shirley Temple doll that was under the Christmas tree would make it a really special Christmas!
Finally Jenny heard Dad and Marcus come back from milking the cows. Mama came into the bedroom to get Herbie. “Everybody up,” she said cheerily. “It’s Christmas.”
The large room that was both kitchen and living room was warm and cozy when Jenny got there. Dad and Marcus were warming their hands over the big black stove.
“It’s a cold one today,” Dad said. “I think it’s going to snow.”
As soon as Mama and Herbie and Mayda came, they all went over to the tree. Jenny and Mayda had decorated it the day before with rings of colored paper and strings of popcorn. Mama had said that maybe next year they could afford a string of lights. But it was pretty, even without lights.
Jenny didn’t let herself look underneath the tree until after they had all held hands and sung “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She liked that part of Christmas morning.
Finally it was time to look under the Christmas tree. She spotted her gift right away. It was a doll, all right, but not a Shirley Temple doll. It was just another rubber baby doll, although this one did have eyes that opened and shut. Mama had made the doll a set of tiny clothes and a little pillow and quilt. It was a nice doll. But it couldn’t be the special thing.
Mama said she liked the paper-plate comb holder Jenny had made for her in school. Dad was patting his new shaving lotion onto his face. Mayda flipped through the pages of her new autograph book, saying it was just what she wanted. Marcus grinned as he examined his new jackknife, and Herbie galloped around the kitchen on his new stick horse that had a carved head and a rope tail. Maybe the something special will be something that happens, Jenny thought.
The family ate breakfast, finishing up with an orange for each person, which was almost special, but not quite.
Since it was Sunday, Jenny wondered if what she was waiting for would happen at church during the Christmas program.
Dad went out to hitch the horses to the sleigh. They had an old truck, but it always froze up in cold weather. Jenny liked the horses better anyway.
Mama filled the sleigh with quilts, and they all got in. Just as they were starting out, the Sorensens, who lived farther up the road, came along. The sleigh bells on their horses jingled, making it really sound like Christmas. They all waved, except Raymond, who stuck his tongue out at Jenny. That meant he really liked her! It made Jenny happy—but still, that couldn’t be her special thing.
The Christmas program was nice. Aunt Jessie Fugal sang “O Holy Night,” and didn’t miss even the highest notes. Teeny DeMars played a piano solo, and Red Sorensen played a violin solo. Then Bishop Johnson gave a talk about the birth of Jesus. To close the meeting, some of the Junior Sunday School children presented a tableau of the manger scene while everyone sang “Silent Night.”
It was time to go home, and still the special thing hadn’t happened. Jenny felt disappointed.
Snow was falling. Mama put a blanket over Herbie’s head and ran for the sleigh, followed by Mayda, Marcus, and Jenny. Dad helped them crawl in under the quilts. Then he shouted to the horses. “Giddap!”
The snowflakes were as big as popcorn as they wafted down, and were so thick that it was hard to see the Sorensen sleigh only a few yards away.
“Jenny,” Mama said, “this is the way it was snowing on the day you were born.”
The day I was born, Jenny mused. The day I came to live with Dad and Mama and Mayda and Marcus. Of course Herbie hadn’t been born yet.
Jenny looked around at them, at their heads poking out from under the quilts. They all smiled at her.
The day I was born, she thought again. If I had been born to some other family, I probably wouldn’t know any of them!
Suddenly Jenny knew that this was the special something she had waited for all day. It wasn’t a special gift or a special happening. It was a special knowing. It was knowing that she was where she wanted to be, with the people she wanted to be with. It was knowing she was right where she belonged.
Jenny snuggled down under the quilts, knowing. It truly was a special Christmas.

A great example comes from President Gordon B. Hinckley, who wrote about his early discouraging days as a missionary in England. He said:
I was not well when I arrived. Those first few weeks, because of illness and the opposition which we felt, I was discouraged. I wrote a letter home to my good father and said that I felt I was wasting my time and his money. He was my father and my stake president, and he was a wise and inspired man. He wrote a very short letter to me which said, “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.”
President Hinckley continues,
Earlier that morning in our scripture class my companion and I had read these words of the Lord: “Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it.”
Those words of the Master, followed by my father’s letter with his counsel to forget myself and go to work, went into my very being. With my father’s letter in hand, I went into our bedroom in the house at 15 Wadham Road, where we lived, and got on my knees and made a pledge with the Lord. I covenanted that I would try to forget myself and lose myself in His service. [11]
The Lord has promised “whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.” [12] At one time in my life, I took that phrase as being quite literally about life and death. Then as a missionary, I can remember thinking that by setting aside my own plans and serving a mission, I had lost my life in a way and the promise of finding my life meant being granted the righteous desires of my heart after my mission. In my 30s, still single, and aching for my life to mean something beyond myself, I discovered a new way to lose and find my life. It was doing just what President Hinckley learned to do: forget myself and get to work loving and serving others. And oh, what a soul-satisfying purpose was heaped back upon me. I not only found my life but my belonging as well.
I mentioned earlier some of my thoughts on losing and finding my life. My understanding of this promise has expanded with time as I’ve experienced its fulfillment. At first, I had a very literal interpretation concerning life and death. My understanding shifted during my missionary service to a fulfillment of righteous desires for having served the Lord. And later I discovered my sense of purpose and belonging in service to family and others. I assumed that I had at last arrived at the life I was promised. It wasn’t the life I had planned, hoped, or prayed for. But oh, it was good—rich and rewarding. And then. Then the Lord’s timetable revealed a surprise. It was time—the Lord’s time—for the arrival of some long-awaited blessings.
I could not have predicted the wonderful experience of courting and becoming engaged to a good man. I did not anticipate that the blessings of marriage and children would come to me at this time. But they have, and gratefully I find that the Lord has prepared me to be equal to the opportunity and responsibility. All of these years spent waiting—long enough that sometimes I forgot I was waiting! I was just living and doing the best I could. And thanks to our loving Heavenly Father and His Son, that time of waiting was fruitful both in the moment and as a cumulative preparation for my future.

My own mother was semi-invalid for many years before she died, a shut-in who was absolutely delighted when anyone came by to visit or just to say hello. Coming up to meetings in Provo, I would stay with her, looking forward to our prayers together. But then in the middle of the night, I would often hear her from the bedroom next to ours. It was a conversation between her and someone. One time I stood at the door and eavesdropped on my sweet mother’s prayers that went on for 30 or 40 minutes. I was amazed at how far and wide her prayer ranged. The specificity. Each child, each grandchild, and even beyond her posterity.

I believe that righteous prayers will deploy angels to the spot where we cannot go ourselves. I believe that it is in our prayers that our own souls are shaped and tutored, again when they are linked to personal action where we are able.

It all started when Jess decided he didn’t have time to change clothes. He was in a hurry to get out to the playground where his friends were waiting. So he put on his playclothes right over his school clothes and went outside to play.
Now that wasn’t too bad, but the next morning …
“Remember to put on a clean undershirt,” Mother said when she woke Jess up.
“Yes, Mother,” Jess answered. And that is what he did. He put it on, but he didn’t take the old one off.
Jess smiled in the mirror. “That’s very smart of you,” he said to his reflection.
“Just think of the time you’re saving. Soon they’ll be calling you Jiffy Jess!”
And then he got another idea. “I can save even more time if I just put my clothes on over my pajamas.” He smiled proudly at his reflection. “Then at night I’ll only have to take off my clothes and hop into bed.”
And that’s what he did. His school clothes went on right over his two undershirts and his pajamas. It was quite warm, but if it would save time, it was worth it, Jess decided.
That afternoon he ran home and hurried to get ready to go outside to play. He pulled on his old shirt and pants over his school clothes, his play socks over his school socks, and then his shoes. It was a tight fit, but he made it.
As he went out the door, Mother stopped him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Jess answered.
Mother took a step backwards and looked very carefully at Jess. She looked up to his head and down to his feet and then she shook her head.
“You seem to be putting on weight,” she said. “Gaining that much weight so fast isn’t good. Are you sure you’re all right?”
Jess was laughing inside, but he didn’t let Mother know. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t approve of what he was doing.
“I’m fine, Mother,” he said, trying not to smile. “May I go out now?”
“I guess so, but I’m worried about you.” Mother seemed bewildered.
“Don’t worry,” Jess shouted over his shoulder as he went out the door. “I’m just fine.”
He tried to run out to the baseball field where his friends were waiting, but with all those clothes on he could barely trot.
“It’s about time you got here,” Jonathan said, hitting his fist in his baseball mitt. “You’ve been holding up the game.”
“Throw me the catcher’s mitt and let’s play ball!” Jess shouted.
Jess got behind the batter and tried to squat, but his knees wouldn’t bend.
“Come on! Come on!” Jonathan shouted from the pitcher’s mound. “Let’s get going!”
Once more Jess tried to bend over, but it hurt! His knees felt as if they were wrapped in giant bandages, and he could barely breathe. He stood up straight, took a deep breath, and again tried to squat down. But with pajamas, two pairs of pants, two undershirts, two shirts, and two pairs of socks, he could barely even bend. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed. They had. Eight pairs of glaring eyes were moving in on him from the field.
“What’s wrong with you?” David asked in amazement.
“Well … well … ah …” Jess stammered, trying to figure out how to explain. He knew everyone would laugh at him. He could feel his face growing red with embarrassment.
“Here, Joel,” Jess finally said as he threw the mitt. “You catch. I’ll be right back.”
Jess trotted as fast as possible to the house. He took off all his clothes. Then he put his playclothes on again and started out the door.
“I thought you had gone,” Mother said without looking up.
“I forgot something,” Jess said.
“Oh,” Mother smiled at Jess. Then her eyebrows knitted in wonder and she shook her head.
“My, oh my,” she said. “You seem to have lost at least ten pounds! Are you sure you feel all right?”
“I feel better than I’ve felt all day!” Jess said as he ran back out to the playground to play ball.

Don Mullan, an author, film producer, and human rights leader, organized a centennial commemoration of that truce to take place at the Church of St. Nicholas at Messines, Belgium, in 2014. He contacted me for permission to use the illustrations from my book as part of a permanent exhibition in the crypt of St. Nicholas. The purpose of the exhibition was not only to commemorate the Christmas truce but to create a place of pilgrimage for all lovers of peace and reconciliation in the world.

Don Mullan grew up in Derry, Ireland, and was fifteen years old when British soldiers killed twenty-seven unarmed civilians in his city. He was filled with anger and almost joined the Irish Republican Army. However, he admits that God was watching over him because the night he was to join, his sponsor did not show up. Don chose the path of peace instead, and he later wrote and produced a number of documentaries on the Irish Civil War. He traveled to BYU a few years ago and spoke to students and faculty in our department. Through his work as a writer and filmmaker, Don was in a unique position to communicate his intimate vision to our students and to me. As we walked across campus, he was ever curious, asking about each place and activity we encountered. He gave me the opportunity to see not only through his eyes but also through his thoughts and emotions.

Toward the conclusion of his visit at BYU, he wrote a message to a dear friend:
I wish you could be here with me over these sacred days at Brigham Young University. . . . As you know, I have, over my lifetime, been to many campuses, but I have never had this profound sense of the sacred before. The Mormon people I have had the privilege of meeting on this visit are deeply and profoundly Christian. . . . It has been a deep, spiritual privilege to have been blessed with the grace of walking among them.21

Don is a Roman Catholic. He helped me see the surprising beauty and spirituality that was in front of me here at BYU and helped me celebrate that which I might otherwise have passed by without noticing.

We won the championship after a very interesting playoff game. I drew the assignment to pitch. In the top of the eighth inning the score was nothing to nothing. The first batter against me singled sharply to right field and took second on a fielder’s choice. Have you got the picture? One out, winning run on second. The batter I was now facing hit .326 for the season. I worked him to a two-two count. He fouled several pitches and then I got the ball too close to the center—a horrible mistake.

He singled sharply to left center and the ball went out there like a bullet, hit the ground on one bounce, and went to the center fielder. Normally that would score a runner from second very easily, but the ball carried such velocity I am sure the runner did not understand it. We had a great center fielder; he took the ball on one hop, threw a perfect strike to the plate, and caught the runner by a good six inches. The umpire hollered, “You’re out!” This man got up—and I had never heard such foul language in my life. I was back behind the catcher by this time, the normal position for the pitcher on a throw to the plate.

The umpire bellowed, “You’re out of the game! Out!” And he ejected him, which he should have. As I was walking back to the mound, the umpire—not a Mormon—about ready to replace his mask, turned to me and said, “Paul, forgive him; he doesn’t understand.” How grateful I am to be a Latter-day Saint.

One Saturday morning I found myself glaring at the mess of clothes, trash, and toys littering my bedroom. I wanted to be outside, not cleaning my room. Sighing, I placed my headphones into my ears and started cleaning.
Soon I began to get tired of my same old songs. I talked to Mom, who suggested we put a few new songs on my MP3 player. I began thinking of favorite songs I wanted to add.
Then Dad reminded me of a website where I could download Church music for free: youth.lds.org. At first I wasn’t too excited about the idea. I kept thinking instead about popular songs on the radio. Still, I was curious, so I decided to give these new songs a try.
As I looked at the list, I found many songs labeled “Especially for Youth.” I clicked on one. I loved it! I downloaded almost all of the EFY songs. Once we finished I went downstairs and began to clean. The EFY songs were upbeat, like the other songs I listened to, but they also had inspiring messages. The music picked me up and kept me moving beyond the time it took me to clean my room. All day long I found myself working and helping people. I had found my working tool!
Since then I have used these songs in a lot of ways. I have used them for parties, cleaning, exercising, family home evening, and creative thinking. I’m still discovering new ways to use them. I am grateful for the songs on the Church youth website.

When Great-Uncle Joe came down from up north to live on our farm, he brought his dog, Silver, with him. Uncle Joe didn’t stay with us in the farmhouse; he preferred to live in the old log cabin down by the pasture. It was just as well, for my six-year-old sister, Linda, was afraid of Silver—he was so big! Even Papa looked at the dog with suspicion. A touch of wolf in Silver’s mixed ancestry showed up in his howl.
Uncle Joe had so many stories to tell about the north woods that nothing could keep me away from the cabin. Gradually the dog came to accept me and even wagged his tail a little when I brought him a juicy morsel of meat.
Uncle Joe died the second spring after he came to live with us, and after his death, Silver attached himself to me. Though he looked like a German Shepherd, Mama could see only wolf in him, and she wouldn’t have him around the house. When Papa said that he’d give the dog away, I begged to keep him. “I’ll feed him at the cabin,” I said.
Papa hesitated, then gave the dog away on account of Mama. But Silver returned again and again. Papa was baffled.
One day in May when Linda and I were cutting across the pasture on our way home from school, Linda stopped to pick violets down by the stream. When we saw the bull, he was not much more than a stone’s throw away. It was Mr. Foster’s black monster!
Boy, was he a big one! He had broken through the fence into our pasture. The bull was a people-hater, and he’d gored Mr. Foster’s hired man and nearly killed him.
The bull saw us about the same time that we saw him. He took a few steps forward, then charged.
“Run!” I yelled, but Linda was so scared that she couldn’t move.
Suddenly Silver came racing into the pasture. He leaped at the bull and sank his teeth into his nose. I grabbed Linda’s hand, and we ran for the fence. Papa, who was plowing in the next field, heard my yells and came tearing down the hill. He leaped the fence and practically threw Linda and me over it to safety. The bull had shaken Silver off by then and was only a few yards from Papa when the dog grabbed his nose again, causing the bull to stumble as he threw Silver through the air. But the dog’s maneuver gave Papa enough time to scramble over the fence himself.
Silver, limping and bleeding from a gash in his hindquarters, crawled through the fence. I threw my arms around him.
Papa took Linda’s hand, and nobody said a word as we headed for the house. Silver followed.
When Mama saw him, she yelled, “Don’t let that dog in here. He has wolf in him.”
“That dog just saved the children’s lives—mine too,” Papa said unsteadily.
“What!” Mama really looked at us then. Shaken, she pulled Linda and me to her.
After Papa told Mama what had happened, I added excitedly, “Silver pulled the bull down by his nose! Uncle Joe told me that that’s how wolves get a moose.”
“That dog deserves a medal,” Papa declared.
Mama took a long look at Silver lying at my feet, licking his wound. “Maybe he would prefer a good meal.” She went inside and came out with a big bowl of scraps. “I guess he can stay here now,” she said.
Linda patted Silver. I was so happy that I turned cartwheels.
After that, Silver stayed around the house but never came inside; he was a bush dog. When I was outside, he followed me everywhere. He never lolloped around like most dogs, though; he had dignity. Each night before I went inside to bed, he gave me his paw to shake, then settled down in the woodshed.
Silver was my friend.

One of the most vital qualities of the principle of repentance is forgiveness. Unless each of us can learn to forgive others for real or imagined trespasses against us, we cannot properly repent. Lillian Watson has recorded an interesting episode from the ministry of Phillips Brooks, a great American clergyman, as he addressed his affluent, well-dressed congregation on a Sunday morning in Boston over 100 years ago:
"He looked into the faces of men and women he long had known, men and women who had come to him with their problems, who had asked for his help and guidance. How well he knew what seethed behind the pleasant, smiling mask of their Sunday-best respectability! How well he knew the petty spites that embittered their hearts, the animosities that set neighbor against neighbor, the silly quarrels that were kept alive, the jealousies and misunderstandings, the stubborn pride!
"Today his message was for those bitter, unbending ones who refused to forgive and forget. He must make them realize that life is too short to nurse grievances, to harbor grudges and resentments. He would plead for tolerance and understanding, for sympathy and kindness. He would plead for brotherly love.
"'Oh, my dear friends!' he said . . . and it was as though he spoke to each separately and alone: 'You who are letting miserable misunderstandings run on from year to year, meaning to clear them up some day; You who are keeping wretched quarrels alive because you cannot quite make up your mind that now is the day to sacrifice your pride; You who are passing men sullenly upon the street, not speaking to them out of some silly spite, and yet knowing that it would fill you with shame and remorse if you heard that one of those men were dead tomorrow morning;
"'You who are letting your friends heart ache for a word of appreciation or sympathy, which you mean to give him someday;
"'If you only could know and see and feel, all of a sudden, that the time is short, how it would break the spell! How you would go instantly and do the thing which you might never have another chance to do.'
"As the congregation poured out of church that Sunday morning, people who hadn't spoken in years suddenly smiled and greeted each other . . . and discovered it was what they had been wanting to do all along. Neighbors who had disliked and avoided each other walked home together . . . and were astonished to find how very much they enjoyed doing it. Many who had been grudging and unkind firmly resolved to be more generous in the future, more considerate of others . . . and all at once felt happier and more content, felt at peace with themselves and the world.
"'Forgive,' Phillips Brooks urged his congregation. 'Forget. Bear with the faults of others as you would have them bear with yours. Be patient and understanding. Life is too short to be vengeful or malicious. Life is too short to be petty or unkind.'"

The first event took place in Tonga during World War II.
It was nighttime, but the moon and the stars gave Finau a feeling of assurance as he carefully guided his canoe across the wide expanse of the gently undulating Pacific Ocean. He constantly studied the stars, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The moon was up, and its brightness was only obscured by occasional wisps of high clouds.
He had heard something about a “war” going on. Several of his friends had gone to the main island and traded their carved tikis and woven baskets to the American soldiers for money—more money than they had seen in all their 16 or so years of life. Finau had collected his very best baskets and carvings and was already anticipating what he would do with the money he was sure to get from the Americans.
The sky was starting to lighten a little, and he could see the waves breaking on the reef in the distance. He knew he was about there.
The sun had just come up as he paddled his canoe through the reef opening and into the quiet lagoon. He saw an American soldier with a gun standing on the shore and made his course towards him. He had heard of guns and of the war and of the American soldiers and of all the money they had and of all the things that money could buy. But now as he actually saw an American and observed his gun and realized he would have to talk to him, he became very nervous and uncertain of just what to do. Finau had learned a few words of English in his local school, but would it be enough? How much should he ask for his goods? He only knew pence and shillings and pounds, and he’d heard that the Americans used dimes and dollars. What were they worth? What would they buy? How should he begin?
Finau felt a little fear as he pulled his canoe up to the beach and the soldier came over. There was no one else on the beach. Would the soldier just take his goods? Would he shoot him? Uncertainty gripped his feelings as he climbed out of the canoe and pulled it onto the beach. He was here and he had traveled all night, so despite his fear he must go ahead.
“You buy?” he said to the soldier as he lifted a few baskets and tikis from the boat.
The young American soldier came over and looked at the items. “How much for this?” he asked, taking a beautifully carved tiki in his hand.
Finau almost panicked. He wasn’t sure of the meaning of the strange words, but he felt he wanted him to say a price, so he blurted out, “Very good. Number one tiki. You buy. One pound.”
The soldier looked quizzically at him, “You’re new at this, aren’t you? How about two dollars for the tiki and these three baskets?”
Finau wondered, “Is that enough? Maybe I should ask more and see what happens.”
“Number one tiki, number one basket. Two dollars tiki, two dollars basket.”
“Oh, you’re a little bargainer are you? I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a carton of cigarettes here. Cigarettes are worth more than money. I’ll give you this whole carton for everything you have here. I guarantee you it’s a good deal. They are good cigarettes. Here, I’ll show you.” The soldier lit one and took a puff and then offered it to Finau.
Up to now Finau had been uncertain of himself, but as he recognized the cigarettes and realized the intent of what was being said, he straightened up and firmly replied, “No!”
“Oh, come on. One sale and you’re all through. Think of the time you’ll save, and if you don’t want to smoke them all yourself you can trade them for other things—even money if you want. They’re rationed, you know. Who can tell their value under these circumstances and in this faraway place? Come on, let’s trade.”
“No,” retorted Finau.
“Come on, come on. What’s the matter? I’ll give them to you first, and you can unload your goods and leave them on the sand. You won’t get a better deal.” The soldier was noticeably irritated by this “stupid native’s” refusal. He looked down at him with all the superiority he felt and again said, “Go ahead. It’s okay. Cigarettes are valuable. Don’t be so stupid.”
Finau, groping for words, stood erect and said, “No, me no smoke. Me Mormon.”
It was as though he had shot the young American. The soldier jerked in startled surprise. He carefully studied Finau, then looked past him and stared longingly into space. He looked again into the lowly native’s eyes. Then he took the carton of cigarettes from under his arm, placed it in his right hand, crushed it, and heaved it far into the lagoon.
Finau wondered, “Why?” He looked at the carton with its bobbing packages scattered about. Then he looked again at the soldier as he turned to walk away from the shore and heard him say, “Yeah, I know. So am I.”

by Chris Williams
I recently had the opportunity of being one of two youth leaders in Utah to attend the United States Senate Youth Program in Washington, D.C. At the opening social, many people, upon seeing my name tag, asked if I was Mormon. I was told that a boy from Illinois was looking for me. Cameron Cozzens found me and asked if I was a member of the Church. When I said yes, he said, “I knew it. I thought a Christopher Williams from Utah just might be LDS.” He then introduced me to the others that he knew were LDS, and I introduced him to the ones I had met. We discovered that there were seven of us: Amy Pack from Idaho, Heidi Fish from Spain, Matt Fairholm from Virginia, Doug Daum from Delaware, Audrey Wright from California, and Cameron and I.
Between the tours and speeches, I found that I talked to a lot of people about the Church. I was lucky that Matt Fairholm was my roommate. I found I needed his assurance when we answered questions about the Church.
One of our most unforgettable experiences was on Sunday morning. After breakfast, we met in our room for a short devotional. We found that our religion interested many people and raised questions. Others were surprised to discover that Mormons were such normal people.
And as I look back, I’m really glad we have the Constitution and the freedoms it grants us, especially freedom of religion. It was wonderful to be in a place where 104 young people could gather together and freely discuss each other’s beliefs. We all learned a lot about our freedoms and what our forefathers fought for.

Most of the Laie Hawaii Temple was built with concrete made from crushed lava rock. But the builders also needed wood, which was hard to get in Hawaii because of World War I. One day one of the builders prayed and told Heavenly Father that they needed more lumber, or wood, to continue construction. After his prayer, a ship got stuck in a reef on its way to Honolulu. The owner said the local Saints could have his cargo if they would take it off of the ship. Guess what the ship was carrying? Lumber! (From Gerry Avant, “Building a Temple in Laie, Hawaii,” Church News, Nov. 18, 2010.)