Gospel Story Finder

Twelve-year-old Caternia sat on the floor of the small, cluttered attic, rummaging through the old chest. The big, tattered coffer and its treasured contents had belonged to her great-great-uncle, Ephram Gage. The sweet, musty smell that floated out of the wooden box only added to the wonder and mystery of its contents. As soft, filtered light seeped through a small attic window, it washed across each object she touched.
Next week was Caternia’s turn to give the lesson in family home evening, and she wanted to do something different about families. “Maybe there’s something in Great-Great-Uncle Gage’s old wooden chest that might be of some help,” her father had suggested. The idea intrigued Caternia, so she’d climbed the steep stairway to the attic.
This wasn’t the first time she’d been there. In fact, it had become her secret place, where she could pray and think and read in private. Her parents had said that everyone should have such a place where they could go to pray and think things out.
Caternia shared a bedroom with her little sister, Ebony. It seemed like every time she tried to be alone, Ebony’s pet hamster, Bartholomew, would get loose, and Ebony always recruited two or three friends to assist in the hunt. By the time Bartholomew was back in his cage, the room was in total chaos—rummaged drawers, scattered school papers, and beds that looked more turbulent than her father’s just-plowed field!
After every successful capture, a victory party was held—in Caternia and Ebony’s bedroom, of course. The festivities were loud enough to out-noise, Caternia was sure, all the other sounds made since Adam, stacked together. Caternia had learned to seek refuge in the small, quiet attic.
The problem that had been most recently weighing on her mind was the big test coming up in her math class. In order to remain on the dance team at school, she had to maintain a grade of C or better. That wasn’t difficult in her other subjects, but math was especially hard for her. Her parents had helped her all they could, and so had her instructor at school, but she just wasn’t able to grasp it. If she scored well on this test, however, she would get a C for the term and be able to continue on the dance team. If she failed …
Two days earlier, one of her friends had found the test with the answers in their teacher’s desk drawer during recess and had copied it. She offered to give it to Caternia. Caternia knew that cheating was wrong, but she stood to lose her place on the team if she didn’t do well on the test.
As she sat now in the attic, mulling over what she should do, she withdrew an old World War I boot from the trunk. She pushed a fingernail into a crack and scraped out a trace of dirt, which floated like dust through the gilded light. “Dirt,” she uttered out loud. “Maybe it’s from the trenches where so many died.”
But not Uncle Gage. Somehow he had survived the bullets and the barbed wire and the gas. He had made the right moves. Dropped to the ground at the right time. “And prayed constantly,” she remembered her father having once told her, “that God would be mindful of him in his darkest hour. That he might be worthy of a loving Father’s saving grace in his time of greatest need.”
Replacing the shoe, she picked up a compass. It was old, like everything else in the chest, and scratched. But it still worked. It probably had helped Uncle Gage find his way when the smoke and fear of war clouded his judgment. Just like the gospel of Jesus Christ helps me find the way, she thought.
Her eyes faltered as guilt crept across her heart, stealing away her peace like clouds hiding the sun from the land. “But I just have to pass that test,” she protested out loud. “I just have to! I just …”
Her voice trailed suddenly as she pulled out a large tintype of a great castle. The photograph was faded and yellowed, but the castle’s walls were strong and appeared impenetrable. Like the gospel, she deduced, that fortifies one against any assault by the adversary if we keep the commandments.
“But I always do,” she defended herself aloud. “Well, almost always. Surely one wrong isn’t going to outweigh all the right I’ve done. Besides, everybody makes mistakes. I’ll repent after the test. Heavenly Father will understand.” But how much harder would her repentance be, she speculated, when she knew beforehand that what she was going to do was wrong?
As she started to replace the tintype in the chest, her eyes fell upon a hole in the bottom of one of the castle’s great walls. It was a small hole, but it went clear through the wall, and it was big enough for an enemy to slip through and do his dark work.
Caternia sat back against a large vertical timber and gazed at the picture. That’s all that the adversary needs to penetrate our spiritual walls, she reflected. Just one small hole. Just one small sin.
Her eyes lifted to the haze of light that seeped through the little window. Tears oozed down her cheeks. “Forgive me, Heavenly Father,” her lips trembled. “Please forgive me.” Her gaze returned to the old tintype. She stared at it for some time, then closed her eyes in prayer.
An hour later, she descended from the attic. She held the tintype close to her.
“Did you find something you can use in next week’s family home evening?” her mother asked.
Caternia nodded, wiping residual tears from her cheek. “Yes, I did,” she got out. “This old picture. I found it in Uncle Gage’s—”
“Is everything all right, honey?” her mother interrupted when she saw her daughter’s tear-red eyes.
“Yes, Mama. And I’m going to make sure it stays that way, no matter what!”
The following day at school, she told the girl who had offered to share the test questions with her that she had chosen not to cheat. Caternia explained why and encouraged her friend to do the same.
For the next few days, she studied diligently. It wasn’t easy, but she had committed to do all she could do, then ask Father in Heaven for His help. The day after the test, one of her friends saw her crying by her locker.
“Did you fail the math test?”
“No.” Caternia smiled. “I got a B-.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because I’m so happy!”
Following family home evening the next Monday, Caternia went to the attic to return the tintype to Uncle Gage’s chest. As she placed it atop the other contents, she gazed one last time at it in the amber glow of an old lamp. She again promised herself and Heavenly Father that she would work each day to keep her spiritual walls strong. She gently ran a finger across the castle’s walls and remembered with warmth the special feeling that had filled her halfway through the test—a feeling that told her in a quiet, whispered way that Someone was with her. She closed the lid of the trunk, leaned back against the timber, and expressed her gratitude to a loving Heavenly Father for helping her in her hour of need.

Most doctors would be stunned to see Maria Turman at the encampment. As a matter of fact, they would be surprised to see her alive and smiling at all. Just a few short weeks ago, they were sure she was dying of brain cancer.
“I could barely stand the thought of what she would have to endure through whatever time she had left,” said her mother. “So we went home and called everyone we knew and asked them to pray for her. People of every faith joined us in prayer, and her name was in many of the temples.”
People fasted for her. People prayed for her. And they supported her in other ways too—like those who stood by her in the hospital, and the friend who told her that if she had to shave off her beautiful hair, he would shave his head too and, who knows, maybe they’d start a fad.
After a grueling two weeks of treatment and testing, her doctor came to her in total shock. “There’s been a miracle,” he said. “This girl does not have brain cancer. She does have another disease, but it is not fatal.”
Through all this Maria and everyone involved developed an incredible amount of faith—faith in the power of prayer, faith in the power of the priesthood from which blessings came that said she would be restored, and faith in the power and love of Heavenly Father.
Maria adds a sparkling, pure white to the rainbow.

“When I was ten years old, before I joined the Church, I had leukemia,” Bryce says matter-of-factly. “In April 1995 the leukemia came back.”
Now it was Bryce’s turn to be the example. Even though he knew all too well what the relapse would mean—chemotherapy, radiation, fatigue, pain, nausea—Bryce decided he was going to do as much “normal” stuff as he could. So, even though he was still feeling sick from one of his first treatments, Bryce made it to the stake center to be part of his branch’s road show. Now he goes to as many firesides and activities as he can. And he goes to school as much as he can.
“I still don’t like school,” he says with a grin, “but you sure do miss it when you’re gone. You miss seeing other people.”
And that’s where Bryce’s branch comes in, helping Bryce to pass the long hours in the hospital.
“The branch has really taken care of me,” says Bryce. “The Primary sent me cards, the youth sent me cards and came to visit, the Relief Society fed my family when my mom and I had to go to Calgary for special treatments. They made delicious meals with dessert and everything. They had a fast for me, and nothing went wrong.”
Bryce has a lot to teach others about positive attitude and courage. And since Bryce is the only member of the Church in his family, he (with lots of help from members of the branch) has also had the important task of teaching his family about prayer, faith, and LDS beliefs about life after death.
“Bryce has done so well,” says his mom. “I know that a combination of good things has happened to Bryce. It isn’t just the wonders of science, by no means. I just know that Bryce is being looked after.”
Bryce couldn’t agree more. And he knows that the blessings he’s received during his illness can be attributed to the greatest example of all, Jesus Christ.
“I’m not afraid of what might happen,” he says. “Now that I have the gospel and I know about the Atonement and how things work, I’ve learned to look for the good. I have a lot to be thankful for.”
Courage, gratitude, and faith—Bryce lives these principles every day. And who knows? Maybe he’s just the example someone else is looking for.

Another successful project has been to take a family home evening to the home of less-active youth on Wednesday evenings. “Some of the parents aren’t members,” says Jackelin. “In fact, many of these youth are the only Church members in their families. But usually their parents let us come in. When the kids see us, they’re surprised. But they can see the interest we have in them. One of us gives the lesson, and we encourage questions and comments. You can really feel the Spirit. Usually the things of the world are what keep them from returning to church. Many of them say they’re happy we’ve come and that they still have testimonies.”
But expressions of friendship must be genuine, Jackelin says. “Sometimes when they see us, youth who are not active try to hide because they think we’re always going to talk to them about the Church. But we try to be aware of their lives and talk to them about other things too. We want them to see we’re interested in them and happy to be their friends.”

Do you remember starting at some school? Each of us could tell a story. I grew up in Princeton, New Jersey. I can remember how my cousins helped me. When I moved from New Jersey to Salt Lake City to go to public school, my cousins from the West said the kids would stone me with my New Jersey accent. I got rid of it quickly, out of fear. I remember terror as I walked up to the junior high school on the first day.

A few years later—I don’t know how it happened—but after basketball season I left high school and went without my high school classmates to the University of Utah. I can remember those first days—the Physics Department and the Mathematics Department didn’t seem very friendly to me. I remember my fear.

I went from there to the United States Air Force and somehow decided that physics would not be my life’s work. I thought I needed something else for education so I tried a place I had heard of called the Harvard Graduate School of Business. I was so naïve I didn’t know it might be hard to be admitted. I know now that it was a miracle that I was accepted.

I can remember parting from my father on a street corner in New York City. For some reason he was there for scientific meetings. I was on my way to the Harvard Business School in my Ivy League suit, or so I thought. That suit was later borrowed by my roommate, who had been a Harvard undergraduate. He wore it to a costume party as a gangster suit, which offended me some. He wore a black shirt and a white tie with it.

When I parted from dad in my new suit, it was one of those great moments in life when I was going off to school. I looked back at him. Later he said to me that I looked forlorn, but I remember feeling sorry for him. To him I was a frightened student. I didn’t know what a balance sheet was. I didn’t know what a pro-forma cash flow looked like. I was a physics student about to be lost in the Harvard Business School.

From there I went to Stanford University. Kathy was nice enough to marry me. Her first adventures in cooking for us were to find some morning menu that I could keep down on my nervous stomach as I went off to meet those apparently confident Stanford students. I wondered how I could teach them, until I found out that they were scared, too.

My heart stopped beating as I peered over the edge of the 90-foot cliff. I couldn’t believe I’d put myself in this position. My friends in the boat below were laughing at my hesitation to jump, which made me even more determined to go through with it.
We’d chosen Lake Powell in southern Utah as our graduation retreat, and we were glad temperatures soared into the 90s during that first week of June. It felt great to be healthy, tan, and 18.
As we climbed to the summit of that 90-foot cliff, we laughed at our friends back in the boat who passed up the chance of flying through that great expanse of air toward the water. They were all talk and no action, we joked as we reached the top. They were the same guys, after all, who had passed up almost any form of “entertainment” during our high school years.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when Bryce, the bold one, let out a scream and jumped off the cliff. It wasn’t a graceful takeoff, but it got the job done. I watched him flip like a fish as he fell through the sky, and I heard the distant splash when he hit the water. “You’ve got to try it!” he yelled as he pulled himself into the boat. It was a direct challenge.
I looked around and found my three buddies smiling at me. My stomach went sour. It was then I realized that jumping from a 90-foot cliff wasn’t such a hot idea. But how could I pull out now? They’d never let me live it down.
Just when I was about to jump, I was interrupted by Kelly, who barked out an obscenity and took off. We never saw him hit the water, but heard him crying as the others pulled him into the boat.’ His knees had slammed together upon impact, and he would be in a cast for the rest of the summer, following surgery on both knees.
The three of us who remained were now scared to death, but we wouldn’t admit it. I remember thinking about my acceptance to BYU, and about my plans to serve a mission after my freshman year. For the first time that day, I began to think of the consequences of making the jump. What if I became seriously injured? Was impressing my friends really that important?
“Fifty percent chance you make it and fifty percent chance you get hurt,” Bryce impatiently yelled at me from below. That was comforting.
I slowly walked back from the edge, then raced toward it, lifting my body off the ground as I soared into the warm sky. I looked immediately down and found the water racing toward me. I waved my arms to maintain balance.
My entry into the water was like an explosion, and I heard my back snap. As I sank through the water, I became aware that I couldn’t move my body. I felt as though my lungs would explode as I slowly floated to the surface, only to hear my friends laughing at the expression on my face.
Ted was the first to realize I was in pain, and he told the others to stop laughing as I was pulled into the boat. I mentioned something about the pain in my back as they laid me down next to the already-injured Kelly, and I was soon whimpering right along with him.
Kelly and I watched in bewilderment as the remaining two contemplated their own jumps. Despite unfavorable odds, each of them made the leap—successfully.
Since no doctors were within 100 miles of us, I decided to finish the trip with my friends. I lay in a tent for two days, shocked at my stupidity. I was only 18, yet I had risked my life for the sake of “entertainment.”
The doctor who examined my back said I had a compression-fracture which would cause arthritis throughout my life, but I still considered myself very lucky.
For nearly four years I had wandered carelessly through a world of smashed pumpkins and crazy dives. I hadn’t stopped to consider what effect my actions were having on other people, or on myself. I had been a thrill seeker who never had to face the consequences until that fateful day when I’d almost given my life just to impress my friends. It took a crash through Lake Powell’s waters to plunge me from my fantasy world into a world of reality and responsibility.

Until the white man came and explained that he was a collector of fossils, agates, and semiprecious stones for an eastern museum, Black Otter had not realized that these colorful rocks might have value. The man laid out many rock specimens to show the various stones he was seeking. “I have not come to cheat you,” he said. “These samples are not as valuable as diamonds and rubies, but I have brought brass and iron pots, good hunting knives, and metal fishhooks to trade.”

The man looked disappointed when nothing was offered. The tribe was very poor. The people wore many necklaces but they were fashioned of drilled bone, claws, or hard seeds, not colorful stones. The specimen hunter saw how the Indians admired the trade goods when he began to pack up. Their fishhooks were thick bone ones that allowed many fish to escape. Now he selected a large and small metal fishhook for each brave and presented them as gifts.

Black Otter had stayed back in the crowd, timid about approaching the white man. But he had watched his mother’s eyes that kept returning to the largest cooking pot. It was made of black iron with legs and a hook for hanging over a fire. Hesitantly, he stepped forward and laid the smallest of his three rocks near a similar specimen. Black Otter’s rock was clearer and gave off more colors in the sunlight.

The man examined the stone, then he smiled and offered a skinning knife and a small mound of fishhooks in trade. His smile faded and he sighed regretfully when Black Otter pointed to the iron pot. “I’m sorry, but your crystal is not worth that much,” he said. The youth felt that the man was being honest. He obviously wanted the rock.

The white man caught his breath when the Indian boy pulled out the two larger stones. When the deal was finished, Black Otter owned the pot, a razor-sharp hatchet, two fine knives, one for hunting and the other with many blades that folded into the handle, and a mound of fishhooks. Such sudden wealth stunned his parents. They’d never expected to own such things.

Black Otter was disturbed by the envious looks on the faces of his tribesmen. The youth did not want envy to set his family apart from the rest of the tribe. The price of jealousy could mean the loss of their friendship. “If I bring many stones, will you return with tools and utensils for all my people?” Black Otter quietly asked. The man agreed to return with a larger supply of trade goods, and so the youth had set out to search for the beautiful cavern.

Growing up in my family, we lived as devout members of another Christian faith. I was baptized a member of that church shortly after my birth. Our family went to church each week. For many years my brothers and I assisted the pastors who conducted our Sunday services. I was taught the importance of family prayer as our family prayed together each day. I thought that someday I would enter the full-time ministry in my church. There was no question in our minds that we could define ourselves as devout Christians.
When I was a university student, however, I became acquainted with the members and teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, a Christian faith centered on the Savior. I began to learn about the doctrine of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ in these latter days. I learned truths that I had not known before that changed my life and how I viewed the gospel. After much studying, prayer, and faith, I chose to embrace beautiful restored truths found only in this Church.

As I answered the phone at our chapel in Viseu, Portugal, I wondered who was calling. I was surprised to hear the trembling voice of my eight-year-old son on the line.
“Mom, Viviana was hit by a car,” he said. “She is alive, but her head is bleeding! She is going to the hospital.”
I almost fainted. What was I going to do? Fortunately, I had family nearby—two of my sisters were with me. One of them accompanied me to the hospital, while the other one went to watch and comfort my three distressed children at home.
In the middle of so much anguish, I wanted to pray but could only weep. On the way to the hospital, however, I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of peace and assurance. I felt that I didn’t need to worry; everything would be all right.
My sister noticed the change and asked, “Are you OK?” I nodded. Skeptical, she asked again, “Really? Are you OK?”
“Yes,” I replied, remaining silent for the rest of the journey.
When we arrived at the hospital, I found my four-year-old daughter conscious and only slightly hurt. After comforting her, I couldn’t stop thinking about the peace I had felt.
Viviana returned home after one day in the hospital. In talking about the accident, my sister who had stayed with the children said, “Yesterday, after the ambulance left, Vanessa and Vasco went into the house and prayed together.”
I was touched to know that in the midst of all the fear they were experiencing, my children remembered what they had been taught at home and in Primary. They were only six and seven, but they had faith in the power of prayer. They knew that Heavenly Father was able to help their little sister.
I thought about their faith all afternoon. Then a question came to mind: when did I start to feel peaceful? After figuring out how long it took to reach the hospital, I realized that my peaceful feeling came at about the same time that Vanessa and Vasco had prayed.
I know that Heavenly Father heard those sweet voices and not only blessed my daughter with health but also blessed me with peace. I will never forget what I learned that day from my children: we have a loving Father who hears our prayers and wants to bless us “with a sweet and calm assurance that he cares” (“Be Thou Humble,” Hymns, no. 130).

She came down the hallway of Glenwood High with all the grace of a fire engine rushing toward a burning building. She commanded attention in the brightest green dress Melanie Brannon had ever seen, topped by a pointy yellow collar that drooped like a wilting flower over her shoulders. She nodded and gabbed at every student in the hallway. Most of them just stared back.
Please, not the locker next to mine, Melanie silently pleaded as the stranger glided closer. She was a little taller than Melanie, very thin, her hair coal black, straight, and hanging to her waist. As she drew closer, Melanie noticed that her fingernails were painted in the same bright yellow as her collar.
It’s Halloween in September, Melanie thought, sticking her head inside her locker. It was the first day of Melanie’s senior year. She knew the next ten months were brimming with challenges: maintaining high grades, starting a job, applying for scholarships, and her new Church calling. Only two weeks before, Bishop Jackson asked her to serve as the Laurel class president. Her life was filled. There was no time for extras, including making friends with some day-glowing stranger.
“You must be a ‘B.R.’ too,” Melanie heard a fluttery voice behind her say.
“Excuse me?”
“A ‘B.R.’—your name must start with those letters. Aren’t the lockers assigned in alphabetical order? My last name is Brady. My first name is Arlene. I was named for my grandmother. She’s dead.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” Melanie stammered.
“For the best. Grandmother was old and not well,” Arlene said vacantly. Then, she suddenly shifted gears. “Like my outfit? You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to put it together.”
“How nice,” Melanie mumbled, taking a few slow steps away from her locker. A school bell clattered. “I’ve got to go. It’s bad luck to be late on the first day.”
“How true,” squeaked Arlene. “One should never invite bad luck.”
Melanie darted down the hall but was stopped in her tracks by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Brannon! New friend of yours?” It was Craig Miller, probably the last person she wanted to hear from at that instant. “She’s great. Maybe she could help you with your wardrobe.”
“Funny, Craig. She has the locker next to mine, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to Mrs. Foreman’s class.”
“Mrs. Foreman? A drill sergeant masquerading as an English teacher,” teased Craig.
“I asked for Mrs. Foreman. She does more to help her students get ready for college than any other teacher.”
“Can I call you tonight?”
“Sure. But I’m starting at Taco Tommy’s. I won’t get home until late.” Melanie disappeared into Mrs. Foreman’s English class just before the door was pulled shut.
Fourteen hours later, Melanie quietly unlocked the front door to her home. She slipped inside, glancing at a hallway mirror. She saw the reflection of a tired young woman who had arisen near sunrise, put in a hectic first day at school, and started a new job.
You smell like a taco, she thought.
“Melanie?”
She turned and saw her mother coming down the stairs. “I waited up for you, honey. Everyone else has gone to bed. How was the first day on the job?”
“It was good motivation for college. I’ve decided my future isn’t in fast foods.”
“You look tired. Remember, seminary starts tomorrow. When are you getting up?”
Melanie groaned. “About 5:30.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“Can’t. Mrs. Foreman gave us a short story to read.”
“Good night then. Oh, Craig called. You know, under that cool exterior, I think he has a crush on you.”
Melanie yawned. “Sorry I missed him.” She dragged herself up to her room and was soon reading at a small desk. But it was difficult to concentrate on the story by Chekhov.
Tacos. Beef tacos, chicken tacos. What was it Mrs. Foreman said about Russian authors? Unrecognized for what reason? Bet that’ll be on a test. And then there was that weird new girl, Arlene Brady. Yellow nail polish.
Melanie’s eyes dropped and she laid her head on her desk.
Beatrice Foreman gazed across her classroom like a hawk scouting for a mouse. She was in her 50s, an imposing woman with dark, penetrating eyes and a facial expression that stopped just short of a scowl. Her wrath was readily kindled by students who came to class unprepared.
“Mr. Crandall!”
The young man next to Melanie stood nervously.
“You read the assignment, I presume. Chekhov’s short story ‘The Kiss.’ Tell us about it.”
“Let’s see, there is a young soldier.”
“He receives a kiss from a young woman, but it was by mistake.”
“Not the first of Cupid’s arrows to miss its mark,” intoned Mrs. Foreman. “The symbolism. Explain the meaning, Mr. Crandall.”
“Uh … I think it stands for how we as human beings can take small, insignificant things, maybe even things that happen by accident, and take them to mean something bigger in life than they really are.”
“Better,” boomed Mrs. Foreman. “Continue, Mr. Crandall.”
“The kiss in the story, the soldier took it to mean a whole better life, a brighter future,” Dan said, with somewhat more confidence. “Someone cared for him, he thought. But he was wrong.”
“Your speech lacks precision, Daniel, but I believe you have picked up the essential grain of the story. Thank you.”
After class, Melanie and a friend, Gretchen Hunter, walked down a hallway.
They turned a corner. There was Arlene Brady. Melanie was caught off guard. “Hi, Arlene. How are you?”
Arlene stared at Melanie for a couple of seconds. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in days,” Arlene said. She hovered an instant, then swept down the hallway.
“Who was that?” asked Gretchen.
“Nobody,” grumbled Melanie. “Her locker’s next to mine.”
“Hey, Brannon!” Melanie cringed as she heard Craig Miller’s familiar greeting. “How about some ice cream tonight? Me and ice cream—an irresistible combination.”
“I really do like ice cream, Craig, but it’s a bad night. I have an interview with Bishop Jackson, plus a bunch of studying.”
“You’re just playing hard to get,” replied Craig. “But I know my charms will win you over in the end.”
The phone rang in the bishop’s office. Bishop Jackson reached for it and answered. While he was talking, Melanie glimpsed a name on a move-in list that was on his desk. She squinted and looked again. No mistake: Arlene Brady.
Arlene, the princess of weird, a Mormon! This is too much, Melanie thought as Bishop Jackson hung up.
“Bishop, you have a girl named Arlene Brady on the list there.”
He nodded. “I went to her apartment last week and talked with her father. The two of them are there by themselves. He’s not a member, and they move around quite often. He said Arlene doesn’t have many friends. I told him maybe we could help.”
“But she wears costumes to school,” Melanie said. “Yesterday she came in wearing an outfit that made her look like a diesel truck. I’m serious, Bishop. The exhaust pipes were silk-screened on her sleeves! She even had a little black spot underneath the engine. She told me it was an oil slick. The guys at school are calling her Oil Slick Brady.”
Bishop Jackson sat back in his chair. “Sounds like someone who needs attention. Melanie, I know this is a busy time for you. But I also feel it’s important for Arlene to have a friend. Will you give it a try?”
Melanie smiled weakly. “What’s her address?”
Melanie braced herself, standing in front of the apartment. She’d promised the bishop a visit, and that’s what Arlene Brady would get—one visit. Besides, Melanie had the perfect excuse. She needed to be to work in 15 minutes.
Arlene opened the door.
“Arlene? It’s me, Melanie Brannon, from school.”
“Come in.”
“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’m on my way to work.” Melanie entered. The apartment was sparsely furnished. It looked like the residence of a family used to moving quickly.
Melanie didn’t know quite what to say. Arlene was anything but mainstream Glenwood High, yet she seemed a little more normal than Melanie had anticipated. “Well, Arlene, why I came here tonight,” she started matter-of-factly. “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I think you are too. We have a Laurel class, a group of girls our age, and I thought you might like to do some things with us.”
Arlene tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. “Mormons. Yes, I remember being baptized with my mother a long time ago,” she said. “People from church come around to visit us, but we never stay in one place long enough to really get involved. My father changes jobs a lot. The longest we’ve stayed anywhere is two years. Sometimes it’s only a matter of weeks.”
“It must be hard to move that much,” Melanie said.
Arlene sighed. “This may sound crazy, but do you know what I fear the most? It’s not the new teachers or setting up housekeeping. It’s that every time I’m in a new place, I don’t know if I’ll make any friends. I like being an individual, but when you move around as much as I do, it’s hard for people to get to know you.”
Melanie looked closely at Arlene. Maybe that one statement accounted for much of her bizarre clothing and behavior. A plea for attention and a plea for friends. Arlene looked at a wall. “I’m telling you a lot and we hardly know each other. You must think I’m strange.”
“Maybe a little different, that’s all,” sputtered Melanie. Then, trying to change the subject, “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks,” Arlene said, a little more happily. “My father is on the road a lot. I try to have a clean apartment and something warm for him to eat when he gets home. He’s a good person. He doesn’t really understand me, but I know he loves me. That’s something I’ve learned from him—you can love someone without completely understanding them. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Melanie admitted.
“What about church? Want to join us?”
“Maybe. It depends on my dad’s schedule.”
Melanie glanced at her watch. It was almost six o’clock. “Wow! I have to run. I start work in exactly two minutes.”
Arlene smiled nervously. “Thanks for stopping by. Not many people do.”
“We’ll change that. Good night, Arlene.”
It was a busy night on the taco-building line. Nevertheless, Melanie couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the clean little apartment and the girl who lived there.
The next few weeks were a blur. Family, seminary, school, church, work, and studying crowded Melanie’s days. No matter how busy she was though, she took the time to talk with Arlene every day.
Arlene did attend a Church Halloween party, but it almost backfired. “A half-dozen people complimented her on the costume she was wearing,” Melanie confided to her mother after the party. “But it wasn’t a costume!”
Things finally clicked in November when Arlene agreed to attend the Laurel class.
She arrived at church wearing a long black dress, black gloves, her head crowned by a small black hat. “I thought I should wear something formal,” Arlene told Melanie. The Laurels were polite, but distant. Melanie realized that if Arlene were to become an active Church member, it would take more than the efforts of one person. It was well into the evening before she came up with a plan to help expand Arlene’s circle of acquaintances. Oddly, the key to the plan was none other than Craig Miller.
The opportunity to approach Craig came the very next morning on the front steps of school.
“Melanie,” he began earnestly. “I have to know. Is there any chance for us socially,” he cleared his throat, “like on a date?”
“Sure, Craig.”
He looked stunned. “There is?” he mumbled, slowly shaking his head. “Boy, that direct approach is powerful stuff.”
“I have Thursday night off. How about the symphony? But there’s one condition. I’d like to double.”
“Double? Sure.”
“With Arlene. Can you line her up?”
“Oil Slick? You want me to line up a friend with … with … that? Which of my friends am I willing to sacrifice?”
“How about Terry Packham?” persisted Melanie. “He’s a super guy, and he’s in a different school. He’s never heard of Oil Slick. She’ll be just plain Arlene to him. Terry’s more mature. He’ll do it.”
Craig cued on the word mature. He lowered his voice. “Oh yes, maturity. Still, there is the matter of Arlene’s somewhat unusual taste in apparel.”
“You won’t even recognize her,” promised Melanie.
“Then I’ll pick up the tickets and call Terry. Symphony. A very mature choice.”
“Craig—thanks. You’re the first guy I thought of. That’s a compliment.”
No sooner had Melanie disappeared than Craig pumped his fist into the air and bellowed “All right!”
Coaxing Arlene into the double date was trickier than Melanie expected.
“I’m not the dating type,” Arlene protested.
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied.
“I don’t have the right clothes to wear,” Arlene argued.
“I have some you can borrow,” answered Melanie.
“I’m too much of an individual to dress up like everyone else,” Arlene contended.
“Clothes don’t make you an individual. That comes from what you do with your life,” countered Melanie.
Arlene finally relented. “Okay, you win. You should sell life insurance. You’re the most tenacious person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” beamed Melanie.
Tuesday night, Melanie tiptoed into her house after stopping by Arlene’s apartment. She had spent two hours helping Arlene find just the right clothes to wear. They finally settled on a cream-colored skirt and powder-blue sweater with a lace collar. With her hair in a French braid, Arlene’s subtle beauty was unmistakable. She’d smiled often that night, and not once had her conversation drifted into the strange lingo that she spoke at school. “I’m making a difference,” Melanie thought as she settled into bed.
The morning of the symphony dawned gray and rainy. Melanie sat up in bed after her alarm sounded. Her throat was scratchy and she ached from her toes to her temples. “Of all the days—the flu,” she mumbled. “I’ll feel better later on.”
But that wasn’t the case. Once she arrived at school her condition took a turn for the worse and not because of the flu. As the morning classes wore on, there was no trace of Arlene.
Where was she?
During breaks Melanie searched the hallways. At lunch, she didn’t eat, but looked for her friend. The end of the school day came. No Arlene and no hope. Melanie’s throat crackled and her forehead burned. Where was Arlene? She drove home and plopped on her bed. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.
“Melanie,” a voice said softly. “You need to get up. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Melanie said, though she wasn’t really sure. “I need to get going.” She was soon in the apartment’s parking lot. Melanie trudged upstairs to Arlene’s apartment. The drapes were open a little. She peered in. There was nothing. No chairs, no table, no couch. Nothing.
Car doors shut and Melanie heard Terry talking to Craig. In the dim light she could see the surprised look on Craig’s face as he neared the apartment.
“Melanie?”
“Craig … I don’t know how to explain … Arlene is gone, moved, I think. I don’t know why,” Melanie said softly. “Maybe I was too pushy. I’m sorry, Terry.”
Craig squeezed her hand. “You don’t want to hear this, but you look awful. I’m worried about you. It’s okay. Go home and get some rest.”
“Your tickets will be wasted,” Melanie moaned.
“Hey, you don’t think a couple of guys like Terry and me can get another date on short notice?” Craig said. Then, turning to Terry, he said, “My mom’s not busy. How about yours?”
Craig and Terry escorted Melanie to her car. “Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.
“Count on it,” Craig said.
Melanie’s night was a long one. She’d drift off to sleep, then bolt awake, a sense of betrayal in her mind. Why hadn’t there been a call? A note? Melanie didn’t understand Arlene. She had looked so pretty two nights before. And Melanie had glimpsed a good, sensitive person beneath a carefully constructed facade.
When the alarm clock aroused Melanie, she felt tired, but the fever had subsided. She hurt, but it was no longer because of the flu. Bleary-eyed and with a heart that still stung, she prepared for school.
Mrs. Foreman adjusted her glasses and looked solemnly across the room. “I trust that you have all finished Macbeth. Let’s start with act 5.” She cleared her throat and read:
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Mrs. Foreman scanned the class for a victim. “Your thoughts, Miss Brannon.”
Melanie wearily rose.
“Macbeth has just learned of the queen’s death,” she began haltingly. “He may also be pondering his own uncertain fate. He concludes that life is without lasting meaning and filled with hollow relationships.”
Mrs. Foreman walked slowly towards Melanie. “Continue, Miss Brannon, with your own thoughts on the subject.”
Melanie exhaled slowly. “My own view—I think Macbeth is wrong.” She closed her eyes and remembered Arlene’s words about not understanding someone yet loving that person nonetheless. “The purpose of life is to find joy and that comes by caring for others and serving them, even if you don’t always know why. You have to do it unconditionally. Life is much more than an hour on stage, much, much more.”
“You’ve given thought to the subject? Are you sure of your statement? It’s so simple,” Mrs. Foreman challenged.
“Yes, I am sure, Mrs. Foreman.”
Mrs. Foreman whirled around and marched back to her desk. She stood imposingly, weighing Melanie’s words. Then her features seemed to soften. “I agree with you. Life must be filled with unconditional service to have great meaning. It’s a lesson that I can’t teach you from a textbook. You seem to have picked it up on your own, Melanie. Thank you.”
Saturday afternoon, Melanie was shredding lettuce on the taco line. Tommy came out of his office. “Call for you, Mel. Sounds long distance.”
Melanie rushed into Tommy’s office. “Hello!”
“It’s me!” came the familiar squeaky voice.
“Arlene! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m in New Mexico. Dad found a place he liked on his last trip, and you know how he is. Backed his truck up to our apartment and we loaded everything in. He found a job dispatching down here. He’s going to sell the truck. No more hauling. He says we can stay here a long time. I think this is home.”
“I’m so happy for you, Arlene.”
“I tried calling you before we left. The line was busy. Four times. Please don’t be unhappy with me. I feel bad about the symphony.”
“Don’t worry. The guys were great.”
“I’ll get the skirt and sweater back to you.”
“Forget it—they’re yours. You’ll need something to wear to church.”
“Melanie—I’ve thought about what you said. That you are a true individual by what you do with your life, not how you dress. I think I have the confidence now to change for the better.”
“Everyone has to choose their own path,” Melanie encouraged. “It sounds like you’re starting on a good one.”
“Please write. I’ll send you my address. Thanks, Melanie. You are a true friend.”
“And you, Arlene, are a true individual. Maybe we’ve both learned something from each other.”
Melanie hung up. She fairly floated back to the lettuce chopping board.
“Good news?” Tommy asked.
“The best,” Melanie said.

Tommy’s father was among those chosen to leave Garden Grove and go to Council Bluffs to build up a settlement there. It was early June. The rainy season was over, and the tall grass would open up just long enough to let the wagons pass and then close up behind them. When Tommy looked back, there was no sign of where they had been.
Betsy often picked berries along the way, and sometimes her father caught a wild turkey for their supper. It was a happy time. The wagon train finally camped on the banks of the great Missouri River.
The next day they moved up onto the bluff where Tommy could look straight down into the muddy Missouri River.
They could get good spring water near the tall cliff that rose straight up from the riverbed and then leveled off into the flat prairie country. It was here that the great explorers Lewis and Clark held their councils with the Indians. It was they who named it Council Bluffs.
Tommy and his father were assigned to build the ferry. Brigham Young wanted a group of men to cross the river and go to the valley to plow, plant, and build in preparation for the Saints’ arrival.
By the end of June the ferry was completed. Preparations were being made for the men to leave for the West when four United States soldiers rode into camp to talk with the leaders.
At noon Brigham Young called a public meeting and introduced Captain James Allen of the United States Army to the people. Captain Allen stepped forward and spoke. “The United States is at war with Mexico. The President has sent me to recruit five hundred men to join the army and march to California.” He had scarcely finished speaking when everyone started to talk at once.
Then Brigham Young arose and said: “If we want the privilege of going where we can worship God according to the dictates of our conscience, we must raise the battalion. I say that not one of those who enlist will fall at the hands of the nation’s foe. I will do my best to see that their families are cared for. I will feed them whenever I have anything to eat myself. The pay that the five hundred men receive will take their families to the valley. It is right for us to go, and I know you will.”
After Captain Allen left, the council held a meeting. Following this meeting, some of the brethren left for Pisgah to recruit volunteers.
Tommy looked at his father and his father looked at him. Neither spoke, but in his heart Tommy knew what his father was thinking. After a few minutes he stepped forward. The boy knew his father was to be one of the volunteers. Tommy’s mother knew it too, and she leaned over and whispered, “Don’t you think the flag your father gave you in Nauvoo should be flying from a tall pole rather than lying in the bottom of the wagon box?”
Tommy smiled and ran to get the flag. His father helped him hang it from a tall tree that had been stripped of its branches. When the Saints saw it unfurl in the gentle breeze, it was as if they had met an old friend who was dear to their hearts, one that had almost been forgotten. After a moment someone began to sing a patriotic song, and soon everyone was singing.
Tommy thought of his great-grandfather, who had died for his country many years before. When the song ended, Tommy’s father said, “It is good for us to remember we have a country. I pledge myself to honor, sustain, and uphold that country as long as I live.”

A number of years ago, my brother Ron and I went scuba diving in California. After we had finished, we decided to leave our equipment on the beach and go bodysurfing. We were out quite a distance when I looked back toward the beach and saw a woman in the water in full scuba gear drowning. She had walked out into the ocean intending to scuba dive but had unexpectedly stepped off a sandy shelf into water over her head, and she then panicked.

The woman had at her fingertips everything she needed to be safe. She could have dropped her weight belt with a flick of her finger on the quick-release buckle, pressed the button on her inflatable buoyancy vest so she could float, or put her regulator in her mouth so she could breathe underwater.

We quickly swam back to her and pulled her to shore. She was embarrassed and obviously inexperienced. She had been taught the correct principles of how to scuba dive safely but hadn’t applied what she had learned. She was, you could say, living well below her privileges and almost died because of it.

My husband, Jason, has been working in the mining construction industry as a fly-in-fly-out worker for about 12 years. When Jason started this job, I was working full-time, and we had four young children. With Jason’s working away and my working full-time, I struggled to look after the kids, keep the house in order, and get the kids to church on my own.
We discussed if I should continue working or stay home with the kids. I worried about fulfilling my role as a wife and a mother, but I also worried about how leaving work would affect our family. Not knowing what to do, I got down on my knees and I prayed to Heavenly Father, “I actually need help because I can’t do this by myself.”
I decided to step away from work, but the Lord made sure that we were taken care of. So many people came to my aid to help around the house and with the kids. The Lord was always there in my struggles, hastening His angels who strengthened me.

When Mom read Grandma’s letter, my twin brother, Bryce, and I looked at each other with surprise. “How can Grandma take care of a garden?” I asked, reaching for my milk.
“Grandma has always had a garden, Peg,” Mom answered, smiling and pushing the plate of cookies toward us.
“But, before, Grandpa was there to do the hard work,” Bryce pointed out. “Since he died, Grandma’s been alone. She shouldn’t be out working in the garden.” “But Grandma loves having a garden,” Mom said. “I don’t think anybody could talk her out of it.”
“Then we ought to help her,” I said. “Bryce and I could help. We help Dad in the garden all the time.”
“She lives a long way from us—almost 700 miles. We can’t drive there every time she needs help.”
“So what are we going to do?” Bryce asked. “We can’t just let her do it alone.”
Mom thought for a long time. “You can remember her in your prayers. That’s probably all we can do right now. We’ll visit her this summer. You can help then.”
“But that will be after most of the hard work.”
Bryce and I couldn’t stop worrying about Grandma. The summer before, we had spent three weeks with her and Grandpa and had worked with him in the garden. We knew how hard it was to work in the sun hoeing weeds, keeping the ditches clean, and watering every week. When we said our prayers, we always remembered Grandma and her garden, but we still felt there was something else we ought to do.
The next Saturday, Mom sent us to the store for some milk. On our way home, we passed Mrs. Rogers working in her yard. She was on her hands and knees, digging in her flower bed. She greeted us with her usual big smile. “Out running errands?”
We nodded. “Isn’t it too hot for you to be out working, Mrs. Rogers?” Bryce asked.
“It is warm, but someone has to do the work. Since Mr. Rogers had his operation, he hasn’t been able to do much. In a month or so, he should be well enough to help some. But right now there’s work to do, and I’m the only one who can do it.”
Bryce and I started home. “She’s all alone doing that work,” Bryce muttered. “Maybe we should help her out.”
A few minutes later we were back at Mrs. Rogers’ place. “We came to help,” I announced. “What can we do?”
Mrs. Rogers was surprised. “I haven’t ever had young people stop by to help out. What would you like to do?”
“Anything you need. You tell us what to do, and we’ll get it done.”
“Usually, working in a garden or a yard is hard, boring work, but that Saturday Bryce and I had the best time. The sun was hot, the sweat ran down our faces, our backs ached from pulling weeds, and Bryce and I both got blisters. But we had fun working with Mrs. Rogers.
It was late afternoon when we finally quit. She tried to pay us. “No, thank you,” I told her. “We didn’t do this for money. Taking money would ruin everything. We just wanted to help you out.”
Before she let us go, though, she fixed a huge pitcher of ice-cold lemonade and put a pile of soft, chewy brownies on a plate for us. We rested and feasted on the goodies.
For the next three weeks, Bryce and I stopped by Mrs. Rogers’ place often. Sometimes the only thing Mrs. Rogers had for us to do was carry the trash can out to the curb, but we still checked on her. We kept her flower bed and garden weeded, mowed the lawn, and helped trim the shrubs along the front of the house.
“I don’t know what we would have done without your help this summer,” Mr. Rogers said one afternoon as we were getting ready to leave. He had hobbled out into the front yard and sat in a lawn chair. “After my operation, I told Mrs. Rogers that we ought to just forget the garden and yard this year.” He shook his head and smiled. “She wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Usually we’re not crazy about working in the yard and stuff,” Bryce admitted, shrugging, “but this reminds us of working for our grandma.”
That evening as we were finishing dinner, Morn announced, “A letter came from Grandma today.”
“What did she say?” I asked, excited.
“How’s her garden?” Bryce wanted to know.
Mom smiled. “I think your prayers have been answered.”
“How?” I questioned.
“A family down the street from her knew that she needed help, so they decided to make that a family project. At least once a week they go there and lend her a hand.”
Bryce looked across the table at me and grinned. “Maybe we prayed that family over to Grandma’s garden.”
“You could be right,” Mom said, nodding, “and I think that maybe someone someplace else has been praying for their Grandpa and Grandma Rogers. Maybe they prayed the two of you over to Mrs. Rogers’ garden.”
“Is that how Heavenly Father works?” I asked.
Mom smiled. “When he has work to do, he often sends people like the two of you to do it. Doesn’t it make you feel good to know that you could be an answer to a prayer?”
Bryce and I thought about that. “Well, Peg,” Bryce said with a grin, “we’d better get to bed early tonight so that maybe we can help someone else tomorrow.”

President Lee remembered his mother also as being influential in teaching him to listen to the promptings of the spirit.
“Once I was standing in the doorway of our little house watching a great thunderstorm raging in the nearby mountains. The thunder grew closer and closer. Suddenly, and without warning, my mother gave me a vigorous push that sent me sprawling out of the doorway. At that instant, a bolt of lightning came down the chimney of the kitchen stove, out through the open doorway, and split a huge gash from top to bottom in a large tree immediately in front of the house.
“My mother never could explain her split-second decision that saved my life, but it was one of many occasions when my mother followed the promptings of the Spirit.”

For Caitlin Carr of Utah, some of the admonitions in her patriarchal blessing weren’t immediately clear, but later study of her blessing yielded new insights.
“When I received my patriarchal blessing, I was warned about people who would try and sway me from the truth with pleasing talk. I didn’t think much of it; I had a firm belief in the doctrines I’d been taught.
“However, the following year I was confronted with ideas and philosophies that, on the surface, seemed rooted in fairness and love but were not. These messages seemed to be coming from everywhere: the media, school, even close friends. Even though I knew these philosophies were contrary to God’s plan, I found myself wanting to support both these new worldly ideas and the Church. I soon realized that ‘no man can serve two masters’ (Matthew 6:24) and that I shouldn’t rely on the wisdom of men. Heavenly Father resolved my doubts through the scriptures and spoke peace to my mind and heart. As a result, my testimony has been strengthened and I have become more firm in defending that which I know to be true.”

Recently, the Young Women organization of the Wilton Ward, Elk Grove California Stake, decided to join forces with the Relief Society sisters in their ward and learn to crochet items for those in need and for patrons of the Sacramento California Temple.
The project helped the young women develop in three different areas: they learned a new skill, they got to know some of the Relief Society sisters better, and some of them even extended the activity into one of their Personal Progress projects.
“I had a lot of fun learning to crochet with my friends,” said Stephany Mayer. “Since then I’ve been able to make gifts for Relief Society sisters and babies in the ward. I have also learned to make other crochet items like sweaters and tablecloths.”

I have a 12-year-old brother named Carson, and he knows how to save his money. He pays tithing on everything he earns, and the rest goes straight to savings. Our family had been planning on leaving for a vacation at the end of January, and Carson had saved every dime for a year.
At the time the tsunami hit Indonesia last December, we watched the news night after night and saw the death toll mount. We prayed for the people who were suffering. It was hard for us to imagine the damage done by the tsunami when we have never experienced that kind of disaster, but my brother, Carson, brought a lesson about this tragedy close to home.
The Sunday after the tsunami, our bishop said that extra fast offerings for the Asian countries would be greatly appreciated. As soon as we got home from church that day, Carson ran to his room and got the money that he had been saving so carefully. He had saved over $200! He came downstairs, grabbed a tithing slip, and began filling it out. My mom saw what was happening and broke down in tears. Soon the whole family surrounded our 12-year-old brother to watch him give away every nickel of his vacation money to fast offerings. Carson showed us all that the Lord comes first.

May we contrast that for a moment with Brother and Sister Joaquim Aires, a marvelous man and his wife who came to Portugal following the 1974 revolution of Portugal’s colonies in Angola and Mozambique. They had returned to Portugal unknown and with very few possessions. A great blessing occurred in their lives. They opened their door to two young missionaries, who taught them of the restoration of Christ’s church. They received the missionaries, accepted their message, and were baptized.
As is the opportunity for all worthy men in the Church, he received the priesthood—authority to act in the name of our Father in Heaven—and to become a leader in the Church. Brother Aires became President Aires, president of one of the mission districts.
One day I received a telephone call. President Aires was in the hospital in Coimbra, several hours’ travel away. He had suffered a very serious cerebral hemorrhage and was in very critical condition. Another priesthood holder and I made the trip as quickly as possible. As we walked quietly into the hospital room, we found him asleep. My first inclination was not to awaken him. And then I thought he would want to know that we had come. So I reached over and carefully touched his hand. He slowly opened his eyes and then looked at me for a moment, and then the tears came to both of our eyes. He then said in a very weak and soft voice, “I knew you would come. I knew you would come. Would you please give me a blessing.” In his dear, sweet faith, he was asking for a priesthood blessing, the same that is taught of and recorded in the Bible. We read in James 5:14–15: “Is any sick among you? let him call for the elders of the church; and let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord:
“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up.”
As men of the priesthood, it was our privilege to pronounce a blessing on him with power and authority of our Father in Heaven.
As I would meet with the members of the Church from one end of Portugal to the other, the brothers and sisters would ask, “How is Brother Aires? Will you please tell him we love him and we’re praying for him?”
This good man and his wife, who had returned to Portugal almost unknown, now, because of their membership in the Church, had literally thousands who loved them and were concerned about them and remembered him in their prayers.
The prayers of faith were answered. He recovered completely, and he and Sister Aires went on to fulfill a full-time mission together.

Years ago, as a campus stake president, I called a local Tongan brother to serve on the stake high council. "But how can I serve in a university stake?" He protested, "I know very little English. I’ve had no formal education. I will be a laughing stock among all those smart students." This man recited a list of reasons why he couldn’t possibly serve among smart people. I held to my conviction that this appointment was from the Lord. His wife finally said in her own native tongue, "I know my husband. I know his weaknesses. He is a good man and if the Lord wants him to speak in any language, I know he will find a way to do it."

This man did serve in the BYU-Hawaii Stake for several years. For the first few weeks, he was in torment with fears and feelings of inferiority but he took his calling seriously. When he had to speak in his role as high councilor, he prepared with all his might, mind and strength. He practiced in front of his mirror. He memorized and recited and repeated over and over the difficult lines. You can all predict what happened. This brother became one of the most popular speakers in the Stake. He never became fluent in English but he had a humble style and a fervor and wonderfully fresh ways of putting words together. That made him beloved and appreciated. When he stood at the pulpit before all those smart people, they paid rapt attention. He fed the hungry, gave drink to the thirsty and liberated the captive.