Gospel Story Finder

I should like to share portions of a letter that came to my desk several years ago. I have changed the names to preserve anonymity and have somewhat abbreviated it, paraphrasing a few words in the process. The letter reads:
“Dear President Hinckley,
“When I met you in the elevator at the hospital I had the urge to write you and tell you of some of the things that have happened to me.
“When I was 16 or 17 I cared nothing for the Church and would not have anything to do with it. But a bishop who was concerned about me came over to see me and asked me to help build some scenery for a road show production, and of course I told him no.
“Well, about 10 days went by, and the bishop came back to ask me to build the scenery, and again I told him no. But then he went on to explain that he had asked others, and they had told him that they didn’t know how. He indicated that I was needed. I finally gave in and proceeded to build the scenery.
“When I got it done, I said, ‘There is your scenery,’ and decided I had done my part. But the bishop insisted that they needed me on the stage to move the scenery and make sure it got put up right and that it got moved carefully as the road show moved from ward to ward. So I finally gave in again.
“That bishop kept me busy for quite a while, and pretty soon I was involved and enjoying it. He then moved from our area, and we got a new bishop, and he picked up the challenge and kept after me.
“Bishop Smith had asked me to go on a mission, but I was undecided on that, and when Bishop Sorensen was put in, he asked me also, and I finally decided that I would go.
“Well, the bishop and I went to tell Mom and Dad about my decision. They told the bishop they couldn’t pay for it. Dad told the bishop that if I was really sincere about going that I should work and save and pay for the mission myself.
“My eyesight was not the greatest, as you know, and when I went places I had to be taken. When I became 16, I wanted to drive a car more than anything, and Dad took me to several eye doctors, all with the same result. The vision in my right eye was 20/800, and the vision in my left eye was 20/50, and I had astigmatism. So earning enough money to go on a mission was not an easy task. I worked in the sign shop at a department store for six to eight months to save some money. The bishop finally felt it was time for me to go, and we went to talk to my parents again. I had a thousand dollars saved, and the bishop told my dad that the elders quorum would support me for the rest. Dad sat there for a while and said if anybody was going to support his son, he would. I filled out my papers and got my call.
“I went to Japan, where I loved the people and the missionary experiences that I had there. My companions and I baptized several people into the Church. After I came home, I went to work again in the sign shop. During the time I worked there, whenever I went to lunch, I would see a young lady walking up the street, who evidently worked in the same general area. I knew I had met her somewhere before but could not place her.
“Well, one of my missionary companions came home, and after some time we ran around together. Of course, he did all the chauffeuring because of my eyesight. One night he called and wanted to go out on a double date, and so I frantically called around to find a date. Well, we went to a party, and guess who he took out. Right, he took out Sister Marilyn Jones, who also had been in Japan and whom I now remembered meeting briefly there on one occasion. She was the girl I had been passing on the street for several months and had not recognized.
“After this party, I went to California with my family for two weeks, and when I got home I found that my missionary friend had been dating the girl I had taken to the party. I thought I’d fix him, so I called Marilyn to go out on a date. You have to realize that it’s not easy to do that when you don’t drive, so my younger sister drove, and we had eight other youngsters accompany us to a ball game. That should have been enough to discourage any young lady from ever dating me again, but I tried again when my family went to the canyon to pick chokecherries.
“Finally came our date alone, and Dad had to drive me to pick up Marilyn, and then we drove him home and went out on our date and then back to our house to pick up Dad, who drove us back to her house, and then we went home. On the next date I asked her to marry me, and she told me no. Well, I went out with her some more and asked her to marry me a couple more times, and I finally got a maybe. I thought that was a step in the right direction and persisted. Six months after we started going together, we were married in the Salt Lake Temple.
“President Hinckley, I thought that I loved this young lady at that time, but 17 years later I find that I love her more than I could ever imagine. We now have five wonderful children.
“I have held many positions in the Church: music leader, everything in the elders quorum, assistant ward clerk, ward mission leader, executive secretary, and now I am a counselor in the bishopric.
“I am still working in the sign shop at the department store. I bought a small house about 13 years ago, and as my family got larger my house got smaller. I had to do something, so I added on to my house and made it twice the size. I started this a little over three years ago and have been working on it ever since. It is coming along really well.
“Now for the most amazing piece of news ever. Two years ago in June, I went to a new eye doctor who examined my eyes and asked me what restrictions I had on my driver’s license. I told him that I didn’t have a license. He said that my eyesight was probably acceptable.
“I sat there in shock, and my wife said, ‘Does this mean he could get a driver’s license?’ The doctor said, ‘I don’t see why not.’ The next day my wife had me signed up for a driver education course, and after I finished it I went to get my license and they checked my eyes. The doctor had written a note explaining my eye problem and that maybe I should not drive at night. The examiner put the letters up, and I read them right off. He went to talk to his supervisor and came back and approved my license with only a minor restriction.
“President Hinckley, the Lord has blessed me more than I can ever deserve. People say how lucky I am that my eyes have improved so much, but I know that it is the Lord’s doing. I feel it is because I have tried to serve the Lord and do what I can to build up His kingdom here on the earth. I am sure there are times He is disappointed in me, and I’m sure He should be. But I will try to do my best and be worthy of His blessings upon me and my family.”
He concludes with appreciation and testimony and signs his name. I have shared this somewhat lengthy letter because I feel it tells so simply and yet so eloquently what this work is all about.
If you will recall what I have just shared, this man, when he was a boy of 16 or 17, was drifting aimlessly and dangerously as so many young men do at that age. He was walking the broad way which leads to destruction. Noting the course he was taking, his bishop, a prayerful and dedicated man, recognized his creative talent as an artist and found a way to challenge him to use that talent in the service of the Church. That bishop was wise enough to know that most young men will respond to a challenge when they know they are needed. No one else in the ward was quite capable of building the kind of scenery the bishop wanted. This less-active boy was capable of this, and the bishop complimented and challenged him with a request that his service was needed.
Here is a great key to activation of many of those who have fallen by the wayside. Each has a talent that can be employed. It is the task of leaders to match those talents with needs and then to offer a challenge. The boy of this letter, whom I shall call Jack, responded, and he soon found himself moving in the direction of the Church rather than away from it.
Then came the challenge to go on a mission. Jack, who was now accustomed to saying yes rather than no, responded affirmatively. The father was not fully converted and responded that his son would have to earn his own funds. That was not all bad. There was something of good in the requirement that he develop self-reliance. He went to work, he provided much of what he needed, he saved his money, and when he had a thousand dollars, the bishop, again under inspiration, felt the time had come when he should go. Jack’s brethren in the elders quorum would assist, and that is proper. But the father, with an awakened sense of pride and of responsibility toward his own son, rose to the occasion, as men usually do when properly confronted.
I first met Jack in Japan when he was serving as a missionary there. I interviewed him on two or three occasions. That was before we had the Missionary Training Centers. Young men and women were then sent with no language training and simply plunged in to work at the task when they arrived there. I marveled that this young man, with serious eyesight deficiencies, was able to grasp that difficult language and speak it with power. Behind that was a great effort and a great sense of devotion, and above all, a certain humility and reliance on the Lord with anxious, prayerful pleadings for help.
I can tell you, for I witnessed it, that it was a miracle in his case as it was in the case of many others.
I also first met in Japan and interviewed on a number of occasions the young lady he was later to marry. She had a wonderful spirit, a deep faith, and a moving sense of duty. Their acquaintance in the field was nothing more than having seen one another on one occasion. They worked in widely separated areas. But out of their experiences had come a common touchstone—a new language in which each had learned to share testimony with others while laboring in the great and selfless cause of service to our Father’s children.
As he indicated in his letter, their marriage was performed in the Salt Lake Temple. Each knew that only in the Lord’s house under the authority of the holy priesthood could they be joined in marriage for time and for all eternity under a covenant which death could not break and time could not destroy. They wanted the very best for themselves; they would not be satisfied with anything else. Be it said to their credit that each has remained true to the sacred covenants they made in the house of the Lord.
Five beautiful and handsome children have graced that marriage. They are a family with love and appreciation and respect one for another. They have lived in a spirit of self-reliance. A small home which has been enlarged is a home in which father and mother and children gather together and counsel and learn one from another. It is a home in which there is a reading of the scriptures. It is a home in which there is prayer: family prayer and individual prayer. It is a home in which service is taught and exemplified. It is a simple home; it is an unostentatious family. There is not much of wealth, but there is much of peace and goodness and love. The children who grew up there grew “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord” (Eph. 6:4). The father is faithful in his service to the Church. For these many years he has responded to every call made upon him; the mother, likewise. They are good citizens of the community and the nation. They are at peace with their neighbors. They love the Lord. They love life. They love one another.
They have witnessed a miracle in the improvement of his eyesight. To a kind and gracious God goes the credit. This too is of the essence of the gospel, the power of healing and restoration, followed by acknowledgment and thanksgiving.
I do not know whether the two men who served as Jack’s bishops know what has become of him. If they know where he is, there must be sweet satisfaction in their hearts.

Let me share with you two contrasting responses: One patient was a 36-year-old woman; I’ll use the name Mary. When we operated on her, we found cancer spread throughout her entire abdominal cavity. When I faced Mary the next morning, she asked soberly, “I have cancer, don’t I?” My reluctant response was, “Yes, you have cancer.” Her next question was, “How long do I have to live?” I explained that it was impossible to set an exact time. She hoped I wouldn’t misunderstand her question. She was not afraid to die, she said.
Mary was at peace with her Father in heaven because she had just completed a special course for senior Aaronic Priesthood bearers. It was called “Project Temple.” She spoke of her husband and her teenage daughter who had not been active in the Church until the three of them had attended the “Project Temple” meetings. At the conclusion of the experience, the bishop had assured them that in six months they could go to the temple if they would do the things they knew they should. Mary’s plea was to stay alive for that six months so she could go to the temple and be sealed to her family. “If I can stay alive that long, then I will die without complaining,” she would tell me. Mary stayed alive for that six months. During her entire stay in the hospital, she was cheerful and seemingly without pain, even though her body was filled with a disease that ordinarily is extremely painful and requires large amounts of narcotics. Mary needed none, and she literally folded her arms and died—without a complaint.

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

Once when Grandma and Grandpa Wakefield were visiting us from Minnesota, we watched some eggs that were hatching on the wall of our house. Right beside the egg case a spider had built a nest; and whenever a small mantis came out, the spider would dash over and bite him, spin him up in a web like a mummy, and pull him over to his nest. I wanted to squash that spider, but Grandpa said that spiders need to live too.

Every time Allison had to do it, her knees knocked together and her voice squeaked. She couldn’t even think straight with all those eyes staring at her. Now her teacher was going to have her get up in front of the whole class again.
“On Monday,” Miss Barnett had announced, “I want each of you to tell us about your pet. If you don’t have a pet, choose any animal you like and tell us something special about it.”
Jeff Bates had a dog named Whiskers that could shake hands and fetch a ball. Jenny Olson would tell about the pony her parents had given her for Christmas. Raymond French lived on a farm with all kinds of animals. Everybody had a pet—everybody except Allison.
When school was out, Allison ran all the way home, the cold wind stinging her cheeks. Rushing into the house, she found her mother stacking logs by the fireplace. “Can I get a pet this weekend?” Allison blurted out.
“Not this weekend, honey,” Mother replied. “Maybe in the spring we can get a puppy.”
“What about some aquarium fish or a hamster?” Allison asked.
“We’ll talk about it when your father gets home.”
Allison went into the kitchen to get a drink of milk. As she passed the sliding glass doors, she saw that the feeder in the backyard was empty. The sparrows always looked for food there when the weather turned cold. Allison took the sack of seed out of the broom closet and went outside.
Beneath the crab apple tree was a stone bench that Allison always stood on to reach the feeder. Both the bench and the feeder had been there when her family had moved into the house. “The birds know to come here for food in the wintertime,” Allison’s mother had explained. “We can’t let them down.”
Back inside, Allison watched the birds flock to the feeder. All they ever do is eat, thought Allison. They’re not very pretty. They’re just ordinary birds.
For the rest of the evening, Allison worried about what she would say in class on Monday. She worried about it between spoonfuls of soup. She worried about it in the bathtub. By bedtime, she was too tired to worry about it anymore.
The first streaks of dawn had not yet appeared when something woke Allison. What’s that noise? she wondered. There it is again. Something’s flapping … like wings.
A sparrow was flying around in her room! Allison sprang out of bed, and the bird flew into the living room. Allison almost laughed out loud.
When the sparrow suddenly flew to the fireplace, Allison guessed how it had found its way inside—down the chimney! Someone must have left the draft open. Quickly Allison closed it so that no more feathered visitors could get in.
She looked at the bird closely. It was just like the ones she had been feeding almost every day but had never really seen at all. The little fellow was perched on the lamp-shade now, cocking his head from side to side, and staring at her with his bright eyes. What is he thinking? Allison wondered.
As dawn came, Allison opened the sliding glass door. The bird flew out and soared away. Where is it going? she asked herself. When does it build its nest? I wonder what color a sparrow’s egg is?
Allison walked through the house, being careful to clean up all the droppings. Then she climbed back into bed.
She slept so soundly that her mother had to shake her awake. Maybe I only dreamed that the bird came last night, Allison thought. Then she saw a tiny pale brown feather with gray around the edges lying on the floor, and she could hardly wait to show the feather to her classmates and tell them what had happened. They all had dogs, cats, or ponies. But nobody had such a nighttime visitor—nobody except Allison.

There is a man I hope someday to meet—a brother of yours and mine in the kingdom. He lives somewhere behind the Iron Curtain. Another man, a priesthood leader behind the Iron Curtain, was told that there was such a man, who had not seen another member of the Church for many years. This good brother, moved by the Spirit, saved his money (which he didn’t have much of), made his way through the red tape of crossing borders, and found this brother of yours and mine; he learned that he who was found had not seen another member of the Church for over twenty years. And when the man who was the finder indicated that it was possible, because he had been so authorized, to give this brother a patriarchal blessing, this good brother demurred momentarily until he got the tithing which he had saved for over twenty years and gave it to this other man so that he would be fully worthy of that blessing!

I don’t know what the divine design is in the challenge of that kind of solitude. I know that this man, our brother, is meeting that challenge. Some of us will have to be most courageous, not when we’re alone, but when we’re in a crowd. Whatever the form the test takes, we must be willing to pass it. We must reach breaking points without breaking. We must be willing, if necessary, to give up our lives—not because we have a disdain for life as some do, but even though we love life—because we are the servants of him who did that in such an infinite way for all of us.

Elder D. Todd Christopherson shares his experience in his “How I Hear Him” video. He relates how he went to the sacred grove as a teenager expecting answers like Joseph Smith did. Elder Christofferson was there for a long time praying very sincerely, and nothing came. There was no response, no answer. He gave up and left disappointed. Six weeks later, he was home, reading the Book of Mormon, pondering in a quiet moment, and a confirming spirit came flooding over him, when the Holy Spirit spoke to his spirit, and he knew. He learned from that experience that you can’t tell God how and when He responds to our prayers. It wasn’t easy, but he did receive answers. [8] It required effort on his part– just as it took effort on our part to find our way here.

Chilean Saints like Guillermo Miranda know Elder McConkie’s prophecy, and they are working toward its fulfillment. “I feel that the Lord has blessed me in my business so that I can be a positive influence,” says Brother Miranda, who owns and manages a successful chain of department stores.
Brother Miranda is a high priests group leader in the city of San Fernando, an agricultural area about an hour’s drive southeast of Santiago. His business, which he believes should be “a light for others,” is respected and renowned for its honesty and strict employee behavior code.
“I want Church members to be good examples for my nonmember employees,” says Brother Miranda, “especially in those areas where the Church is small.”
Brother Miranda considers himself blessed rather than successful, though he has experienced both persecution and professional setbacks since joining the Church in 1982. “I have been the brunt of gossip, and my business has been the object of attack,” he says, recalling a widely distributed flier that claimed his department-store chain was failing. Rather than seek legal action against the perpetrators, he prayed that his business would be protected, and he made sure his tithing was paid promptly. As a result, business improved. These days Brother Miranda, who often is asked to speak about his business philosophy, does not have enough job openings for all those interested in working for him.

Sister Hafen: Like Elder Holland and Paul, who both came to know God through suffering and sacrifice, so did young Agnes Caldwell. She was nine years old in October of 1856 when she and the others in the Willie Handcart Company were slogging through wind-driven snow on the high plains of Wyoming. She was literally starving, and Rocky Ridge was still ahead. Then she tells how she was rescued:

“The infirm and the aged were allowed to ride,” she says, “all able-bodied continued to walk.” Some of the children decided they would keep up with the wagons, in hopes of being asked to ride. One by one the others dropped out until she was the last one remaining.

“After what seemed the longest run I ever made … Brother Kimball called to me, ‘Say, sissy, would you like a ride?’ I answered in my very best manner, ‘Yes, sir.’ At this he reached over, [took] my hand, [then clucked] to his horses [which made] me run, with legs that seemed to me could run no farther. On we went [for what] seemed miles … [I thought] he was the meanest man that ever lived … Just at what seemed the breaking point, he stopped. Taking a blanket, he wrapped me up and lay me in the bottom of the wagon, warm and comfortable. Here I had time to change my mind, as I surely did, knowing full well [that] … by making me run … he saved me from freezing [to death.]”

Note the symbols: Young Agnes—Giving everything she had, taking the wagon master’s hand, and holding on. The wagon master—Loving enough to lend his strength, yet wise enough to stretch her to her limits, and courageous enough to volunteer for the rescue in the first place. She didn’t have to hang onto his hand when he pressed her to give more. Yes, he saved her life, but so did she. They both had to sacrifice and give their all. A story of mercy? Yes, but in this case, not “tender mercy,” but what we might call “severe mercy.”

It was just before Christmas, and I knew I had things others could use. Room by room I went through the house, finding items we could donate to Deseret Industries. When it was finally time to go through our bedroom, my husband and I headed for our closet. We looked through our clothing.
“I don’t have anything this time,” I told him. “Do you?”
David put a number of shirts in a pile and found some shoes he no longer wore.
“What about this suit?” he asked. I had helped him pick it out years ago for a job interview. It still looked brand new.
“Honey, what do you think? It doesn’t fit anymore.”
“But it’s still like new,” I said.
“I really feel this suit needs to go,” David said. He took it from the closet.
As much as I liked the suit on him, he did have another, and after he tried this one on, I could see that it barely fit him now. I carefully laid it across the donation pile, but I didn’t feel right. Something was nagging at me. The suit didn’t belong there, and I knew it.
David went to his ties. He was ruthless in his weeding. He pulled out several and laid them with the suit, but that didn’t feel right to me either.
The suit in the pile interrupted my sleep. I wondered what was wrong with me to worry so much about a suit that didn’t fit and a bunch of old ties.
The following morning I looked at the pile of clothes. Again so strongly came the feeling that the suit didn’t belong. I took it off the pile and laid it on the bed along with some ties. After putting everything else into bags, I again looked at the suit. “Whom is it for?” I didn’t know.
I knelt beside the bed and prayed. I went to my desk and tried to think. My husband and I were the young adult leaders in the ward, so we knew who the next missionary was. It would be a while before he left. He also had a steady job, so getting a new suit wouldn’t be a problem. I called my bishop but got the answering machine.
Then there was a knock at the door. Opening the door, I was startled.
“Hi, Sister Ries,” the missionaries serving in our ward smiled.
A chill of sudden knowledge ran through me. “I don’t believe this” was all I could say. “Please stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Excitedly, I raced up the stairs while the elders laughed at my strange greeting. Such joy filled me as I brought down the suit.
“It’s a size 40 jacket,” I said, “and the pants are 33–32.” I looked at one elder, hoping.
The missionary’s face lit up. “I’m a size 40 and a 33–30 in slacks.” His face softened. “My parents and I had been praying that I’d find a suit to finish out my mission. I’ve got a little time left, and I’ve nearly worn this one clear through.”
The faithful elder accepted Heavenly Father’s gift of the suit and ties gratefully, and after I closed my door, I again went to my bedroom to kneel and thank Heavenly Father for the love He has for His children. He always listens to prayers.

For 67 years, Marjorie Pay Hinckley kept pace with her husband, President Gordon B. Hinckley, as he traveled the world. On 6 April 2004, her mortal journey ended. Surrounded by family and loved ones, Sister Hinckley quietly passed from this world to the next due to causes incident to age. Born on 23 November 1911, she was 92.
Often expressing surprise at the course her life had taken, Sister Hinckley often joked, “How did a nice girl like me end up in a mess like this?” In an interview with Church magazines several months before her death, Sister Hinckley said, “Well, it turned out better than I expected. It has been a good life.” Known for her caring heart and quick wit, she told Church magazines, “If we can’t laugh at life, we are in big trouble” (see “At Home with the Hinckleys,” Liahona, Oct. 2003, 32–37; Ensign, Oct. 2003, 22–27), and at her funeral services she was eulogized as “charity personified.”
As evidence of the countless lives she touched, thousands attended a public viewing, some of them standing in line outside on a blustery spring day for more than three hours. Thousands attended the funeral held in the Tabernacle on 10 April, and tens of thousands more watched on television and by satellite broadcast.
“She conversed with kings and queens. She loved little children,” President Thomas S. Monson, First Counselor in the First Presidency, said of Sister Hinckley’s ability to relate to people from all walks of life. “There was no flaw in her character. … Like the Master, Marjorie went about doing good.”
“She had such a good life,” said President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “All of us would benefit from following her faith, commitment, and devotion.”
During the funeral services, the Hinckleys’ five children—Kathleen, Richard, Virginia, Clark, and Jane—shared quotes from Sister Hinckley and gave expressions of gratitude to their mother. Clark Hinckley read a letter written by President Hinckley to his wife after nearly 60 years of marriage. “My darling, … I have known you for a long time … and it has turned out as I had hoped it would. … Now we have grown old together. … And when in some future day the hand of death gently touches one or the other of us, there will be tears, yes, but there will also be a quiet and certain assurance of reunion and eternal companionship.”
Sheri L. Dew, former member of the Relief Society general presidency and biographer of President Hinckley, said that while 12 million members together cannot take Sister Hinckley’s place, each would be praying that President Hinckley would have the strength to carry on. She said that each member would try a little harder in order to ease the prophet’s burden.

Last year I experienced what Lemony Snicket would describe as A Series of Unfortunate Events.
In a space of four weeks I had seven major surgeries, the possible amputation of my leg, and was diagnosed with stage-three cancer. I told you it was unfortunate! Prolonged hospital stays and treatments gave me ample opportunity to reflect on my relationship to God and others. Sometimes limitations placed on us can be liberating in other ways. I know that for all our weakness, fears, and failings, including our own hypocrisy, there stands Christ perfect, preeminent, loving, and anxious to bless us.

At school there was a girl with a disability. Most people used that as an extra excuse to make fun of her. My friend and I were the only ones who tried to help her. Some days it seemed like the whole class teamed up against her. It was challenging to know how to react. I wanted to just walk away, but I chose to remember that she is a child of God and to think about how Jesus would treat her. I felt the calming effect of the Holy Ghost. I remembered that I could make a difference. Following the Savior’s example helped me a lot, and I knew everything would be OK.
In my baptismal covenants I am promised to always have the Holy Ghost with me if I act as the Savior would. I’m grateful to have felt that comfort and strength from the Holy Ghost.
Alexis L., 13, Kansas, USA

I remember my beloved grandmother, Mary Caroline Roper Finlinson, making homemade soap on the farm. The soap had a very pungent aroma and was almost as hard as a brick. There was no money to buy soft, sweet-smelling soap. On the farm, there were many dusty, sweat-laden clothes to be washed and many bodies that needed desperately a Saturday night bath. If you had to bathe with that homemade soap, you could become wonderfully clean, but you smelled worse after bathing than before. I have since developed a daily appreciation for mild, sweet-scented soap.

Nick Martindell shut off the engine of his pickup truck and grimly tromped down the dirty concrete steps leading to the basement apartment he shared with his best friend, Gordon. He pulled the screen door open. It whined and clattered shut behind him. He wrinkled his nose as he reluctantly took a breath of air. Even for late July the air was hot and humid and the heat in the kitchen was especially stifling, compounding the stale smell of pizza, chips, and unwashed dishes. The apartment was quiet except for the buzz of a dozen fat, lazy flies and the annoying drip of the water faucet.
Bread crumbs littered the table. The trash can in the corner was full and spilling over. A pair of his tennis shoes lay in the middle of the floor, which had not been mopped, and rarely swept, during the last two months that he and Gordon had been there.
He strolled to the refrigerator, pulled it open, and glared inside. A carton of milk, several slices of bread, a half bar of butter spotted with bread and jam, a half bottle of mustard, and several wilted vegetables were all he found. He grabbed the carton of milk, smelled it, grimaced and poured the contents down the sink.
“Gordon,” he called out after slamming the fridge door and kicking his tennis shoes under the table, “you home?”
There was no answer. Nick walked down the narrow hall leading from the kitchen to the bedroom. He pushed the door open. Two boxes and a suitcase partially blocked his way. Gordon sat on the edge of the bed, which was stripped bare to the mattress. He stared up at Nick without moving or speaking.
“What’s all this?” Nick blurted out, pointing down at the boxes and suitcase but making no attempt to enter the room.
“I’m leaving,” Gordon answered, getting up from the bed. He pulled a bulging canvas bag from the closet and set it on the floor next to the rest of his things. “I wanted to tell you before I left.”
Nick straightened up. “I thought we were in this together. This was your idea too.”
Gordon sighed. “It’s no good, Nick. Not for me.”
“It was good enough for you all last year when we planned it,” Nick flared, kicking the boxes aside and coming into the room. “Graduation night that’s all you talked about. You were going to break away from mommy and daddy and get completely away from all that family stuff. You were going to make it on your own as soon as you turned 18. Well, you’re 18.”
“It’s just not my kind of life.”
“It’s freedom. Here we live the way we want to. We come in when we want. We drink and eat when and what we want. Nobody’s telling us what to do. We live the way we want.”
“I guess I didn’t realize life away from home could be so glorious.”
“It’s freedom. That’s what we wanted.”
Gordon smiled wanly. “If this is freedom, slavery can’t be half bad.”
Nick sneered and began pacing the room shaking his head in disgust. “Wanted to be a big man on your own. I guess you found out that someone still had to tuck you in at night and help you say your prayers. All right, what really made you change your mind? I got a right to know. You’re copping out on me, leaving me holding the bag.”
Gordon stared at Nick for a moment, meeting his angry glare. “I was just trying to prove a point. That’s all we’ve ever been doing here—trying to prove a point. I decided the point wasn’t worth proving. We were wrong from the beginning.”
“And what made you decide that?”
Suddenly a crimson anger darkened Gordon’s cheeks and he grabbed at a pile of Nick’s soiled clothes lying in the corner. “I’m sick of this,” he growled, pushing the clothes under Nick’s nose. “I’m sick of yellow sheets that haven’t seen water for two months. I’m sick of dirty dishes in the sink. I’m tired of crumbs and pop spilled all over the kitchen floor. I’m sick of a greasy, grimy, dirty, putrified shower. I’m sick of this whole lousy place. What does living like a couple of pigs prove?”
“Clean it if you don’t like it.”
“It’s not that simple. It’s not like I thought it would be. I just want to …” He paused and added in a quiet voice, “I just want to get out of here. I’m going home.” He stooped and picked up a box and his pillow.
“What really made you change your mind?” Nick challenged. “So the place is a mess. You knew it would be. You told me so yourself when we moved in here. You said we’d probably let things get dirty. Well, we did. Now why are you complaining?”
Placing his box and pillow on the bed, Gordon faced his roommate. “All right. I’ll tell you.” He kicked the closet door closed and leaned against the dresser, looking down at the floor, avoiding Nick’s prying eyes. “You know when we used to plan all this, living away from home and all, I tried to figure out why we were going. You see, I needed a reason. I couldn’t just leave. At the time, finding a reason wasn’t hard. Mom and Dad were too strict. They didn’t understand things. They were always forcing me to do something. There were too many rules. There were lots of bad things about home, and I thought of all of them.”
Gordon glanced up at Nick, who wore a skeptical scowl. “When we came here,” Gordon continued, “I told myself how good it was. I think I believed it then. This was living. We had it made. But there was always something missing. I was kidding myself. Finally I tried to figure out what was missing. I thought about home.” He smiled and shook his head slowly. “I began to remember, not the bad things, not the things that convinced me to come here. No, I remembered the other things, and there were lots of them. Home isn’t so bad, Nick, not half as bad as we’ve tried to prove.”
“You’re quite the preacher. They’ll have you back in church before long,” Nick muttered, falling back on his bed and stuffing his pillow under his head.
“I’ve already gone, two weeks in a row, priesthood, sacrament meeting, the whole bit.”
Nick sat up slowly and swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stared. “I don’t believe it.”
“You know what, Nick? I liked it.” Nick groaned, turned over, and faced the wall. Gordon continued with added enthusiasm. “You know I found out something. I’ve never liked church. You know why? Because I never gave it a chance. I’ve never given a lot of things a chance. I’m not saying home and church and all that is for me, because I don’t know for sure. I just don’t know, not right now. But I tried this way, and this way sure isn’t what we cracked it up to be.” He waited for Nick to respond, but he remained silent. In an act of complete exasperation he slapped the wall with the flat of his hand. “Nick, we’re trying to prove the wrong point! What have we got to show for it?” He snatched the dirty laundry and flung it across the room. “All we got are some dirty jeans, some stale socks and a crumby, sticky, gummed up kitchen. Big deal! I want out. This is …”
“Gordon,” Nick interrupted, “you know what? You depress me. In fact, the last couple of weeks I’ve become depressed every time I’ve seen you.”
Gordon countered with a knowing smile. He shook his head and said, “Nick, you’re always depressed. I don’t have anything to do with it. You’re just mad at the whole world. One of these days you’re going to wake up and find that the world was never mad back and that all this other never proved anything.”
“You know where the door is, or do you want me to take you by the hand?” Nick asked, his face pinched with anger.
Gordon shrugged, bent over, and picked up two of his boxes and walked out of the bedroom. Several minutes later he was back for the rest of his things. As he picked them up, Nick rolled over and asked dryly, “And you’re leaving me holding the bag? What about the rent? Remember this was your idea too.”
Gordon nodded toward the dresser. “There’s an envelope on the dresser. It’s next month’s rent money, all of it, not just half.”
The two stared at each other. Neither spoke. Finally Gordon gathered up his remaining things and turned to go. “Soon they’ll be calling you on a mission,” Nick laughed sardonically. “Elder Patrick Gordon Crandell, all decked out in his white shirt and tie and his hair shaved to the skin.”
Without turning around, Gordon replied calmly, “You know, that doesn’t sound so bad.”
As soon as Nick heard the kitchen door close and Gordon’s departing footsteps, he reared up and hurled his pillow across the room where it slammed into the door, closing it with a reverberating bang.
For half an hour Nick lay on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, attempting to block the entire day from his mind, but it was too early in the afternoon. Sleep eluded him.
He felt hungry. He sat up and stepped to his dresser where he kept a supply of candy bars, but he slammed the dresser drawer as soon as he had opened it. He didn’t want candy. He was tired of eating candy bars, chips, and cookies. He wanted some real food, something like … But he refused to think of that. That was over, in the past. He wouldn’t follow Gordon back. He opened the drawer again, snatched a candy bar, ripped off the wrapper and angrily crammed the candy into his mouth. No, he wouldn’t go back. He was free here.
He returned to his bed, but an enigmatic hunger persisted, not a mere pang but an annoying desire for something satisfying, something that didn’t really have anything to do with food. He had felt this pang before, but he had tried to hide it from himself.
Eventually he crawled from the bed and went to the kitchen, hoping to find relief. Instead, a flood of nauseating disgust swept over him.
He left the apartment, got into the pickup, and drove, nowhere in particular, just someplace, any place away from … Well, he just wanted to drive, he told himself. He was not running, just leaving for a time.
Soon he found himself out of town, driving into the country along the narrow country road that looped around the foot of the mountain and passed through the small farms. The road was familiar. He’d traveled it often. It frustrated him that he was even driving there now, but he continued. After all, it was just a drive, like any other drive. It didn’t mean anything.
Five miles out of town he stopped in front of a frame house set back a hundred feet from the road in a grove of elm and poplar trees. The station wagon that usually occupied a place under the giant elm tree was missing. No one was home. He could tell.
He sat in the truck for several minutes before finally opening the door and stepping out. He looked up and down the highway furtively and then walked across the road and up to the front door. The door opened. Of course, he knew it would. They never locked it. He swallowed hard and walked in.
A rich, tantalizing aroma of baked bread lingered in the air and soon enveloped him. Unconsciously he breathed deeply, feeding hungrily upon the aroma—and the memories it inspired.
The kitchen sink was clean, no piled dishes there. The floor was swept and mopped to a pleasant glow. The plastic garbage container was empty and free of foul odors. He breathed deeply of the clean air and moved about the house, touching the sink, opening the fridge, glancing into the bathroom, sitting momentarily on the sofa to thumb through magazines. He was unable to explain his behavior. It baffled him, and yet he felt compelled to linger.
In his reverie he almost forgot the time. Half an hour passed. They would be home soon. Suddenly he realized that he didn’t want them to find him here, coming back, even though it was just to see. They would misunderstand, see it as a surrender, a weakening.
As he got up from the living room sofa, he noticed his picture hanging on the wall with those of his parents and brothers and sisters. It startled him. He stared, confused. The picture’s presence seemed so incongruous. He had assumed that when he had walked away, coldly abandoning them, that they would naturally reject him. His picture loudly proclaimed otherwise.
He started for the front door. As he was about to leave, he saw the loaf of homemade bread lying on the table next to a jar of strawberry preserves, his favorite, some she had made. There was a note under the bottle. He pulled it out and read: “Nick, we went to the park for a picnic. Come and join us if you can. We would love to have you with us, but we will understand if you can’t. Take the bread and jam. We love you, Mom.”
The note fluttered to the floor. “How did she know?” he whispered angrily, feeling as though he had been observed during his surreptitious visit. He picked up the note and read it again. There was no rebuke, no mention of his weeks of silence, no mention of his absence, his rebellion, his complaining. There was merely a quiet, subtle invitation to … He was not coming back! He crumpled the note. He didn’t need them. He would not give them the satisfaction.
He started for the door, leaving the bread on the table, but he stopped before going out. The old hunger returned and coaxed him. He glanced back. Taking the bread didn’t mean anything, he thought. A loaf of bread was a loaf of bread. He could buy one at the store if he wanted to. A loaf of bread didn’t mean he had given up. So he did come back. It was just a visit. He didn’t have anything to do. What was wrong with taking a ride and stopping someplace? He was independent.
Amid his own personal debate, he returned to the table and roughly grabbed the bread and preserves. He held them in his hand, pondering. Finally he turned and left.
Almost an hour after he left, a station wagon pulled under the elm tree. Doors burst open and seven children tumbled out. The five younger ones raced for the house. The two older ones walked, loaded with blankets, a jug, and a picnic basket.
An older man and woman stepped from the car. Exhausted but satisfied smiles touched their lips as they watched the young ones storm into the house.
The woman was the first to enter the kitchen. As she did, her gaze went to the kitchen table, as it had done so many times during the last two months. At first she disbelieved, wondering whether she had forgotten in her rush to get away to the park. Then she saw the crumpled note. The bread and the preserves were gone!
Trembling, she sat down at the table and looked up at her husband who now stood behind her. “I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew he couldn’t forget forever.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s coming back,” he cautioned. He remembered too well the hurts she had suffered. He didn’t want her snatching at elusive hopes.
She smiled and nodded with maternal intuition. “I know,” she replied, “but he was here. For now that’s enough.”
When Nick arrived at his apartment, he tossed the bread and preserves on the table and looked in the fridge. It was as bare as when he had left. Ignoring the bread, he went into his bedroom, turned on the radio and tried to wash away the memory with music and disc jockey jabber, but his escape was a feeble attempt.
Angrily he jumped from the bed and began snatching sweaty, soiled shirts, pants and socks from the floor and stuffing them into a canvas bag in the closet. He folded his blanket and pulled the sheet on his bed tight. Grabbing a T-shirt from his drawer, he attacked the accumulation of dirt and dead flies on his dresser and on the windowsill.
He returned to the kitchen, determined to push the job to its completion. The dishes went first, and while they dried in the sink, he filled a bucket with water, found a brush and rag and fell to his knees on the kitchen floor.
With his jaw clamped tight, he attacked the loathsome floor, digging and gouging at the sticky pop stains, the ground-in catsup and honey spots, and the two months’ buildup of outside dirt and grease. He became oblivious to time. His thoughts and energy were riveted to one thing—the eradication of the suffocating filth.
It was late when he finally stopped. His knees were tender, his arm and shoulder ached, and his fingers were wrinkled. But the apartment was clean. A grim satisfaction was carved upon his brow as he wandered throughout the apartment, surveying his work. However, his satisfaction was short-lived. Though he had succeeded at imitation, there was a blatant absence of something impalpable but much more substantial. The old craving persisted.
He became desperate. He cut himself a slice of his mother’s bread and smothered it with strawberry preserves, but when he was finished he was still unsatisfied. There was no escape from the pervasive, lonely depression.
Once more he fled from the apartment. This time he didn’t encounter a single car as he drove along the old familiar country road. The whole while he ridiculed himself for returning, but he didn’t turn back. He lacked the will to rationalize, and his mind was bombarded with memories.
He remembered, not the seeming strict discipline, not the rules he had tried to escape or circumvent, not the arguments, not the usual memories he had conditioned himself to conjure when he was tormented by sentimental reminiscence. Instead he remembered the quiet visits with his father, before the contention had developed. He remembered how safe and secure he had felt as his father wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders and drew him close. He remembered his mother sitting by his hospital bed for days after his knee operation. There was little she could do, but she was there, wiping his brow, holding his hand and lending him stability in the midst of strange surroundings. He recalled the vocal cheering section that had followed him to all his football and baseball games. He had been embarrassed at the time, but now he yearned to hear those enthusiastic cheers again.
The pickup slowed to a crawl as he neared the house. The station wagon was parked under the giant elm. The house was completely dark. Except for the lone porch light!
“I wonder who’s still out?” Nick thought instinctively. He remembered that the porch light never dimmed as long as one of the family was out. Even when he worked past midnight at Ernie’s Cafe, he had come home to that beckoning porch light.
“And when you come home,” his mother had insisted gently, “stop by our room and tell us you’re in. I don’t sleep well while someone’s still out.”
Nick looked at his watch. “Almost 3:00 A.M.,” he muttered, bewildered. “Teresa can’t still be out on a date. Not this late. Midnight is as late as she can stay out. And Paul doesn’t work nights. And none of the little ones would be away.”
Suddenly the buried hunger exploded within him and he knew for whom the light burned and he knew that during the last two months the light had never been switched off.
Only then did he begin to comprehend the strange hunger that had plagued him. He knew it had nothing to do with tangibles—clean sheets, waxed floors, and fresh baked bread. With a little effort he could duplicate those. There was something else, something far more significant and fulfilling.
His fierce pride prevented him from making any bold concessions this night, but deep within him there was a quiet serenity. There was still a gap between him and them. Having grown and festered over a period of months, it was deep and wide, but as Nick stared at the porch’s enduring beacon, he sensed that the gap would be bridged and he could return.

A young man who is a friend of mine came to an interview confessing some minor difficulties he was having with sin. He believed them to be of major proportions. He had allowed Satan to cause him to believe he was not a good person, that he did not have the power to overcome his weaknesses. He was overwhelmed with the challenges and struggles of life, and had lost the peace that normally accompanies a true disciple of Jesus Christ.
“I know Christ’s role is to save us from our sins,” my friend said. “But what about all the other troubles in my life?”
As I tried to console him, I told him that Christ was sent not only to help us heal the wounds of transgression and iniquity, but also to bear our grief and sorrow and guilt (see Mosiah 14:4–5, 11; Alma 24:10); that in addition to “suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind,” he also took upon himself the “sicknesses of his people,” “death, that he may loose the bands … which bind his people,” and “affirmities, that … he may know … how to [strengthen] his people.” (See Alma 7:11–12; italics added.)
As this young man and I read the scriptures together, he was thrilled to realize that somehow Christ is able to take upon himself not only sin in a general sense, but also grief, sorrow, death, sickness, lack of peace, guilt, and pain. What a glorious thought that, in truth, Jesus Christ is capable of bearing the problems and challenges that we each face in our daily lives. He will not only help us to be saved at the Judgment Day, but he and his Father will help us overcome daily trials if we will reach out spiritually and communicate with them.

Some years ago, President Roy A. Welker of the German-Austrian Mission, one of the outstanding mission presidents of the Church, needed to assign a missionary to labor in Salzburg, Austria, to solve a problem in the branch there. Eight new missionaries were soon to arrive in the mission. He prayed that one of them would have the proper visa and currency to labor in Austria. He continued to pray and waited two weeks for an answer. The night before the eight arrived, the Spirit of the Lord whispered to the president the name of the missionary who should be assigned to Salzburg. The one whose name he received was the one who had the proper credentials to go to Austria. I was that elder.

The president’s patience not only helped solve a problem in the branch, but it also blessed me and our family in a way that I never could have foreseen. Shortly after I arrived in Salzburg, that part of the German-Austrian Mission was changed into the Swiss-Austrian Mission. Later, I was transferred to Zurich, Switzerland, where I met Brother Julius Billeter, a warm and friendly member who was a genealogist. He was acquainted with the genealogical records of my progenitors. He researched the names of 6,000 of my ancestors for whom temple work later was completed.

Let me tell you of just two cheerful givers in my experience. First, whenever I think of the widow’s mite, it brings to mind an experience in a small branch meeting in a row house on a street in a large eastern city in which branch my wife and I served for 18 months. It was located in a very distressed intercity neighborhood that had been burned over during the riots accompanying the Martin Luther King assassination in 1968. Much of it had not been rebuilt. The people in the branch paid their tithing in part with coins and in doing so paid an honest tithe. At one of our meetings, a woman handed me an envelope with the tithing slip and the relevant bills and coins and then after doing that said to me, “If you belong to a church, you ought to contribute. I can’t contribute much, but I can contribute the sacrament bread,” and handed me a baggie with two little pieces of bread in it. As we used her bread for the sacrament, the whole experience carried an additional meaning that day. Going through my mind continually was the verse dealing with the widow’s mite and that she, out of her poverty, had given more than they all.

In 1967 Bent had come to British Columbia, Canada, where I worked at the government employment office. He was looking for work and a place to stay. I found him work, and Martha and I agreed that we had room for one more boarder. We already had two, one of whom was Svend Hansen, a strong Church member.
Svend soon challenged Bent to read the Book of Mormon, and Bent did so with the intention of finding fault with it. Finding none, he wanted to be baptized. He was the first person baptized in our new stake center.

I have always tried to honor and obey my parents. During my teenage years, when I went home at night I would report to them. Mother would always be awake. Coming home with a clear conscience and being able to tell her where I’d been meant a lot to me. Some of my friends didn’t have to check in with their parents, but I’m grateful that I was expected to be accountable to mine. They helped protect me against temptation.