Gospel Story Finder

I was an adult before I learned the truth about my family. It wasn't until my grandmother's death that I learned that my mother had taken her own life. This knowledge filled me with anger. How could she have done that to me? I sensed in a heart-wrenching way that I wasn't loved. My anger filled my heart and blocked the blessings of the Lord. It consumed my soul and prevented me from serving and helping others. One day, as I sat rocking one of our boys, the Holy Ghost whispered to my heart, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him and he shall direct thy paths."[7] The Lord truly had directed my path. He had placed angels along the way to bring me to this moment. I sat rocking a beautiful baby born under the covenant into a home blessed with the priesthood of God. I was His daughter and He had blessed me with an abundance of blessings and had filled my life with joy. Now I was, of my own choice, blocking those blessings because of my lack of understanding. I needed to repent of my anger, I needed to trust in the Lord to make all things right.

My anger and hurt were further enlarged with my father's death a few years later. My oldest sister called one day to let me know that our father had died. As I held the phone and listened, I felt nothing. It was as if she were telling me that someone I didn't know had died. I had had no contact with him for over thirty years. He had never made the effort to be a part of my life. He knew nothing of me or my marriage or my children. He had deprived my sons of knowing a grandfather. My heart was hard and that hardness caused me pain and sorrow. It took prayer and time to realize that the Savior's Atonement had already paid the price for what I was feeling and also for all that my mother and father had felt and experienced.

The Atonement is an infinite atonement. My Savior paid the price that I might feel whole again if I too would forgive and come unto Him. The Lord can heal our hearts when we take our burden to Him. He can help us forgive. He can help us to heal our families. He can help us to know that we are loved and cherished. The blessings of the temple can unite us again as earthy families with celestial goals. The temple work for my mother and father has been done. I pray now for their acceptance of gospel covenants and blessings. I pray to understand and to accept.

Several years ago, Elisabeth A., 17, from Arizona, USA, started feeling anxious, and it only grew worse. “I felt it all day, every day,” she said. “It was hard for me to get through the day.”
To find comfort, Elisabeth decided to read the scriptures every night. Over time, she began feeling happier.
“I knew I wasn’t alone,” she said. “I knew that God loved me and sent His Son, Jesus Christ, who felt our pain, heartache, sadness, and despair. Through the scriptures, I have a strong relationship with Christ and such a positive outlook on life!”
Elisabeth learned that the scriptures are full of verses and stories about how hope, peace, and strength are found in Jesus Christ. Many of our favorite scripture heroes faced challenging circumstances. And in every case, they found hope, peace, and strength when they turned to Jesus Christ.

It seems that every class has its black sheep, and my seminary class was no exception. One boy was a total loser in every sense of the word. At least it seemed that way.
He was scrawny and combed his greasy black hair straight down so that it covered his eyes and hid him from the world. Mockingly, I compared him to an ostrich who buried his head in the sand so he couldn’t be seen by others. He always sat at the back of the room, never voluntarily participating in any discussion. Friends were out of the question. He was a loner. I feel ashamed to say it, but I figured he couldn’t do much of anything, and I know many of the other students felt the same way. I was extremely surprised when he won the championship scripture chase award. I smugly thought that he just had more time to study because he wasn’t involved in anything else. The night of our seminary closing social proved how wrong my opinion of him was.
That evening remains indelibly engraved upon my mind. I arrived early at the church—a miracle in itself—and found him already there. Again I rationalized that his promptness resulted from a lack of having anything else to do. I greeted him with a perfunctory hello, then hurried to help the other “more friendly” kids set up chairs. Besides, I knew how he would react if I tried to start a conversation with him. First, his head would drop until his eyes became firmly attached to his switching feet. His shaking hands would nervously jiggle his car keys, showing how uncomfortable he felt. He always tensed up whenever I came near. Instinctively, I decided to avoid that awkward experience.
Then the time came for the party to begin. I was trying to round up the deafening herd of kids when I saw my teacher peek into the chapel. A smile of pure delight appeared on his face, like the expression one would find on the countenance of a miner at the discovery of gold. Indeed, a hidden treasure had been found.
Beautiful music floated out through the chapel doors—not just notes but feelings. The person playing the piano had been blessed with outstanding musical abilities. I looked in, expecting to see an adult practicing for a performance. Instead I was shocked to see that the piano player was the quiet boy who I had thought couldn’t do anything. One by one, the entire class crept into the chapel while he continued to play complete compositions—from memory—of Bach, Beethoven, and others. Painfully, my conscience reminded me of my critical judgment of him. I had pronounced him a nobody, simply because he was different from me. I felt superior to him. What a joke! Humbled, I realized he must have numerous other talents to which my abilities couldn’t even be compared. What a mistake it had been to think of him as a zero.
Someone coughed. Immediately, he glanced down, catching us like a bunch of kids with our hands in his cookie jar. We were devouring his musical treats without permission. Instantaneously, he flushed crimson, not from anger as I expected, but from embarrassment. He closed the lid of his music box and slowly left the stand. Thick compliments coated the air as he walked down the aisle and out of the chapel. Still red, he mumbled a humble thanks, not wanting any more of that sticky attention.
The seminary party went on to be a success with everyone laughing, joking, and acting crazy. (I should say acting normal.) That is everyone except me. Somehow that small incident changed me in a very big way.

Katie rummaged through the storage box, carefully looking through the crumpled packing paper. She still couldn’t find what she was looking for.
She put everything back in the box and went to find Mom.
Katie had looked behind the piano, under the couch, even in Thomas’s crib. It was lost. She had to tell Mom.
“Mommy, the baby Jesus is lost!”
Katie led Mom to the nativity set in the living room. Joseph and Mary and the shepherds were there. The Wise Men—even a camel and a donkey—were there. All of the figures were gathered around the empty manger.
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Mom said.
“I can’t find Him anywhere! I looked and looked.” The nativity would be ruined without the baby Jesus.
Mom went to the bookshelf. “He isn’t lost,” she said as she reached up and took something from the top shelf.
Katie sighed in relief. “There He is!” she said. “I’ll go put Him in the manger.”
She reached for the figurine, but Mom put it back on the shelf. “This year we’re going to put the baby Jesus in the manger on Christmas morning,” Mom said. “It’s a tradition Dad learned in France.”
“But everyone looks so sad,” Katie said.
“I don’t think they’re sad,” Mom said. “To me, it looks more like they’re waiting.”
Katie looked at the figures. She could see the place in the manger where baby Jesus belonged. Some of the figurines were reaching out to the empty spot.
“I guess so,” Katie said.
“Remember before Thomas was born how excited you were for him to come?” Mom asked.
Katie smiled at her baby brother, who was playing on a blanket. “It felt like forever!” she said.
“Did you know that prophets waited for thousands of years for Jesus to come to help us return to live with Heavenly Father?” Mom asked.
Katie remembered seeing a picture in Primary of a prophet writing about the Savior’s birth. “I think so,” she said.
“Prophets like Isaiah thought about and wrote about what the Savior would do when He came,” Mom said. “They spent their whole lives waiting for Him to be born. That’s one of the reasons we set up the nativity like this, to remind us that many people waited a long time for the Savior to come.”
“I would get tired of waiting my whole life,” Katie said, looking at the shepherds who were waiting for Jesus.
“But there’s also another reason we do this,” Mom said.
“What?”
“Do you remember in family home evening when we talked about the Second Coming?”
Katie thought for a minute. “Isn’t that when Jesus comes again?
“That’s right,” Mom said.
“When will that happen?” Katie asked.
“Well, we don’t know. But we’re waiting for Jesus to come, just like the shepherds in the nativity and just like the ancient prophets. That’s the other reason we’re waiting until Christmas to put the baby Jesus in the nativity—to remind us that we’re waiting for Jesus too.”
“Will He come to a manger again?” Katie asked.
“No, He won’t be a baby again. The next time Jesus comes, He’ll be resurrected. But the empty manger in the nativity reminds us that just like you’re waiting for Christmas morning, and just like people waited for Jesus to come to earth, now we’re waiting for Him to come back. We didn’t lose the baby Jesus. This is part of the way our family plans to remember Him.”
“We just need to wait,” Katie said with a smile.
“That’s right,” Mom said.
“OK,” Katie said. “But while we’re waiting, can we make some sugar cookies?”

However, there was one incident that changed the entire course of my life. One Saturday night I took the family car, and a companion and I went to a movie. Afterwards I drove to a local drive-in for a malt. In the parking lot we met three of my schoolmates. They were acting so jovial that I should have guessed something was not just right. It was Saturday night, and I wanted to be a good sport, so when they invited us to go for a ride with them, I agreed. My companion and I climbed in their back seat, and we all headed for the canyon.
Before long the driver was gunning the car up the narrow, windy road with reckless abandon, and I could see that they had all been drinking. There were times when I wanted to caution him to slow down, but I didn’t want to appear to be chicken.
We went several miles up the canyon, then turned around to come back. I learned the true meaning of fear as the driver began taking hairpin curves at an unsafe speed. Then it happened. The car flew off the road at high speed and struck a concrete abutment. As the car flipped over on its side and then onto its roof, we skidded down the road in a mixed-up bundle of humanity.
As I watched the sparks flying from the roof of the car, I reviewed my life—down to the last wasted opportunity and foolish act. I prayed too. I don’t remember what I prayed for, but it must have been a prayer of desperation, a plea for life and a chance to change. After skidding down the road for several hundred feet, the car came to a jarring stop against a large cottonwood tree that stood above the river.
Miraculously, no one was seriously hurt. Suddenly sober, the driver and his companions began concocting a story to make the accident look less incriminating. It was agreed that the driver had swerved off the road to avoid hitting a deer. To my shame, I agreed to this lie, and later that night I told it to my parents. They believed their son.
The next day dad insisted we go to the scene of the accident. When he saw where the car had struck the abutment, he knew at once that the story of the deer was pure fiction. Back home, dad sat me down across the table from him. He was very serious.
“Son,” he said in a voice that was touched with emotion, “the night of the accident your mother and I kneeled at your bedside and your mother asked the Lord to protect you and your companions. She said she had a feeling you needed help.”
It took him a few moments to control his emotions; then he continued. “Today we thank God for preserving your life, and we have come to the conclusion that he has a mission for you. This could have been a day of sadness for us; instead, it is a day of rejoicing. Our family is still together, but only by the grace of God.”
I went into my room and lay on the bed. “Okay, dad, okay,” I thought, only this time I thought it with love and appreciation. “You have put something into my heart that was never there before—an understanding of your love and the love of my Heavenly Father.” I spent that night riding upside down, watching the sparks fly up from the road, and feeling the closeness of death. I was glad when morning came with its warm sunshine.

My Crisis
After having given the final exam to a spring-term class of Humanities 101, I was sitting in my old office in the JKHB wondering what my students would remember from the class I had just taught. The more I thought, the more distressed I became because I realized that I had remembered virtually nothing from the classes I had taken at the university. I began seriously to question this whole endeavor: spending enormous sums of money and expending years of toil in pursuit of an impossible dream. For if we retain virtually nothing of what we learn here, then why bother? No savvy businessman would ever risk investing in a venture that produced no tangible lasting results. Sure, we have grades printed on transcripts available at the Records Office, but what does my A- in organic chemistry from Dixie College mean if all I can now remember is the formula for water (H2O) and the formula for sulfuric acid (H2SO4)? Nevertheless, I gradually realized that I did remember something about my early schooling. What was striking, however, was not what I remembered, but why I remembered it.
*I remember the religion course I took from Dean B. West Belnap called “Your Religious Problems” because the students had to present their personal religious problems, and then each student had to provide a written response the next class period to the presenter. I don’t remember what the other students’ problems were, but I remember mine, because I had to write it down and present it in class.
*I also remember Chauncey Riddle’s beginning philosophy class because he used a modified Socratic method: probing for our answers to philosophical issues rather than loading us with information that we would likely soon forget. The final paper required us to formulate our own philosophy: our own ethics, epistemology, logic, aesthetics, and metaphysics. It was a revelation to me that philosophy involved me in a deeply personal way, that I even had a personal philosophy.

These remembered moments from my education are convincing evidence that what I retained over the years were the indelible experiences I was directly involved with, whereas the information I read or was told in class evaporated into the wind like disappearing ink. These realities form the basis for my new agenda as a teacher: to find ways to involve my students more directly in interactive learning experiences with the aid of new computer technology, and to help them develop applicable perceptual skills they can use for the rest of their lives and not promptly forget once the class is over.

There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.

When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.

“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.

They stopped talking and considered.

“We just got here,” one said.

“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.

“Good,” said Frank.

One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.

I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”

They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.

He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.

I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.

Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.

He raised his hands above the keyboard.

“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.

He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.

That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.

“So, how was it?”

“What?” I played dumb, stalling.

“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”

“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.

He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.

“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.

“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”

I looked over at him.

“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”

I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.

We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”

I waited for more.

“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.

I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.

“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.

“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”

I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”

“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”

Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.

“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”

I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.

“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

“I didn’t really think I was on social media that much until I was asked to track my usage, and that’s when I realized how much of my life social media was consuming.
“As soon as I started really focusing on reading the scriptures every day, I felt such an eagerness to read the Book of Mormon, and I wanted to learn from it. As I read for 10 minutes each day, I became more and more invested in the stories. About halfway through I decided that, before I read, I would pray that I would find answers to my questions, and without fail I received those answers through the Holy Ghost.
“I know that God speaks to us through the scriptures and that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ. It can truly bless our lives through fervent and prayerful study. I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to participate in this, and I invite everyone to do the same. It was a life-changing experience.”
Sydney B., 16, Arizona, USA

Now, fast forward to several years ago and consider three young men who also answered a call from the prophet at approximately the same age of 19 years and came to the Missionary Training Center as missionaries. For some reason they couldn’t quite grasp why they were there and immediately started having problems. As their branch president, I received reports that they were causing problems in their classes and doing other inappropriate things. Although they were companions, I met with each of them individually, discussed these problems, and challenged them to remember who they were and who they represented and, if nothing else, to simply look at the Savior’s name on their badges on a regular basis as a reminder. A week later I received a report that things had not improved. So on a Sunday I met with them again and went over what was and wasn’t appropriate. That same day they went back to their room and played what turned out to be a very inappropriate prank on another missionary, which led to more serious consequences. At this point, the decision from Church headquarters in Salt Lake City was that they apparently were not ready to be representatives of the Church and needed to go home.

In both cases, three young men had answered a call, but each set chose to take different routes. What was the difference? Two of the words that come to mind are agency and perspective.

Because his father was a bishop, young Harold witnessed Church welfare at work. “Then as now, the bishop was responsible for the care of those in need,” wrote President Gordon B. Hinckley, a longtime friend. “Bishop Lee ran his own storehouse, the commodities coming from his own pantry. In the night, the family would see him take a sack of flour, they knew not where, because confidences concerning those in trouble were to be strictly observed.”

Young Harold learned what it meant to listen to the voice of the Lord from an experience he had with his father. “I think maybe I was around ten or eleven years of age … , trying to spend the day busying myself until my father was ready to go home. Over the fence from our place were some tumbledown sheds that would attract a curious boy, and I was adventurous. I started to climb through the fence, and I heard a voice … calling me by name and saying, ‘Don’t go over there!’ I turned to look at my father to see if he were talking to me, but he was way up at the other end of the field. There was no person in sight. I realized then, as a child, that there were persons beyond my sight, for I had definitely heard a voice. Since then, when I hear or read stories of the Prophet Joseph Smith, I too have known what it means to hear a voice.”

This experience with the watch-care of the Holy Spirit impressed Harold that safe passage to Heavenly Father’s kingdom depends on our willingness to hear and obey that voice. “I have learned something of what the Spirit has taught,” he later reflected, “and I know now that … security can come to Israel only when they keep the commandments, when they live so that they can enjoy the companionship, the direction, the comfort, and the guidance of the Holy Spirit of the Lord.”

It was nearly thirty years later while I was on an assignment in Idaho that I was approached by a sister who inquired, “Brother Muren, would you be available tomorrow, Saturday, to come to our home for lunch?” She continued without waiting for an answer. “I am Velma Holsinger, the daughter of Henry Eddington, one of the elders who taught you the gospel in California. I have in my possession my father’s missionary journals, and I have marked those pages which deal with your conversion.”

The next day I arrived promptly and anxiously read through the marked pages. I was most interested in those passages which dealt with the experience that allowed me to know of the truthfulness of the gospel.

Elder Eddington had carefully recorded in his journal that he and Elder Asay had held a special fast and had prayed that day so that “young Joe Muren might know for himself.”

The Book of Mormon records well what occurred to me that evening in 1954. As those servants of the Lord “did minister with power and with great authority,” it was not possible that I could disbelieve their words (see 3 Ne. 7:17–18).

As the years have passed, I have recognized more fully that it was not just a spiritual experience of the moment, but rather, I was a recipient of a testimony, a gift from Heavenly Father, that when nourished and cherished would have lasting effects upon me every day of my life.

Now, as we look behind me at this array of missionaries, we are often asked by nonmembers why the Church continues to send out the Elder Asays and the Elder Eddingtons—the tens of thousands of missionaries every year. They inquire, “Why do you send them even to those nations which already know of the Bible and Jesus Christ?” Why did Elder Asay, in his sixties, leave his bride of many years to serve a mission in California? Why did Elder Eddington, a retired teacher and principal, not remain in Idaho and enjoy his family during those “golden years”?

Again the answer is clear in the scriptures. After the Lord had been crucified, He returned to the earth to bear witness of His resurrection and to give a sacred charge to His Apostles. From the twenty-eighth chapter of the Gospel of Matthew, we read: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you” (v. 19–20).

Today, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints continues with this sacred charge—that is, to go and to teach all nations to observe all things whatsoever He, the Savior, has commanded us (see Matt. 28:20). These thousands of missionaries who have been called by a prophet are visual evidence that our Heavenly Father has not forgotten His children. We bear witness to the world that He lives, that He knows each one of us individually. He has a plan, a divine plan, to bring you and to bring me back into His presence. The Savior has returned to the earth, by way of modern-day prophets, all of those teachings, all of those ordinances, and His holy priesthood to bring happiness in this life and eternal joy in the life to come—a plan with solutions, a divine plan with guidance to all of the challenges of this life.

Again, the question is asked: Why do we have more than forty thousand missionaries serving in the world? Because Heavenly Father loves us. These men and women are His servants! They are His representatives! They come with a message that truly represents what the world needs and wants.

You too can know! Yes, you too can know for yourself! For those of you that have already received a witness of the truthfulness of the gospel, I encourage you to cherish that testimony. It is so delicate! It is so fragile! It needs to be nourished with prayer, with the reading of the scriptures, and being at the right place at the right time. I promise you and bear witness that your testimony will grow, and you can have a mighty effect on those with whom you associate.

Now, there are friends of mine here today who are not members. I know you search for the truths which Heavenly Father has given us. You need to know that you are His children, and we invite you to allow the Elder Eddingtons and the Elder Asays of the Church today to teach you how the Church was returned to the earth in these latter days.

Heavenly Father offers to you through His servants a new life. The scriptures call it a rebirth. Not only did the Lord Jesus Christ tell His apostles to “go … and teach,” but to baptize them “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (Matt. 28:19).

I bear testimony, paraphrasing the words of Peter in his second epistle, that we do not follow cunningly devised fables when we make known unto you the power and the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ (see 2 Pet. 2:16).

Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ did return to the earth in 1820. They did restore the priesthood of God and His plan of salvation to a modern-day prophet, Joseph Smith. I know that! I cannot deny what I have felt and what I have seen. I bear this witness to you in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Like Nephi, I truly was “born of goodly ­parents.”21 My mom and dad were very intentional in their parenting, including creating a Darger family mission statement; insisting on early-­morning family scripture study, family prayer, and weekly family home evenings; and providing endless private moments of mentoring. One family home evening lesson I’ll never forget was taught by my mother about the importance of creating a “home-court advantage” in our home for every member of our family. We discussed things like the importance of celebrating each other’s success; how to be patient with a sibling when they were struggling; why we decorated our home with pictures of our family, the temple, and the Savior; and how to protect our home from influences that drive away the Spirit.22

The Darger family has grown over the years. While it has grown, endearing nicknames, family songs, matching outfits, and coordinated chants and cheers have all remained an important part of the Darger home-court advantage.

The strength that comes through this home-court advantage has been particularly needed and noticed during this past year. The COVID-19 pandemic caused many families, including mine, to adjust and virtually create a family-gathering atmosphere. During these weekly Zoom calls, the cheers and encouragement continued. One memorable Zoom call ended in a cheering session for my brother and his MBA graduation.

My mother was a recent convert to the Church when she was called to be the Relief Society president in our small branch in San Salvador. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. She was in her 30s, had very little formal education, and her whole life had been devoted to the care of her husband and seven children. But the branch president called her anyway.
I watched my mother rise to the occasion. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts such as teaching, public speaking, and planning and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She influenced the women in the branch. She served them and taught them to serve one another. The sisters loved and respected her. She helped other women to discover, use, and develop gifts and talents; she helped them become builders of the kingdom and of strong, spiritual families. She stayed faithful to the temple covenants she made. When she passed away, she was at peace with her Maker.
A sister who served with her as a counselor in the Relief Society wrote me a letter years later: “Your mother was the person who taught me the way to become what I am now. From her, I learned charity, kindness, honesty, and responsibility in our callings. She was my mentor and my example. I am now 80 years old, but I have stayed faithful to the Savior and His gospel. I have served a mission, and the Lord has blessed me greatly.”3

Have you ever felt alone? When our daughter Tina was six years old, our family went to live in Brazil. None of our family knew how to speak Portuguese, and it was especially hard for Tina to learn. We decided to put her in preschool with four-year-olds, even though she should have been starting first grade. We hoped that being with younger children would help her feel more comfortable and make it easier to learn Portuguese.
But Tina was as foreign to the other children as they were to her. Each day was a struggle for her, and each day she returned home from school very sad.
One day some children were particularly unkind to her. At recess a few children even threw rocks at her, bullying her and laughing rudely. Tina was scared and hurt. She decided that she wouldn’t go back to class.
Sitting alone while the playground emptied, she remembered what we had taught her about loneliness. She remembered that Heavenly Father is always close to His children and that she could speak to Him at any time. He would understand the language of her heart. In a corner of the playground, she bowed her head and said a prayer. Tina didn’t know exactly what to say, so she asked that her father and mother could be with her to protect her.
A Primary song came into her mind:
I often go walking in meadows of clover,
And I gather armfuls of blossoms of blue.
I gather the blossoms the whole meadow over;
Dear mother, all flowers remind me of you.
(“I Often Go Walking,” Children’s Songbook, 202)
As Tina opened her eyes, she noticed one little flower growing between the cracks of the concrete. She picked it up and put it into her pocket. Her troubles with the other children did not disappear, but she walked back into the school, feeling that her parents were with her.

One who saw such a star and followed it was Boyd Hatch of Salt Lake City, Utah. Deprived of the use of his legs, faced with a lifetime in a wheelchair, Boyd could well have looked inward and, through sorrow for self, existed rather than lived. However, Brother Hatch looked not inward, but rather outward into the lives of others and upward into God’s own heaven; and the star of inspiration guided him not to one opportunity, but to literally hundreds. He organized Scout troops of handicapped boys. He taught them camping. He taught them swimming. He taught them basketball. He taught them faith. Some boys were downhearted and filled with self-pity and despair. To them he handed the torch of hope. Before them was his own personal example of struggle and accomplishment. With a courage which we shall never fully know or understand, these boys of many faiths overcame insurmountable odds and found themselves anew. Through it all, Boyd Hatch not only found joy, but by willingly and unselfishly giving of himself, he found Jesus.

Another set of choices has to do with selecting integrity over duplicity and virtue over vice. Our word should be as good as our bond. President Kimball taught that “one might be full of wit and humor; one might be dexterous in performance, but if he has not honor and integrity, he has little or nothing” (TSWK, p. 388). We must decide our direction. We must determine who it is that we would like to become. As President Benson said:
Most individuals do not intend to be dishonest, dishonorable, or immoral. They seem to allow their characters to erode by a series of rationalizations, lies, and compromises. Then when grave temptation presents itself, they haven’t the strength of character to do what they know to be right. [TETB, p. 367]
Cheating, defrauding, flattering, and deceiving do not establish a basis of trust for family life, friendship, or career. The student who, in the midst of egregious violation of Church standards and Honor Code expectations, tells himself, “Don’t think about being a BYU student, a temple-attending returned missionary who is employed by the Church, because if you do you will not be able to savor this moment, you will have to stop what you are now doing,” is absorbed in deeply deceptive behavior that cheats and defrauds self more than others. A total lack of sensitivity to the absence of personal integrity and the integrity of the institutions affected by the action seems clear.
On the other hand, a student who has violated Church and Honor Code standards, who accepts responsibility for what has been done, who is remorseful, who confesses the violation, and who takes every step within the range of possibility to make amends, now says, “I wish that every student could have experienced what I have experienced because the experience has blessed my life. We all take the gospel, our membership in the Church, our student status, and the Honor Code too lightly. But it is better to not have to learn this the hard way. I will do everything in my power to help others avoid doing what I have done.” This student has vigorously affirmed the desire to make integrity a central feature of daily living.

During the summer before our son Josh's junior year of high school he began experiencing painful headaches. We thought he was experiencing a prolonged sinus infection, but after visiting many doctors and seeing no improvement, a doctor finally ordered an MRI. To our shock and horror, when we looked at the scans, we discovered he had multiple brain tumors—cancer spreading throughout his brain cavity. These tumors were unrelated to the one he had when he was five. One doctor told us that the odds of having two different types of brain tumors were something like one in 150 million! One of these tumors was blocking the brain fluid from draining properly and that was what was causing his headaches.

A local doctor did immediate surgery, inserting a fairly large shunt at the base of his skull in order to alleviate the pressure caused by the accumulation of fluid in his brain cavity. They then did a second surgery, also through the top of the skull, in order to take a biopsy to determine if the tumors were malignant or benign. That surgery failed to get a proper biopsy, and we found ourselves back at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City, where, after a third surgery, it was determined that his tumors were indeed malignant. That meant months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment. He spent his entire junior year of High School receiving treatment. Fortunately, Josh responded amazingly well to both treatments in the intervening months, and by the end of his Junior year of high school he was cancer free! We were again, deeply grateful for this blessing.

In our experience with Josh he was a great example of enduring cheerfully. He literally never complained once through the whole ordeal. His Mom and I were certainly not at that level of endurance, and I'm sure I would have done my fair share of complaining had the roles been reversed. Nearly every picture we have of him during his chemotherapy treatments shows him smiling. I couldn't personally imagine going through chemotherapy and radiation treatment and still smiling? This is a picture of Josh with his youngest brother towards the end of his treatment. Now, there were tough days. He certainly wasn't always smiling during times of painful treatment and suffering. But he seemed to remain optimistic and even "cheerful" throughout the experience.

I was a missionary in Seoul, Korea, and had just been transferred to a new area. The bustling city of millions of people was still overwhelming, and my Korean was far from fluent, but I knew I was where the Lord wanted me to be.
One day my companion and I had the blessing of meeting a member who hadn’t attended church for years. Her father had recently passed away, and she was in great need of spiritual and emotional comfort. We visited her at home, but I was not able to understand much of the conversation.
One night at about 3:00 a.m. our telephone rang. When I answered the phone, I couldn’t understand what the woman was saying at first. She was upset, but I had no idea how to help or what to say.
I began to pray silently. As I prayed I recognized the woman’s voice and realized it was the less-active sister we had recently met. Though I couldn’t completely understand her, I felt she was lonely and needed to know she was loved. But how could I tell her? I couldn’t find the words in English, much less in Korean.
Suddenly I remembered that I had memorized the words to the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301) in Korean. After the sister stopped speaking, I slowly asked if we could sing the hymn together. She said yes. As we sang I felt a wonderful feeling of peace and comfort. It was as if Heavenly Father were holding both of us, reminding us that He loved us and would always be there when we needed Him.
After we finished singing, the sister told me that she would be all right, and we said good night. I walked back into the bedroom, amazed at the Spirit that still lingered in my heart. I was so grateful to know that when a child of God calls for help on a dark night, Father in Heaven will always be there to answer.
Diantha Smith, Utah, USA

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit; with her baked goods, her quilts and afghans; with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 A.M., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”
Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 A.M. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in everything he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the Savior was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what had happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”