Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago a group of men, leaders of Scouts, assembled in the mountains near Sacramento for Wood Badge training. This experience, where men camp out and live as do the Scouts they teach, is a most interesting one. They cook and then eat—burned eggs! They hike the rugged trails which age invariably makes more steep. They sleep on rocky ground. They gaze again at heaven’s galaxies.
This group provided its own reward. After days of being deprived, they feasted on a delicious meal prepared by a professional chef who joined them at the end of their endurance trail. Tired, hungry, a bit bruised after their renewal experience, one asked the chef why he was always smiling and why each year he returned at his own expense to cook the traditional meal for Scouting’s leaders in that area. He placed aside the skillet, wiped his hands on the white apron which graced his rotund figure, and told the men this experience. Dimitrious began:
“I was born and grew to boyhood in a small village in Greece. My life was a happy one until World War II. Then came the invasion and occupation of my country by the Nazis. The freedom-loving men of the village resented the invaders and engaged in acts of sabotage to show their resentment.
“One night, after the men had destroyed a hydroelectric dam, the villagers celebrated the achievement and then retired to their homes.”
Dimitrious continued: “Very early in the morning, as I lay upon my bed, I was awakened by the noise of many trucks entering the village. I heard the sound of soldiers’ boots, the rap at the door, and the command for every boy and man to assemble at once on the village square. I had time only to slip into my trousers, buckle my belt, and join the others. There, under the glaring lights of a dozen trucks, and before the muzzles of a hundred guns, we stood. The Nazis vented their wrath, told of the destruction of the dam, and announced a drastic penalty: every fifth man or boy was to be summarily shot. A sergeant made the fateful count, and the first group was designated and executed.”
Dimitrious spoke more deliberately to the Scouters as he said: “Then came the row in which I was standing. To my horror, I could see that I would be the final person designated for execution. The soldier stood before me, the angry headlights dimming my vision. He gazed intently at the buckle of my belt. It carried on it the Scout insignia. I had earned the belt buckle as a Boy Scout for knowing the Oath and the Law of Scouting. The tall soldier pointed at the belt buckle, then raised his right hand in the Scout sign. I shall never forget the words he spoke to me: ‘Run, boy, run!’ I ran. I lived. Today I serve Scouting, that boys may still dream dreams and live to fulfill them.” (As told by Peter W. Hummel.)
Dimitrious reached into his pocket and produced that same belt buckle. The emblem of Scouting still shone brightly. Not a word was spoken. Every man wept. A commitment to Scouting was renewed.

When members of one family began to feel unusual contention invading their home, they called a family council to discuss the situation. The father and mother explained to their children what they had observed and asked how each felt about it. The mother and father learned that since their two oldest children had left home—one to be married and one to go to college—an unfair burden of responsibility had been shifted to the two oldest children remaining at home, and they were becoming resentful. By counseling together and listening, the children shared what they were feeling, and a more equitable distribution of responsibility was made, resolving much of the frustration and tension in the home.3

When I was very young, around 7 or 8, I started attending the newly established Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Bouaké, a provincial town in central Ivory Coast. I went there with my brothers, of whom I was the youngest.
It was with joy that I went on Sunday to partake of the sacrament. In Primary we played while learning gospel principles, I enjoyed the treats that were occasionally distributed to us.
One day I heard a talk from a full-time missionary. He gave such a powerful testimony. I had never heard anything like it before. He testified, “I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the one true Church on earth.” He left his mark on my mind forever.
For me, coming with my parents from an evangelical church it was a great change.
These words of the missionary sowed something ineffable in me. I am grateful to this missionary who helped me to strengthen a personal testimony in me. He gave me the strength and desire to serve a full-time mission to share what I have learned and to touch other people’s hearts.

On the first Saturday after Brad Rawlins returned home from his sophomore year of college, he woke up at 5:00 A.M. After his morning prayer, he put on what he used for playing tennis—a pair of gray gym shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt. The shirt was a remnant of his mission that wasn’t good enough to wear to church but also not worn enough to throw away.
After lacing up his tennis shoes, he walked quietly to his parents’ room.
“Dad,” he whispered from the doorway. There was no answer; he walked over to the bed. “Dad?” he said loudly.
“What’s wrong?” his dad asked, sitting quickly up in bed.
“Nothing, dad. It’s just me.”
“What time is it?”
“Five thirteen. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going over to play tennis, or at least hit the ball against the practice wall.”
“You woke me up at 5:00 on a Saturday morning to tell me that?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“What’s there to worry about?”
“I don’t know, dad. Parents are supposed to worry.”
“I never worry about you. You’re the most dependable person I know. How many boys when they are 15 plan their retirement?”
“I like to plan ahead. Did I tell you how my mutual funds did last quarter?”
“Brad, please leave me sleep,” his father groaned, lying back in bed.
Brad turned and padded silently toward the hall. At the door he paused to turn back to his father. “Let.”
“What?” his father snapped.
“Let me sleep, not leave me sleep,” Brad explained.
“What are you saying?”
“Poor grammar, dad. You should watch that.”
After Brad had left the house, his father lay in bed staring at the ceiling. After 15 minutes he woke up his wife.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m worried about Brad.”
“Why? He’s a dependable boy.”
“I know.”
“He works hard. He’s faithful in the Church. How many other boys his age are ward clerks?” she asked.
“But he’s no fun. We’ve raised a 22-year-old, middle-aged son. How on earth is he ever going to talk a girl into marrying him?”
They both lay there staring at the ceiling.
It was a bleak summer morning. The clouds hung in ominous clusters. Brad pulled up to the curb in his small compact car. He heard the steady thump of a ball being hit against the only practice wall on the court. He got out to see who it was.
She wore a blue warm-up suit. Her long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail that swung to the rhythm of her moves as she repeatedly hit the ball against the wall.
He stood behind and to the left of her, fascinated more by the grace she exhibited in her fluid movements than by her tennis skill. Finally the ball hit a metal post on the fence and bounced crazily away from her toward Brad, who picked it up and threw it back to her.
“Are you waiting to use this?” she asked, wiping her brow.
“Yes, but that’s okay,” he said.
“I was waiting for a friend,” she explained, “but I guess he isn’t coming. I’ll let you use this, and I’ll jog home.”
“I play tennis, if you want to practice.”
“That’s called mixed singles, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile.
“I can give references if you’re worried about what kind of person I am. In high school I won a dictionary for a speech contest on good citizenship. I’m a returned Mormon missionary. That’s why I’m wearing this white shirt. In another year it will be worn out.”
“I’m LDS too,” she said. “Third Ward.”
“Really? I’m Second Ward.”
“Can you play tennis?” she asked.
“I’m sure I can beat you,” he replied confidently.
He was not prepared for her serve, which rifled along the line and out before he could get to it.
“Fifteen-love,” she announced dryly.
“That was a nice serve.”
“I know.”
For the first time in his life, he found it hard to concentrate on the game. He found himself entranced by her movements. She tossed the ball vertically upward with her left hand, her right arm moving the racket initially behind her, and then rapidly toward the descending ball, the two meeting in air like some rendezvous. He absorbed everything about her motion—the gliding of her ponytail, the concentration on her tanned face. He was watching her follow-through when he noticed a ball landing near his feet and bouncing away.
“Thirty-love,” she called.
“I’m really better than this,” he tried to explain.
In the next few minutes he managed to bring the game to deuce. In the process he gained a respect for her skill.
The clouds, which had been gathering in the valley, finally spilled over.
“Deuce,” she announced, preparing to serve.
“It’s raining.”
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
“What will?”
“To beat you.”
“I don’t want to get wet.”
“Do you want to concede?” she asked cooly.
“No.”
“Let me serve then.”
By this time the rain was falling heavily. They ran to his car and waited for it to quit.
Away from the court her face lost the cool front reserved for competitors and took on the ability to convey emotion. On this morning the emotion was that of sadness.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Jenny Thomson,” she answered, gazing forlornly out the window at the sheets of rain dancing on the courts.
“You’re really sad about not winning?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that. The guy who was supposed to meet me didn’t come. We’ve been going together for a year. We used to come here every morning and practice. Last night we got into a big argument. I thought he might come this morning and we could work out our problems. But he didn’t come.”
They talked about school, the Church, her interests, his summer job as a computer programmer in a bank.
From out of the rain, a soaked figure of a young man running appeared. He stopped beneath an enclosed picnic area and looked around.
“Craig, over here!” Jenny yelled, suddenly happy.
He ran over to her side of the car. He was obviously an athlete; he wore a red warm-up suit for the university track team.
“Get in or you’ll drown!” Jenny laughed, reaching up to tousle his dripping hair.
Craig climbed into the back seat of the car with difficulty, joking with her about the cramped leg room.
“Hey, kitten, I brought you some breakfast,” he said, bringing a small bag of donuts from a sewn-in pouch of his sweat shirt.
“I don’t usually eat in the car,” Brad said politely.
They were so happy to be together that they didn’t hear Brad. Brad observed the look in Jenny’s eyes when she talked to Craig and suddenly felt very lonely.
Craig reached up and touched her hair and grinned. “Kitten, you look like a witch. Stringy hair. Look at that.”
“I don’t think she looks like a witch,” Brad said.
Jenny turned around to face Craig. “How about you? You look like a fuzzy teddy bear that was left out in the rain!”
She turned back to the front. The car was so small that it was difficult for them to face each other when they talked.
“If you want to give me the donut sack, I have a place for litter,” Brad remarked, knowing that they probably wouldn’t hear.
“I was hoping you’d come and that we could talk,” Jenny said.
“Kitten, I need to see your face when we talk.”
Brad got out of the driver’s seat and jumped in the back, while Craig ran around to the driver’s seat.
Brad picked up the empty bag in the back and put some of the crumbs on the floor into it. He found that one of the chocolate iced donuts had spotted the upholstery.
Craig reached out and grabbed both her hands. “What we’ve got is too good to just throw away.”
“If we’re going to marry, it will be in the temple. If it’s in the temple, you’ll need a recommend. If you want a recommend, you’ve got to attend church.”
“I know, and I will.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a tournament.”
“Next Sunday?”
“I promised my brother I’d take him waterskiing.”
“When?”
“During the summer it’s hard to work everything in.”
“Say, Jenny,” Brad asked, “I’ve got a spray can of cleaner and a cloth in the glove compartment. Could you get it for me?”
Jenny released Craig’s hands and retrieved the cleaner and rag for Brad.
“Craig,” she said, “it’s always going to be that way. In the fall it’s football, and during the winter it’s skiing. When are you going to take things seriously?”
“Kitten, don’t you love me?”
“Sometimes it takes more than love,” she replied.
“What else is there?” Craig asked, putting his arms around Jenny.
Meanwhile, Brad sprayed the foam on the chocolate spot.
“There’s nothing more than love, kitten. Look, a man has got to live his life the way he sees best. Sitting for three hours on a hard bench is not my idea of excitement.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work out, Craig. Maybe we should call it quits now.”
He pursed his lips and looked at her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Okay, kitten. It’s your decision. Good luck. I’ll see you on the courts.”
Then he was gone, running out into the rain.
She sat very still and watched him go, the red of his jogging suit fading into the dreary morning.
After a few minutes, the tears came.
“I keep tissues in the glove compartment,” Brad said. He got out of the back seat and slipped into the front. He sat and awkwardly studied the steering wheel while she sobbed. There were a hundred thoughts running through his mind, but nothing seemed appropriate.
As time passed silently, he determined he must say something. “Breaking up is so hard to do,” he said, recalling the lyrics of a song.
He continued. “Life is full of troubles. But just as the rain today will go away, leaving the sun to shine, subsequently the flowers to grow, giving happiness to children who view the flowers but forget the rain that begat them, so also is life.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, a smile forming.
“I have no idea. I heard it on TV once. I hoped it would apply to this situation.”
She quit crying and entered the silent brooding stage. Finally she said, “I think I got some chocolate on your seat covers. I’m sorry.”
Brad came to life, overjoyed at something to talk about. “Don’t worry!” he said, reaching back to get the cleaner and rag. He found the spot in the middle of the front seat. “Watch this. You’re really going to get a kick out of this.” He sprayed a white, thick foam on the spot. “Watch those tiny bubbles go. Look, bend down and listen. Do you hear them?” She bent down, her head next to his as they intently watched the foaming action. When it quit foaming, he wiped it up and the spot was gone.
“How about that! It does that every time!” Brad announced triumphantly.
He gave her a ride home. Jenny invited him into her house to meet her mother. She explained that her father had died over a year ago.
It was a small, white frame house with picket fence in front and a large backyard with a garden and fruit trees.
Her mother came out from the kitchen to meet him. She was a short, rounding woman with a dab of flour on her cheek.
“Do I smell bread baking?” he asked.
“Saturday is my day to bake. Would you like a piece? I just took some out of the oven.”
Brad and Jenny sat around the kitchen table and had a thick slice of hot wheat bread dripping with butter and honey.
“This is very good,” Brad said enthusiastically. “I bet this wheat was ground today, right? I could tell. It’s very moist, too. What’s your secret?”
Jenny excused herself so she could change clothes.
“I take a cup of raisins, put it in the blender, and then add it to my recipe. You can’t really taste it but it does make the bread moist.”
“It’s very good. One thing I’ve always said is that my wife is going to learn how to bake bread.”
“Jenny said she’s going to learn this summer.”
They both stopped at the same time, aware of their hidden thoughts.
Brad stayed there the whole day, helping Jenny and her mother with the garden, mowing the lawn for them. At supper time the three of them had a picnic in the backyard.
When he left, she walked him to the car.
“My mother likes you,” she said.
“I am greatly appreciated by the mothers of the girls I date. What are you doing next Saturday?”
“I’ve got a tennis tournament. Why don’t you enter?”
The tournament was an all-day affair. When it was over, Jenny had won the women’s singles and Craig the men’s singles. That night Brad took her out.
“And what have you planned for humble, unobtrusive, feminine me tonight?” she asked as they walked to the car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My mother figures I’m challenging your masculinity by doing better than you today. She doesn’t want you to get away. What are we going to do to celebrate my victory?”
“We could go to the movies?” he replied.
“That’s not the most original idea I’ve ever heard.”
“You don’t want to go to the movies?”
“Whither thou goest, I will go. On my mother’s orders.”
“I’m willing to listen to your suggestions,” Brad said, opening the door for her. “If you don’t want to go to the movies, what do you want to do?”
She mimicked a movie star. “Take me to a nice quiet place. I want to be alone with you.”
“You’re not serious?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your faith in me is underwhelming. I’ll show you where I want you to take me.”
He followed her directions. When he pulled up the drive where she had directed him, he said, “It’s a cemetery.”
She grabbed her neck with both hands as if choking herself. “Aaargh! There’s something moving in the bushes.”
He parked the car, and she led him hand in hand past the rows of marble markers to her father’s grave. “Dad,” she said as if introducing someone, “this is my friend, Brad. He’s good with computers, fair in tennis, a returned missionary, and probably the most decent guy I’ve ever met. Say something to dad, Brad.”
“Jenny, he’s not here.”
“I know, but I come here sometimes to remember. You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”
Brad looked down at the marble slab. “Sir, your daughter is taking good care of your roses.”
They sat down on the lawn. She talked to him about her father—all the little girl stories of a daughter who loved her daddy. Then they walked back to the car.
It was a warm night, and the smell of flowers was rich. He reached out and said simply, “I forgot to tell him that I love his daughter.”
“Brad, I’m not ready for this.”
“I want to marry you—in the temple.”
“No, it’s too soon.”
“When you broke up with Craig, you told him you wanted someone who was faithful in the Church. That’s me.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense. I’m not completely over Craig I guess. Craig was like fireworks. You’re more like a comfortable fire on a snowy evening. A relationship needs some excitement, some brass bands. I’m still hung up on the dream of Prince Charming who will come and take me away to his castle.”
“Jenny, life isn’t that way. If the prince takes you away forever, then he’s got to arrange for your luggage. So he trades his white charger for a work horse and a cart. And if he’s been in a suit of armor all day in the summer, you’ll have some shirts to wash.”
“I guess it boils down to the fact that I’m not in love with you. I should be, Brad, but I’m not.”
“Please try. Okay?”
“Okay. My mother is going to kill me if I mess this up.”
They spent much of their summer together. Brad took a new interest in after-shave lotions, certain brands of toothpaste, but nothing seemed to change between them.
It finally happened on a hot August day. Brad had worked during the morning, but he met Jenny for lunch downtown. After lunch they went to a jewelry store to look for a gift for a friend of Jenny’s who was getting married.
“What would you suggest I get her?” she asked Brad as they browsed among the expensive items.
“Some bread pans.”
“For a wedding gift?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“You’re really hung up on homemade bread.”
“I just think it’s important for families to learn to live sensibly.”
“Well, you’re very sensible,” she replied cooly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A marriage has got to be more than two people grinding wheat together. Don’t you ever do anything for fun? Have you ever taken a bunch of pitted olives, put one on every finger, and then sucked them off one by one?”
“No.”
“Not in your entire life? I think that’s incredible.”
“Is it too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?” he asked, his voice taking on an edge to it.
“It wouldn’t stop there with you! You’d want me to learn to make pickles, too! Well, aren’t I right?”
“Homemade pickles are nice,” he reflected.
“I knew it.”
“Jenny, you’re not going to get me to argue. I’m not going down to your level. I’m above that. I can control my temper!”
“Then quit shouting,” she said.
“I’m not shouting. We’ll just ask an impartial observer a simple question. I’ll go ask that man over there.”
He walked over to a distinguished man looking at some diamond bracelets. “Excuse me. Could you answer a simple question we have? Do you think it’s too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?”
Jenny stood on the man’s other side. “No,” she snapped, “that’s not the question we want to ask. The real question is, do you want me to be something I am not?”
The man stared at Brad on one side, at Jenny on his other side, and then quickly turned, bumping into Brad as he fled from the store.
“It’s all your fault,” Brad said self-righteously. “You offended him.”
Jenny ran out of the store. Brad followed her as she hurried along the sidewalk filled with the busy lunch-hour crowd.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going home.”
“You can’t walk home. It’s five miles. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“No you won’t. And quit following me!”
“I’m not following you. I’m walking beside you.”
They continued this way for a block.
“Don’t you ever sweat?” she asked sharply. “It’s 97 degrees out, and you’re wearing a suit.”
“It’s a summer suit. Besides, I perspire as much as anyone.”
“Not you. You’re perfect.”
He yanked off his suit coat. “Look,” he said, pointing to a damp part of his shirt, “do you know what that is? It’s perspiration!”
“You can’t even say the word sweat,” she accused.
“That’s gross.”
“See what I mean?”
“Okay, Jenny, you asked for this!” Brad shouted. “SWEAT!” Curious shoppers looked up from the store windows as Brad and Jenny rushed by.
“It doesn’t matter to me now,” Jenny said curtly.
“Does that mean you won’t marry me?”
“Of course that’s what it means. I’ve got to be me. That’s all I can be. We’ve both tried to fit into each other’s mold, and it won’t work.”
They walked silently for the next three blocks.
Finally Brad broke the terrible silence. “Do you want a mint? I saved them when I went to my cousin’s reception last week. They’re still good.”
When Brad reached into his suit coat, he found a diamond bracelet.
“Jenny, why did you do this to me?” he asked with a pained expression.
“I didn’t eat any of your precious mints.”
“There’s a bracelet in my suit coat.”
“I didn’t put it there.”
“Do you know what they’re going to do to me if they catch me with this?” he asked.
“I think it’s ten to twenty years. Maybe less for a first offense. Brad, I’m going to ask you a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”
“What’s the question?”
“How did this urge to steal develop? Maybe it started with candy when you were a kid. But now it’s out of control, isn’t it?”
“Jenny, I’m an Eagle Scout. What’ll I do? I can’t think, Jenny. You’ve got to help me.”
“Turn yourself in. It’ll go easier for you. At least that’s what they always say on TV.”
“When this hits the papers, they’ll release me as ward clerk, won’t they? Just when I got the membership records up-to-date.”
“Wait a minute!” Jenny said sharply. “That guy we were talking to! When he bumped into you, he must have slipped the bracelet into your pocket. He’s the thief. He must have been worried about the cops. This way, if the cops nab him, he’s clean. But if, on the other hand, he gets out okay, then he comes looking for us. If I turn around, he’ll probably be following us. He might even kill us for the bracelet.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Brad said.
“I’m going to drop a mint when you hand it to me. When I pick it up, I’ll turn backwards to see.”
When she stood up again, and they began walking, she was strangely silent.
“What’s wrong?”
“There are two men following us,” she gasped. “Please, let me scream.”
“No, if you scream, they will know that we know about the bracelet. We’ve got to work out a plan.”
“Brad, if we don’t get out of this, I want you to know that suddenly I realize that I’m in love with you. You’re so brave, so cool, so dependable in a crisis. You won’t let them kill me, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“That’s all I get, just a college try?”
“I’m sorry. Of course I won’t let them kill you.”
They continued walking, Brad thinking and Jenny holding tightly to his arm.
“They think the bracelet is in my suit coat, right? Suppose we act like we’re very hot, and I put my suit coat on the ground while we get a drink at the park. They’ll go for the suit coat, and we’ll make a dash for it.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Great thinking, Brad.”
They entered the walkway into a neighborhood park. “No, it won’t work,” she said.
“Why not?”
“If the cops come, we’re accomplices. You’ve got to slip the bracelet out of the suit and take it back with us to the jewelry store.”
Brad took out the bracelet with the next mint and gave it to Jenny. They sat down on a park bench. Taking off their shoes and leaving the coat on the bench, they entered a children’s wading pool where four children were playing in the water.
She splashed him.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, his shirt dripping.
“Just for effect,” she said. “We’re supposed to be very hot; we’re cooling off here.”
“Oh, right.” He reached down and scooped up an armful of water, soaking her face and hair.
They edged over to the opposite end of the circular pool where two boys were folding newspapers on the lawn.
“Hey,” Brad whispered, “we need to borrow your bikes.”
“You’re crazy,” one of the boys answered.
“It’s no use,” Brad said to Jenny.
Jenny looked at the oldest boy. “Please, if you don’t help us, we’re going to be killed. Trust me, won’t you?”
“Okay,” the boy said.
They jumped out of the pool, grabbed the bikes, and began peddling barefoot along the lawn toward the street. The two burly men who had been following them raced to the suit coat. Finding nothing in the pockets except a mint, they ran after the two.
“We’re going to make it, Jenny,” Brad said, looking back at the two men gasping after them a half block back.
“Brad, I’ll learn to make wheat bread.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to change you. Not really. I need you just the way you are, Jenny.”
They reached the jewelry store two blocks ahead of the men. Parking their bikes, they ran inside.
A lady clerk came over quickly. “You don’t have any shoes on, and you’re both soaked. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Simon, I’ll talk to them.” A large, bald man came out of the back room.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We were here a while ago,” Brad explained. “We got in an argument about baking bread and Jenny said I was trying to change her, which I don’t really want to do at all, and we asked a man, but he was a crook, and then he left, and then Jenny left because she was mad and …”
“What he’s trying to say,” Jenny interrupted, “is that this bracelet is hot.” She took the bracelet from her pocket and placed it on the counter.
The man picked it up and felt it. “It certainly is. How hot is it out there today anyway?”
“No, what she means,” Brad began—
“I know what she means,” the man said. “You see, I’m a plainclothesman.”
“Maybe so, but I like your tie,” Brad said.
“No, Brad,” Jenny said. “What he means is that he’s a cop.”
“You mean a policeman?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Compton.”
“Don’t throw us in jail. We can explain,” Brad said.
“I know,” the detective said. “When we caught our thief, he didn’t have the bracelet on him. We figured you were either accomplices or being innocently used. I sent two men to follow you.”
“Well, lieutenant, I guess this about wraps it up,” Brad said, with a sudden bravado.
“Not quite,” Jenny said.
“What else?” the detective asked.
“An engagement ring.”
“There was no engagement ring, just a bracelet,” Brad said.
“For me, Brad, for me.”

One Sunday a few years ago, when I was serving as an Area Seventy, the local mission president and I traveled together to conduct meetings with several different groups. As we approached the final meeting, we were both tired. We had already driven more than 300 miles (480 km) and had spoken several times. We began the meeting and started down the same list we had covered in the other meetings.

But as we spoke, something wonderful happened. The Spirit intensified, and the teaching and learning moved to a new level that continued through the entire meeting. We later remarked to each other, “That was wonderful. That was the best meeting of the day!”

What made the difference? It wasn’t anything we did. We hadn’t suddenly become more brilliant or eloquent or spiritual. In fact, if anything, we were somewhat worn by the activities of the day. The topics we covered were the same topics covered in the other meetings.

As we talked about it, we came to realize that the people who attended that last meeting were more humble and spiritually prepared. As a result, they were more open and hungry for the word, and the Lord was able to use us more effectively as a conduit to bless their lives. The success of that meeting was much more about them than about us.

When a new dean was chosen to fill the post I had occupied here at BYU, I was anxious for the future of that division. For a quarter of a century I had prayed and worked with this stepchild of the University—the Extension Division of Continuing Education. The Lord poured out his blessings upon it over the years to make it one of the most respected extension programs among the institutions of higher learning in this country. There were several promising young men as candidates for the deanship. We could have honestly recommended several. In the office of the new and young president of Brigham Young University we discussed the choice. Then I heard President Oaks say, “This is a most important decision. I think we should kneel in prayer and ask the Lord for guidance.” I knelt down with him and another Ph.D., Vice-President Thomas. The prayer was simple and direct. He asked for light and discernment in whatever course of action we were about to take. And when we arose, I knew by the manifestations of the Spirit that the Lord would not fail us. I didn’t see the name of the next dean written on the wall, but I felt good about whatever might be done. I knew that we would not make a bad choice. And isn’t this feeling the most important blessing that God could give anyone? When President Oaks mentioned a name, we all agreed. And there was a good spirit present.

Now I’m just simple enough to believe that the Lord will stand by that feeling which he gives us. The new dean may stay a short or a long time. The blessings we ask for come in unexpected ways, but if the will of the Lord is done what is there to fear?

Grant Morrell Bowen was a hardworking, devoted husband and father who, like many who made their living on the land, had an economic downturn when the local potato crop was poor. He and his wife, Norma, took other employment, eventually moved to another city, and started their climb back to economic stability. However, in a terribly unfortunate incident, Brother Bowen was deeply hurt when, in a temple recommend interview, the bishop was a little skeptical regarding Morrell’s declaration that he was a full-tithe payer.
I don’t know which of these men had the more accurate facts that day, but I do know Sister Bowen walked out of that interview with her temple recommend renewed, while Brother Bowen walked out with an anger that would take him away from the Church for 15 years.
Regardless of who was right about the tithing, evidently both Morrell and the bishop forgot the Savior’s injunction to “agree with thine adversary quickly”2 and Paul’s counsel to “let not the sun go down upon your wrath.”3 The fact is they didn’t agree and the sun did go down on Brother Bowen’s wrath for days, then weeks, then years, proving the point made by one of the wisest of the ancient Romans, who said, “Anger, if not restrained, is frequently more [destructive] than the injury that provokes it.”4 But the miracle of reconciliation is always available to us, and out of love for his family and the Church he knew to be true, Morrell Bowen came back into full Church activity. Let me tell you briefly how that happened.
Brother Bowen’s son Brad is a good friend of ours and a devoted Area Seventy serving in southern Idaho. Brad was 11 years old at the time of this incident, and for 15 years he watched his father’s religious devotion decline, a witness to the terrible harvest being reaped where anger and misunderstanding had been sown. Something needed to be done. So as the Thanksgiving holiday approached in 1977, Brad, a 26-year-old student at Brigham Young University; his wife, Valerie; and new baby son, Mic, loaded into their student version of an automobile and, bad weather notwithstanding, drove to Billings, Montana. Not even a crash into a snowbank near West Yellowstone could keep this threesome from making their ministering contact with Brother Bowen Sr.
Upon arrival, Brad and his sister Pam asked for a private moment with their father. “You have been a wonderful dad,” Brad began with some emotion, “and we have always known how much you loved us. But something is wrong, and it has been for a long time. Because you were hurt once, this whole family has been hurting for years. We are broken, and you are the only one who can fix us. Please, please, after all this time, can you find it in your heart to lay aside that unfortunate incident with that bishop and again lead this family in the gospel as you once did?”
There was dead silence. Then Brother Bowen looked up at these two, his children, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,5 and said very quietly, “Yes. Yes, I will.”
Thrilled but stunned by the unexpected answer, Brad Bowen and his family watched their husband and father go to his current bishop in a spirit of reconciliation to set things right in his life. In a perfect response to this courageous but totally unexpected visit, the bishop, who had extended repeated invitations to Brother Bowen to come back, threw his arms around Morrell and just held him—held him in a long, long, long embrace.
In a matter of only a few weeks—doesn’t take long—Brother Bowen was fully engaged in Church activity and had made himself worthy to return to the temple. Soon enough he accepted the call to preside over a struggling little branch of 25 and grew it into a thriving congregation of well over 100. All of this took place nearly half a century ago, but the consequence of a son and a daughter’s ministering plea to their own father and that father’s willingness to forgive and move forward in spite of the imperfections of others has brought blessings that are still coming—and will come forever—to the Bowen family.

“Why not just a little?” That was the question David asked after his early-morning seminary teacher had finished an entire lesson about protecting yourself from sin. “I’m not talking about doing anything big,” David continued. “I just want to know why I can’t have a sip of beer—just to taste it and know what it is like. Why not just one cigarette or one night with a girl so my friends will stop bugging me?”
Before the teacher could even start giving him the usual answers, David outguessed him and blurted, “And don’t tell me that alcohol kills your brain cells and that cigarettes cause cancer. Don’t tell me about AIDS.” He didn’t want to hear the typical “scare” stories. David continued, “I know men who used to drink and smoke, and they’re bishops now.”
It was true. David knew many people who had repented and been forgiven of their sins. “So,” he looked directly at his teacher and repeated his original question, “why not just a little?”
By now nearly every young person in the room was nodding and saying, “Yeah, why not?” The seminary teacher knew he had to say something—quickly. He swallowed hard, said a silent prayer, and offered, “Try looking at it like this: Isn’t the Holy Ghost a member of the Godhead?”
“Yes,” answered David, “but what does that have to do with anything?”
The teacher explained, “Well, ‘no unclean thing can dwell with God’ (1 Ne. 10:21; Mosiah 2:36–38). Maybe that’s why we must be baptized—completely cleaned—before we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 68:25; D&C 84:64).
The room was quiet. Despite the fact they had already sat through one lesson that day, David and his friends were listening to their teacher. “In scriptures we are told that the Spirit won’t always strive with men (see Gen. 6:3; Ether 15:19; D&C 1:33).
“The immediate consequence of any sin is withdrawal of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. So one cigarette may not be enough to give you cancer, but it is enough to alienate you from the Spirit. One can of beer may not make you an alcoholic and leave you homeless, but it is enough to leave you without the Spirit. The same thing for a premarital sexual experience.”
Most of the class was agreeing with their teacher now, but David still wasn’t completely convinced. He said, “So the Spirit leaves. So what?”
Class time was over. The students needed to go to school. “Let’s pick this discussion up tomorrow,” said the teacher, and they did. Over the next few days the class studied the fruits of the Spirit. What David had not considered was that when we lose the Spirit we automatically lose some other things as well.
The seminary class was glad David had asked, “Why not just a little?” In the course of their discussions and study, David and his friends had come to some important conclusions. One student summed it up like this: “Why not just a little sin? Well, why not just a little touch on the burner of a hot stove? Sure, you may heal in the long run, but not without going through a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering.”

Like you, I have felt what King Benjamin meant when he said that we could become like a little child before God. I have prayed, as you have, to know what to do when choices that I faced would have eternal consequences. Over many years I have seen a recurring pattern in the times when the answers to such a prayer have come most clearly.
Once, for instance, I prayed through the night to know what I was to choose to do in the morning. I knew that no other choice could have had a greater effect on the lives of others and on my own. I knew what choice looked most comfortable to me. I knew what outcome I wanted. But I could not see the future. I could not see which choice would lead to which outcome. So the risk of being wrong seemed too great to me.
I prayed, but for hours there seemed to be no answer. Just before dawn, a feeling came over me. More than at any time since I had been a child, I felt like one. My heart and my mind seemed to grow very quiet. There was a peace in that inner stillness.
Somewhat to my surprise, I found myself praying, “Heavenly Father, it doesn’t matter what I want. I don’t care anymore what I want. I only want that Thy will be done. That is all that I want. Please tell me what to do.”
In that moment I felt as quiet inside as I had ever felt. And the message came, and I was sure who it was from. It was clear what I was to do. I received no promise of the outcome. There was only the assurance that I was a child who had been told what path led to whatever He wanted for me.
I learned from that experience and countless repetitions that the description of the Holy Ghost as a still, small voice is real. It is poetic, but it is not poetry. Only when my heart has been still and quiet, in submission like a little child, has the Spirit been clearly audible to my heart and mind.

Robert Blatchford, in his book God and My Neighbor, attacked with vigor accepted Christian beliefs, such as God, Christ, prayer, and immortality. He boldly asserted, “I claim to have proved everything I set out to prove so fully and decisively that no Christian, however great or able he may be, can answer my arguments or shake my case.” He surrounded himself with a wall of skepticism. Then a surprising thing happened. His wall suddenly crumbled to dust. He was left exposed and undefended. Slowly he began to feel his way back to the faith he had scorned and ridiculed. What had caused this profound change in his outlook? His wife died. With a broken heart, he went into the room where lay all that was mortal of her. He looked again at the face he loved so well. Coming out, he said to a friend: “It is she, and yet it is not she. Everything is changed. Something that was there before is taken away. She is not the same. What can be gone if it be not the soul?”

Later he wrote: “Death is not what some people imagine. It is only like going into another room. In that other room we shall find … the dear women and men and the sweet children we have loved and lost.”

Spencer W. Kimball worked hard as a child. At haying time, he stood atop the hay wagon and tromped down the load as his older brothers, Gordon and Del, pitchforked more up to him.
Sometimes they teased him by throwing two huge forkfuls at almost the same time. The first would knock him down, and the second would bury him.
Spencer: Hey!
Gordon: You’re right. It is hay.
Spencer loved Primary, which was held on weekdays at that time. One hot Monday morning, he heard the bell that rang a half hour before Primary.
Spencer: I have to go to Primary.
His brothers thought that he was only trying to get out of work.
Gordon: You’re not going anywhere.
Spencer: If Pa were here, he’d let me go.
Del: Well, Pa is not here, and you’re not going.
They kept pitching hay up until a large pile formed. When Spencer didn’t appear to tromp the hay down, they became worried.
Gordon: What’s the matter with you up there?
Spencer didn’t answer. They looked off across the field and saw their little brother halfway to the meetinghouse, running as fast as he could.
All his life Spencer W. Kimball faithfully attended every meeting he was able to attend. As an Apostle and as President of the Church, he scheduled thousands of meetings with members, leaders, and missionaries all around the world and he announced many temples to be built. He worked from early morning to evening. Even among other hard-working General Authorities, he was known as an incredibly hard worker.
If you’d like to learn more about President Spencer W. Kimball, do the “President Spencer W. Kimball Crossword” on page 26.

Imagine a young man who is home alone and is getting hungry (it’s far-fetched, yes, but just try to imagine it). Now imagine that this young man decides to try to make a grilled cheese sandwich on his own for the first time.1 Imagine that this young man’s parents had never taught him how to make grilled cheese and that he had never observed them very closely when they made it.

Let’s say, though, that this young man gets all of the ingredients just right: bread, cheese, a little butter on the outside of the bread (and a little mayonnaise inside because he’s brilliant). Next, he gets out the pan and puts it on the stove. (We’re also imagining he doesn’t have a special griddle or other appliance for making this treat.)

Now imagine that a certain thought takes hold of his mind—a thought that so many people have been ignorant enough (or temporarily insane enough) to think: “If I turn the heat up high, it’ll be done faster.”

Imagine what happens next. (Or perhaps you don’t have to imagine.)

He’s going to get either perfectly crispy, golden-brown bread or perfectly gooey, melted cheese—but not both. Most likely, he’ll have bread that looks and feels (and probably tastes) like lava rock and half-melted cheese, which is about as appealing as half-told tales.

His problem, as you can see, was a combination of ignorance (which is excusable) and impatience (which, though understandable, is less excusable). If he were to repeat this mistake the next time, it would be even less excusable, since it couldn’t be blamed on ignorance but would result almost entirely from impatience.

To get it right, he would have to discover the miracle of medium heat.

The medium setting on a stove is perfect for grilled cheese and many other dishes because it allows food to be cooked through without being overdone on the outside. The only downside is that it requires more time and attention, which require patience.

My dad, my brother, and I were hired to clean an apartment. While we were cleaning, I found a video game. I was excited because I had just gotten a new video game player. I took the game home with me. Later that night my dad’s friend came over, and I told him about the game I found. He warned me that it showed bad pictures. I got the game, broke it in half, and threw it away because President Gordon B. Hinckley has told us not to listen to or watch these things. I felt the Holy Ghost, and I knew I had done the right thing.

One of my beloved uncles went on a mission in 1912–14 to an enlightened nation in Europe. He found great satisfaction and fulfillment in being part of the great missionary activity and in his involvement with the Saints. After his mission he remained very loyal to the Church but became somewhat inactive because he had a Word of Wisdom problem. My brothers and I used to thrill in hearing him tell about his mission. He would tell us by the hour about his mission president, his companions, the Saints, the country, and its culture. His mission was, in many ways, the highwater mark of his life. He was thrilled when we went on our missions. He treasured missionary experience; it became the destination of his life rather than a journey.

Recently I met a woman who had spent the last four years in jail. As a young adult she listened to the philosophies of the world and convinced herself that she could exercise all the options offered. Yet as time passed, she eventually lost the power to choose for herself. Only when she became humble and trusted in God’s ability to heal her was she then able to walk away from the enticements of the world and rid her life of the damaging behaviors and attitudes she had adopted. Now she is filled with faith, confident in the Lord’s ability to help her fulfill her divine potential. She has a world of possibilities open to her and rejoices in her freedom to make those choices that will lead her back to her heavenly home.

I was born in Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea, the third child in my family. Ours was a poor family. During my childhood, Christmas and birthdays were not the happy occasions that many children remember as they grow up. In fact, it was at these times that we were the most unhappy, knowing and seeing how other children were given gifts and treats.
We were poor for the most part because my father spent his small paycheck drinking on weekends. We were always hungry. When my mother tried to make Father see how we were suffering, he would become violently angry and would strike her until she was hurt and sobbing. How hard she tried to defend us children and care for us!
Christmases came and went. It was always the same for us. There was no money for presents and goodies. My sister and I would wake early on Christmas morning to the shouts of excitement from the neighborhood children who had found Christmas presents waiting for them.
Sometimes we children went off to the city dump to find something we could use or play with to comfort us. I longed for something new and shiny, a special gift meant just for me at Christmas.
One Sunday, my little sister returned home from a new church where she had gone with her cousin several times. She brought with her a missionary couple to meet the family. Elder and Sister Call were so very kind and humble. They began to teach us about the gospel of Jesus Christ and his true church. After hearing the discussions and praying much for the Spirit to guide us, we agreed to be baptized.
Our lives began to change spiritually, but financially we were still poor. So my childish longing for a real Christmas with presents meant just for me never materialized.
However, because of our conversion, my father changed and gave up his bad habits. He quit drinking, smoking, and leaving his family hungry on weekends. I was so happy and wanted to tell my father that I loved him, but I was afraid to. I also wished my father would express his love for me. I never heard him say how he felt about me as I was growing up.
Then I was called to serve in the Micronesia Guam Mission. While I was in the mission field, I received a letter from my father. He said, “Son, you have made me a very happy man serving on your mission.” At the end of the letter, he wrote, “Son, I love you. Keep up the good work of the Lord.”
My eyes filled with tears of joy. It was the first time he had ever said those words to me. I replied to my father’s letter and returned a gift to him. I said, “Dad, I love you too!”
Now I am home from my mission, and my father has served as branch president. As I look back, I realize that I have been blessed with some very special gifts—not the ones that children open at Christmastime, but gifts that are forever and can be cherished each day of my life.

The light shining in your faces comes from the Lord. This same light led the way for 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister, Caroline, on a dark day in Independence, Missouri.
It was 1833, and an angry mob roared through the streets of Independence, wreaking havoc. In their path was the home of Brother William W. Phelps, where the printing press was kept. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. The mob demolished the printing press and threw the wreckage into the street. However, they stacked up the printed pages in the yard so they could burn them later.
Mary Elizabeth and Caroline had been hiding by the fence, frightened spectators to all this destruction. Even though Mary Elizabeth was terrified, her eye was fixed on those precious pages. She and her sister ran out from their hiding place, gathered up the scriptures, and bolted. Some members of the mob saw them and ordered them to stop. But the brave girls ran into a large cornfield, where they dropped breathlessly to the ground. They carefully laid the pages of revelations between the tall rows of corn and then covered the pages by lying on them. The mobsters looked and looked for the girls, coming quite close at times, but never did find them. Eventually they gave up their search.
I believe the light of the Lord directed Mary Elizabeth and Caroline as to what to do and where to go for safety. That light shines for you, and it will guide you as it did the Rollins girls. It will keep you safe even when danger lurks.

My wife, Ruby, and I recently celebrated our sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. We were married in the Salt Lake Temple on September 4, 1930. The next morning we went up to see her mother on M Street in Salt Lake City to bid her good-bye. And as part of those tender moments, she fixed a little basket for us to put in the car. She said to me, “David, promise me that you’ll take good care of Ruby.” And I said, “I promise.” I remind Ruby periodically that someday I’m going to meet her mother, and I hope I will be able to look her straight in the eye and say, “I think maybe I’ve done it.”
Ruby and I were married the right way, sealed in the temple with its divine covenants and commitments that promote trustworthiness, faithfulness, devotion, and dedication. Now, after sixty-five wonderful years, we look back on our time together and realize that it gets better as time goes on.

In conclusion, I want to relate one recent experience, that could have happened at any of our BYUs, that I had which convinced me that your generation is certainly up to the task of moving the kingdom to much higher ground—that the best is yet to come. This fall, the BYU Honor Code Office invited me to watch a presentation on the Honor Code by some upperclassmen to the freshman in Freshman Orientation. I was quite impressed by the upperclassmen’s skill and humor in setting forth the expectations for the new students with masterful presentations through skits, film, and music. By the end, they seemed to have convinced everyone that not only was living the Honor Code the right thing to do, it was also the fun thing to do. As I looked over this freshman crowd of about 4,000 in the Marriott Center, I realized that while they came from all over the country and even from some foreign countries, they were all bound together, united in a common testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. At the end of the program, this diverse group of freshmen was asked to sing a medley of those great youth anthems—“Army of Helaman” and “As Sisters in Zion.” There was no practice time and no handouts with the words to the hymns. Notwithstanding this, the freshmen gave a seamless and inspiring rendition that was worthy of any choir. As they sang, the spirit impressed upon me that this was indeed a royal and chosen generation, unique and remarkable in all the world, fully capable of accelerating the Lord’s work in these latter days.

When I found myself in unfamiliar territory, facing a divorce that I didn’t want, I experienced pain and rejection that I have never felt before. I was in my mid-40s, alone to finish raising my teenagers, hold down a full-time job, and pay the mortgage. I was overwhelmed, tired, and worried, but mostly filled with the most incredible pain I have ever felt.
Because of my gospel foundation and my desire to live righteously, I knew I had to forgive my ex-husband. I knew it was important to not be critical of him in front of the children, but how was I going to get past those feelings of rejection that made me want to cry out in agony?
Day after day in my anguish, I turned to the scriptures, seeking direction from the Spirit. I searched diligently day and night. I needed to know what I could personally do at this unfamiliar crossroads of my life to follow the Savior’s example, to heed His call to follow Him.
As I studied the scriptures, I wrote down each attribute of Jesus Christ that I desired to develop in my own life. I recorded teachings from the stories and parables that He shared during His mortal ministry. I noted the things that spoke to my heart about forgiveness. I diligently penned in my notebook the hardships and trials that the Lord faced and how He overcame them.
Over time I recognized that His pain was much worse than mine, yet He forgave those who hurt Him. He was a perfect example. That notebook, filled with lessons from the Lord’s life, became a source of great strength to me. It was my lifeline. Following His example, I was determined to endure my trial as well as I could. I was willing to move forward through my pain.
It worked! Now a few years later, I am blessed to have a good relationship with my ex-husband. Even though he has remarried, our relationship as the parents of our children is sweet and pain free. By following Christ’s example of not criticizing him, I overcame the negative feelings of pain and rejection. I can love!
What a valuable lesson I learned during this intense trial. I am grateful for my Savior’s perfect example. He is my rock and my foundation. And I never feel alone. I have His love, His Atonement, His perfect example, and the love and blessings of a beloved Heavenly Father.