Gospel Story Finder

A story contained in the family lore of Brigham Young’s descendants illustrates the submissive nature of humility. It recounts that in a public meeting the Prophet Joseph, possibly as a test, sternly rebuked Brigham Young for something he had done or something he was supposed to have done but hadn’t—the detail is unclear. When Joseph finished the rebuke, everyone in the room waited for Brigham Young’s response. This powerful man, later known as the Lion of the Lord, in a voice everyone could tell was sincere, said simply and humbly, “Joseph, what do you want me to do?”

A few years ago, President Oldroyd, a member of the stake presidency, visited my ward and said something I will never forget: “I promise you that if you attend the temple, every part of your life will be blessed.”
As I thought about it, I couldn’t imagine how attending the temple could touch every part of my life. But after church, I decided I would take his challenge anyway and attend the temple on a more regular basis. I wanted to test his promise. My husband had wanted to go to the temple more often, but I was reluctant because we had young children. We would have to drive an hour and a half to the temple in San Antonio, Texas, USA, complete an endowment session, and then drive home. It didn’t work to ask someone to watch our kids for seven or eight hours.
At first we tried trading babysitting with another family, but someone inevitably got sick or had something come up. We decided that we just needed to set the dates for the entire year and go! We then came up with the “pizza and play” method. We would drive to the temple together. One parent would go to a temple session while the other would take the kids to get pizza. Then we would switch: the second parent would do temple work while the other parent walked the temple grounds with the kids. This worked well. Our kids knew the temple was important to us—they knew all the other things we could have been doing on a Saturday—and we got to spend time as a family.

My mother had many feelings of inadequacy as a young girl. She came from a family poorer than those of many of her friends, and she felt her clothing and situation didn’t measure up to that of those around her. Some of these feelings of inadequacy followed her throughout her life, but she moved forward in spite of these feelings. After college she attended a graduate school that specialized in child development and mother education. The philanthropist who endowed the school, Lizzie Merrill Palmer, stated, “I hold profoundly the conviction that the welfare of any community is divinely, and hence inseparably, dependent upon the quality of its motherhood and the spirit and character of its homes.”12

My mother seemed to take this to heart. She taught child development at two universities and then married and spent her life trying to use what she had learned to raise her own children. But reality is much messier than theory, and we gave her a run for her money.

Her life as a mother was challenging, rewarding, and at times discouraging. She wrote:

Every mother needs a hiding place where she can have some peace and solitude. We had a big closet under the stairs [in our home. It was] a wonderful place of peace where no one ever thought to look for me and where I always kept some good reading material.13

My mother also told of a conversation with my sister. She related:

Kathy said to me when she was a little girl, “Do you think we could choose our mothers before we came here?”

And I said, “Do you think we could, Kathy?”

Kathy said, “I don’t think so, or I would have chosen Aunt Leah.”14

My mother was also open about the great blessings that come from being a parent. Think about the constant effort and challenge for mothers and fathers “to rear their children in love and righteousness.”15 Much of this effort is behind the scenes and not glamorous, but it is vital to the Lord’s work. It is one of the unsung heroic tasks of earth life.

In the later years of my parents’ lives, we recorded some of their reflections as they looked back over their lives. Listen to my mother’s thoughts of being raised by parents who were thoroughly converted [an audio clip was played]:

They were truly converted to the gospel, and they were such an inspiration to other people and certainly to me. I just grew up with the idea that the gospel and the Church were the center of your lives. I never remember doubting the truthfulness of the gospel, and I’m sure that’s because of the home I was raised in.

To make sure that answer holds true, I testify today that supporting the rising generation in a time of unusual challenges and temptations is an essential responsibility given to parents and bishoprics by Heavenly Father. Let me illustrate the importance of a bishopric with a personal experience.
When I was a deacon, my family moved to a new home in a different ward. I was beginning junior high school, so I also attended a new school. There was a marvelous group of young men in the deacons quorum. Most of their parents were active members. My mother was completely active; my father was exceptional in every way but was not an active member.
The second counselor in the bishopric, Brother Dean Eyre, was a devoted leader. When I was still adjusting to the new ward, a father-son event was announced for Bear Lake—about 40 miles (65 km) away. I did not think I would attend without my father. But Brother Eyre issued a special invitation for me to go with him. He spoke highly and respectfully of my father and stressed the significance of my opportunity to be with the other members of the deacons quorum. So I decided to go with Brother Eyre, and I had a wonderful experience.
Brother Eyre was a marvelous example of Christlike love in fulfilling the bishopric’s responsibility to support parents in watching over and nurturing the youth. He gave me an excellent start in this new ward and was a mentor to me.
A few months before I left for a mission in 1960, Brother Eyre passed away from cancer at age 39. He left a wife and their five children, all younger than age 16. His oldest sons, Richard and Chris Eyre, have assured me that in the absence of their father, bishoprics supported and watched out for them and their younger brothers and sister with Christlike love, for which I am grateful.

As I stood in the family circle above the baptismal font, I watched our little grandson Clayton walk timidly down the steps with his daddy. Raising his arm to the square, his father said the baptismal prayer, then buried him in the water that sloshed and splashed around them.
After the last song had been sung and the closing prayer said, the families of the newly baptized children reverently left the meetinghouse. Later, as we celebrated the occasion, one of the children looked up from his ice cream and asked, “Grandma, were you baptized in shiny blue water?”
“No,” I chuckled. “When I was baptized, we didn’t sit in draped, carpeted rooms with soft music and inspirational talks. No one wore white coveralls and there weren’t clusters of relatives standing above a tile font.”
“Tell us about it, Grandma,” the children pleaded. And so I told them my story.
Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mama, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in the winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I regarded the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. Scrunching my feet under me, I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

by Mike Kawasaki
The Young Men and Young Women presidencies with the Activities Committee of the Oak Hills 4th Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake, had planned a formal dinner-dance for the Mutual-age youth.
The dinner-dance was to prepare the youth to learn spiritual responsibilities and etiquette without the peer pressures of dating.
In preparation for the activity, we had a fireside with the speaker stressing that the youth develop a style of their own. A second fireside was held to learn manners, with volunteers offering to demonstrate their knowledge of table manners. The leader gently corrected or complimented as individuals demonstrated their knowledge of correct table etiquette. Details from avoiding chewing gum to how to butter bread were reviewed.
The evening of the dinner-dance arrived. The cultural hall was arranged with round tables, each set with fine crystal and china. As the different courses were served, leaders acting as waiters and waitresses were eavesdropping on dinner conversations ranging in subject from braces to seminary classes.
Following dinner, the dance began with partners having been arranged for each dance. One of the young men had programmed his computer to match up dance partners. Each participant was given a computer printout, rolled and tied with a ribbon.
The evening was a tremendous success. “We looked forward to this activity for so long, and it was so much fun. We learned a lot about how to eat at a formal table, and we learned about how to act on dates,” said my daughter Kara when reflecting about the evening.
After thanking their hosts, the young people asked, “Can we do this again next year?” The resounding answer was yes.

Friendship is the foundation for a lasting romance in the courtship pyramid. Let me tell you a little story to illustrate this point.

It is the story of Isaac and Rebecca. Now this is not the Biblical account. It is about our daughter Rebecca and her suitor Isaac. Our Rebecca was not persuaded to marry her Isaac nearly as easily as was the Old Testament Rebekah. Our Becky was 21. She had signed up to do a summer internship through BYU in Mozambique. She had also started doing preliminary dental and doctor appointments for a mission application. Another option in her mind was applying for a master’s program in her field. In short she was trying to decide what to do with the next phase of her life. We all wondered which would win out of the 3 M’s – Mozambique, mission, or master’s degree.

Does that sound sort of familiar? Meanwhile Isaac came along in her pursuit and soon offered a choice of a fourth M - marriage. He was headed for medical school in a few months and he did not want to go without Becky. He later told us that he had his own 3 M’s that he hoped she would choose – marriage to me, medical school, and eventually motherhood. He said, “If she didn’t I knew I would be a fourth M - miserable."

Becky stood at the brink of many glamorous opportunities, and it was hard for her to set aside some of her dreams. (Parenthetically I would like to say that this is a pitfall for lots of young adults today. One project after another seems to get in the way marriage.) What finally won Becky over was Isaac’s intrinsic goodness and his kindness to her. He did the romantic things like taking her on nice dates, but this was not the most important thing to her. What she liked was how he put her feelings and her needs above his own. He did little thoughtful things, the kinds of things that one friend would do for another. Becky realized that he had the qualities that would endure through good and bad times. So she did marry Isaac. And now she reflects that she was right about his great strengths being a wonderful asset to their relationship.

I made a mistake similar to the one you wish to avoid because I was afraid I would not be accepted by my so-called friends. This is the biggest mistake I have ever made. I was enslaved to that habit for the next eight years. I am just now getting over my addiction.

Drugs caused my love for life to slowly fade. I was ready to give up on life when I decided to turn my life around. I had to get rid of a “friend” to let go of the ties that held me back.

I now love myself enough that nobody can shake who I am. I do not know you personally, but I love the person you wish to be. If you ever have to give up a friend to protect yourself, do it. If your friends insist on falling, don’t tumble with them.

Name withheld

Many years ago, while I was mending a fence, a small sliver of wood entered into my finger. I made a meager attempt to remove the sliver and thought I had done so, but apparently I had not. As time went on, skin grew over the sliver, creating a lump on my finger. It was annoying and sometimes painful.

Years later I decided to finally take action. All I did was simply apply ointment to the lump and cover it with a bandage. I repeated this process frequently. You cannot imagine my surprise when one day, as I removed the bandage, the sliver had emerged from my finger.

The ointment had softened the skin and created an escape for the very thing that had caused pain for so many years. Once the sliver was removed, the finger quickly healed, and to this day, there remains no evidence of any injury.

Years ago a family gathered at the bedside of an aged little Danish woman. Among them was her middle-aged, wayward son. For the past number of years he had been living at home.

Tearfully he pleaded, “Mama, you’ve got to live. Mama, you can’t die.” He said, “Mama, you can’t go. I won’t let you go.”

The little mother looked up at her son and in her broken Danish accent said, “But ver is yo powah?”—where is your power?

Recently while on Church assignment in Hawaii, Sister Wirthlin and I visited the island of Molokai. One of the world’s few remaining leper colonies is found there. We drove into the mountains to a trail that leads to an overlook where the colony can be seen in the distance below. After laboring up the trail, we were disappointed to discover that rain and fog obscured the valley beneath us, and we could not see the colony. As we walked back to our car, we came upon a young man headed toward the overlook. I offered a polite greeting. From his answer, I could tell that he was from Germany.

I served a German-speaking mission in Austria and Switzerland in my youth. Here was a young man whose countenance bespoke a sincere heart and an approachable personality. And I spoke his language and understood his culture. The Spirit prompted me to open my mouth and introduce the gospel to him. However, due to other people being around us, our brief encounter was interrupted, and we went our separate ways without my having said a word about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I failed to be the missionary that every member of the Savior’s Church ought to be.

As we drove away, I had the disturbing feeling that I had failed in my duty to proclaim the gospel. I remembered the Lord’s words in section 60 of the Doctrine and Covenants:

But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such, for mine anger is kindled against them. [D&C 60:2]

I was then troubled and ill at ease while we drove around the island to see Molokai’s beautiful waterfalls. After many miles, the road came to a dead end. We got out of our car to enjoy the beautiful surroundings. We had been there only a few moments when another car drove up and stopped. The young man we had seen on the overlook trail got out of his car, smiled, and gave me a warm handshake. As I grasped his outstretched hand, I thought to myself, “This time I will do my duty!”

In a few brief moments we introduced ourselves. I learned that he was a university student in a small city south of Dusseldorf, Germany. We spoke of my experiences in his country, of my fond memories of Germany, and of my admiration for the German people. Speaking of my work in Europe gave me an ideal opportunity to explain some of the basics of the gospel. As we parted, I asked for his address and telephone number, which he gladly shared with me. I felt that he was truly a newly found friend and an interested investigator.

Upon my return to Church headquarters, I promptly wrote to President John F. Charles of the Germany Dusseldorf Mission. I explained how Sister Wirthlin and I had met this outstanding young man and gave him his address. I asked President Charles to immediately send missionaries to continue the gospel discussion that I had begun on a dead-end road on Molokai.

I don’t believe that it was happenstance that my wife and I met this young man twice. Our meetings were not chance encounters or mere coincidence. But the Lord doesn’t always give us a second chance to share the gospel. I failed to follow the Spirit the first time that the still small voice unmistakably spoke to my heart and mind to prod me to action. I didn’t do what I was being directed to do. When I saw that young man get out of his car that second time, I was relieved and said to Sister Wirthlin that I had been given a second chance. I quickly made up my mind that I would not fail a second time and that I would open my mouth as the Lord so emphatically commands in revelations that apply to all of us.

Melody scratched her puppy behind the ears. He wagged his tail. “Just wait, Buddy,” Melody said. “Soon you’re going to know how to do tricks!”
“Time to go,” Mom said. Melody gave Buddy a quick hug goodbye and ran to their family’s van. With her favorite outfit on, Melody was ready for her second 4-H meeting. She couldn’t wait to learn all about growing a garden, painting ceramics, and sewing. But most of all, she was excited about the dog-training project.
For as long as she could remember, Melody had loved animals. She imagined for the hundredth time how great it would be to take Buddy on the dog course and teach him all sorts of tricks.
They arrived at the fire station where the meeting would be held. Melody listened closely to the announcements.
“Sewing will be this Saturday at my house,” the group leader explained. “Ceramics will be next Monday after school, and the dog project is this Sunday at 2:00 at my house.”
Melody’s heart sank. Sunday! Sundays were special days for church and family. It wasn’t a day for shopping or going to the movies. But what about dog training?
All the way home she stared silently out the window. At home she went straight to the backyard and began brushing Buddy’s fur. She didn’t want to talk with anybody.
Later that night Melody sat on the couch with tears filling her eyes. Why did the dog project have to be on Sunday? It wasn’t fair!
Mom sat down next to Melody on the couch and held her hand. “What do you want to do about the dog project?” Mom asked. Her parents had talked it over and decided to let Melody make her own choice.
Melody didn’t answer at first. She’d thought about the problem all day long. She kept trying to tell herself it would be OK to do the dog project. After all, it was scheduled after church. But every time she thought this, she felt kind of squirmy inside.
“I don’t know,” Melody said. “I know I want to train Buddy. But I also want to do what’s right.”
“Keep praying,” Mom said. “You’ll know what to decide.”
Mom gave her a kiss on the forehead and left the room.
Melody went to the backyard to brush Buddy’s fur some more. She said a silent prayer for help.
She looked into Buddy’s eyes. He would be so good at learning tricks—she just knew it! But she also knew that she didn’t feel happy inside about attending the project on Sunday. She knew how peaceful the Holy Ghost felt, and that wasn’t how she felt when she thought of doing the project.
Melody realized that was her answer. If she didn’t feel good about it, she wouldn’t do the dog project.
A warm feeling grew in Melody’s heart as she made her decision. Then she had an idea. She could probably find a book about dog training at the library! Probably a couple of books. Maybe they could even learn together as a family.
“Guess what, Buddy? You’re going to learn tricks after all!” Melody tossed a stick for him to fetch. He just looked at her with a goofy grin. He didn’t run after the stick even a little bit.
She grinned. “Don’t worry, Buddy. We’ll learn together.”

At school we were given an assignment to find different words in magazines. My friend and I were looking through a magazine and came across an advertisement that showed a woman dressed immodestly. I knew I should tell our teacher, but my friend wanted to leave it in the magazine and ignore it. I decided to tell our teacher that the magazine she had given us had a bad picture in it. She said thank you, and put the advertisement in the trash. I’m glad I did the right thing, and that no one else had to see the bad picture.

Lisa could hardly wait until Stephanie’s birthday party. The invitation promised fun games and tasty refreshments. Lisa carefully wrapped the stationery set she’d chosen for Stephanie and tied a purple ribbon around it.
When all the girls got to Stephanie’s house, Stephanie led them to the garage. It was decorated with crepe-paper streamers, and a brightly colored piñata hung from the rafters.
The girls took turns swinging at the piñata with a papier-mâché stick. Lisa gave the piñata a whack, but it didn’t break. When it finally broke, small candies spilled out, and everyone scrambled for them, laughing and squealing.
“We need some music,” one of the girls said.
Stephanie turned on a CD player. The music was loud, and the singer was singing some bad words. Lisa grew more and more uneasy. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. “I need to go home,” she whispered to Stephanie.
Stephanie looked surprised. “What’s wrong?”
“The music is making me really uncomfortable,” Lisa said.
Stephanie looked disappointed, but Lisa knew she needed to leave. She called her mother and told her what was going on.
“I’ll be right there,” her mother said.
Lisa went to wait outside. But soon Stephanie and the other girls joined her on the front porch. “We turned off the music,” Stephanie said. “Please don’t leave.”
The rest of the girls nodded in agreement.
“None of us liked it,” Stephanie admitted. “We just didn’t have the courage to say so.”
Lisa smiled. “Let me call my mom back before she leaves to tell her I’ll be staying after all.”
Stephanie threw her arms around Lisa. “Thanks for staying. The party wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Lisa hugged her friend back. Standing up for her standards hadn’t been easy, but she was glad that she had.

Fast forward 30 years. I was working at BYU–Hawaii and raising a young family of my own. My schedule that year included attending and presenting at a professional conference in Salt Lake City. I had wanted to stay close to the conference venue so that I could attend the early and late sessions, but I had hoped to visit and help my parents with any projects they had for me to do around the house. They lived north of the city in the same home I had grown up in. I arrived early and spent most of the day helping my father replace windows in their TV room. It was a long process with several trips back and forth to the home supply store.

At the end of the day, when we were finished and I was preparing to leave, my father embraced me, thanked me, and said I love you. He was getting older and saying I love you had come easier for him in his later years. I told him that I loved him too. On my way back to the hotel, I reflected on my life and my father’s love. In my mind’s eye, I was immediately transported back to my four-year old self kneeling each night asking my Heavenly Father for an earthly father that would help raise me and teach me the things that are right. Immediately upon recalling that thought in my mind, my heart filled with the Holy Ghost, and I was overpowered by the feeling of my Heavenly Father’s love for me and for answering my sincere prayer of faith. The feeling was so strong that I had to pull the car over. It took me a long time before I was able to drive back to the hotel.

A thin, braided bundle of white, fine linen threads, each 11 yards long, lies in my chest of weaving supplies. The bundle was a section of threads that I intended to put on my large loom as part of a tablecloth I was to weave for the newly restored Joseph and Emma Smith home. I learned an important lesson while winding these threads.
I am a historian at the Church History Library in Salt Lake City and an avid weaver by hobby. When the restoration of the Joseph and Emma Smith home in Harmony, Pennsylvania, was announced as part of the Priesthood Restoration Site, I longed to donate a handwoven item for it. I was pleased to receive an assignment to weave a small linen tablecloth, which would represent one that Emma allowed Joseph to wrap the gold plates in. While no record of the actual tablecloth exists, Emma’s tablecloth was possibly the production of her own hands. I wanted my work to honor Emma’s efforts to support the translation of the Book of Mormon, including her work as scribe for Joseph as he translated. I called the project Emma’s tablecloth.
Although I am an experienced weaver, the white linen thread I received from the textile historian who designed the tablecloth was far thinner than any thread I had previously used. It was difficult to see while I threaded my loom and wove, and it broke easily.
As I began measuring out the white linen yarn on my warping reel1 one Saturday afternoon, I felt a strong impression that this work I was doing was sacred, which I had not previously considered. I continued to measure yarn until it was time for me to leave for the evening session of our stake conference—and the feeling of sacredness lingered. Yet sometime during or soon after the session, I realized I had been measuring the threads 11 yards long each, instead of the required 8½ yards. I would not be able to use the yarn I had measured that afternoon at all and would have to start over.
I wound the threads to the correct length, threaded my loom, and began weaving again. While weaving, I again felt the impression that this work was sacred—but never as powerfully as when I was winding the threads that I could not use.
This is the tablecloth that I made to cover the replica of the Book of Mormon plates.
Photograph by Brent Walton
Through this experience I learned that our hearts, efforts, and intents are of utmost importance. I had made a simple mistake that needed correction, but the Spirit confirmed to me that my effort was still sacred. I keep the incorrectly measured threads to remind me that God accepts our sincere efforts, imperfect though they may be. Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all our righteous efforts, even imperfect and mistaken ones, can be acceptable to God.

In the same talk from which I quoted a statement from President Woodruff, he also said: “After I came to these valleys and returned to Winter Quarters, I was sent to Boston by President Brigham Young. … While on the road there, I drove my carriage one evening into the yard of Brother Williams. Brother Orson Hyde drove a wagon by the side of mine. I had my wife and children in the carriage. After I turned out my team and had my supper I went to bed in the carriage. I had not been there but a few minutes when the Spirit said to me, ‘Get up and move that carriage.’ I told my wife I had to get up and move the carriage. She said, ‘What for?’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’ That is all she asked me on such occasions; when I told her I did not know, that was enough. I got up and moved my carriage four or five rods, and put the off fore wheel against the corner of the house. I then looked around me and went to bed. The same Spirit said, ‘Go and move your animals from that oak tree.’ They were two hundred yards from where my carriage was. I went and moved my horses, and put them in a little hickory grove. I again went to bed.
“In thirty minutes a whirlwind came up and broke that oak tree off within two feet from the ground. It swept over three or four fences and fell square in that dooryard, near Brother Orson Hyde’s wagon, and right where mine had stood. What would have been the consequences if I had not listened to that Spirit? Why, myself and wife and children doubtless would have been killed. That was the still, small voice to me—no earthquake, no thunder, no lightning—but the still, small voice of the Spirit of God. It saved my life. It was the spirit of revelation to me.” (Millennial Star, 53:642–3.)

Into this branch, just a few years later, came a young widow with her two daughters. The missionaries had found this beautiful family, which included my future wife, Harriet.
When I saw Harriet for the first time, with her dark brown eyes, I thought, “These missionaries are really doing a great job!” Even as a teenager I liked Harriet quite a lot. My bold advances, however, showed only marginal success. I tried, for instance, to influence the seating at the sacrament table so I could pass the sacrament to her. This did not impress her very much. On my way to Church activities during the week, I usually rode my nice bicycle and often stopped at their home to ask if Harriet would want to have a ride to church on my bicycle. Harriet always declined. Sometimes, however, her mother was there and would say, “Harriet will walk, but I will gladly ride with you on your bike to church.” This wasn’t really what I was hoping for at the time, but I later realized it is an advantage to be on good terms with the mother of the girl of your dreams!
My mother and my mother-in-law both had the same strong faith that blessed them with the gifts of the Spirit. And they blessed not only my life, but the lives of generations to come.

It was a blistering 115 degrees F (46?C) outside, typical for a summer day out on the farm in Brawley, California, USA. I kicked the tire of the huge water truck that had broken down for the third time in four days. I relied on my summer job to pay for entertainment, school clothes, and eventually college. Despite the heat, I hated having to cut a day’s work short, but it looked like I was going to have to do so again.
David, a member of our ward and a family friend, walked over from the mill to take a look at the truck. Venting my frustrations to him, I was tempted to say a word I had heard others use when they were annoyed. The moment before I actually said it, the thought crossed my mind that I shouldn’t because I knew it was a bad word. But in an instant, I brushed it off, thinking no one would ever find out. I said the word, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Looking up, David told me he and Dad would fix the truck when they could. In the meantime, I found other work to do for the rest of the day.
Hopping into Dad’s truck at the end of the day, we began the drive home. Not too long after getting on the road, Dad looked over at me and mentioned that David had told him about my reaction to the truck breaking down, swear word and all. “David said he never expected to hear something like that come out of my daughter’s mouth,” Dad said. “He respects you too much, honey.”
I hung my head, and the tears came quickly. I had lowered myself in the eyes of people whose opinions I cared about. But most of all, I felt disappointed in myself and knew God did too. I realized that was why saying the word hadn’t made me feel any better.
I made a promise never to say that word again or anything else that would not please God, not because I didn’t want to make my dad and David ashamed of me but because it was the right thing to do. Integrity, I learned, is the way you act when you think no one is looking.

My sister danced around the kitchen in her lion costume, with black whiskers stuck on her face.
“Come on!” I hollered at her. “You’re supposed to help me set the table.”
“I’m practicing,” she said, spinning around perfectly on the linoleum floor. “My stomach is too wiggly to eat, anyhow.”
“It’s only a skating show,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”
“It’s the ‘Wizard of Oz,’” Laura declared, “and I’m going to be the lion. Come and see me.”
“I have plans,” I told her. I knew that the guys were going bowling, and there was no way that I was going to sit and freeze just to watch a bunch of seven-year-old kids skate. I finished setting the table by myself, and everybody sat down to eat.
“What’s for supper,” I asked Mom as she set a pot on the table.
“Mystery casserole,” she replied with a wink.
“Oh, great,” I mumbled. Mystery casserole was what Mom made when she was in a hurry and threw leftovers into a dish and baked it.
“We have to hurry tonight,” Dad said. “Laura has to be at the ice show in an hour. Are you coming with us, Son?”
“No,” I answered. “I already have other plans.”
“Fine,” Mom said. “You do what you think is important.”
I hate it when my mom says stuff like that. She makes me feel like I’m doing the wrong thing at the same time that she says to go ahead and do what I want. Besides, I’ve already spent the best years of my life watching Laura.
It all started when Mom began working part-time and I had to begin baby-sitting full-time. I gave Laura her snacks when I got home from school and her breakfast early Saturday morning, a real sacrifice on my part. I helped her put on her clothes and carted her around on my bicycle to baseball games. I even took her to one of my Boy Scout meetings. Then there had been that summer when Roger had invited me to go camping at the lake with his family for two whole weeks! Did I get to go? No! I had to watch Laura because Mom couldn’t find anyone else to do it. I had to stay home and build baby puzzles with Laura and help her tie her shoes. I had definitely gone above and beyond the call of duty as far as Laura was concerned.
Of course, I had been reimbursed for baby-sitting, and I liked Laura—most of the time. She was OK for a sister, but enough was enough.
The first game I bowled was lousy; I didn’t even break one hundred. The guys razzed me and asked me if I needed a handicap. I blamed it on the bowling ball and went to pick out a different one. I didn’t do much better the next game. I couldn’t seem to concentrate. Instead, I kept watching the clock. I knew that the skating show would be starting in thirty minutes, and I wondered if Laura would be skating first.
“Come on, Michael,” Roger said. “You’re up.”
I picked up my ball and carefully stood in our lane, mentally counting my steps: One, two, three. I stepped forward and rolled the ball—right into the gutter.
The guys laughed. They thought that it was hilarious, and I knew that I’d be hearing about this game for the next week, at least. I looked up at the clock again. The ice show started in fifteen minutes. I tried to tell myself that I didn’t care and that I was just having an off night bowling. Then I told the guys that I had to leave and go to my sister’s ice show.
They said that I was lucky that I didn’t have to finish my game, because I’d set a new world record for the worst game ever bowled.
The ice arena was cold. I pulled my hat over my ears and stuffed my hands into my pockets. The place was packed, and I gave up looking for Mom and Dad. I found an empty seat by the door where all the skaters stepped out onto the ice.
Laura was easy to pick out in her tawny lion costume. I cheered extra loudly for her and held my breath while she did her loops and one last spin. She had almost finished when her skate tip caught the ice and she went down in a heap. She leaped up quickly and kept going like a real trooper, but I could see that her shoulders were sagging.
I waited by the dressing room door after the show, and she came out with her skates draped over her shoulder and her lion whiskers dangling crookedly.
“Did you see me?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You did a great job.”
“I fell.”
“You got back up,” I told her, “and that’s what counts. Just wait till next year—you’ll be leaping through the air! I can tell.”
“I’m glad that you came,” Laura said, and she grabbed my hand.
“Of course I came,” I told her. “I couldn’t let you skate without your own private cheering section.”