Gospel Story Finder

Thank you so much for your article in Questions and Answers (Jan. ’02). It talked about what to do if you sometimes feel sad and unhappy, and it also gave some great advice on what to do if you feel “overwhelmingly sad all the time.” It said to tell a trusted adult who will be able to get you some professional help. My 16-year-old son sadly ended his life last year. Our son was a nice, shy, worthy priesthood holder who was active in the Church. He didn’t tell anyone how sad he was feeling, and we didn’t recognize the subtle signs we now know were caused by depression. Instead, we brushed them off as him just going through the teenage years. We later learned that untreated depression is the number-one cause of suicide. The organs of our bodies, like our hearts, lungs, or kidneys, can become ill. We sometimes don’t realize that another organ, the brain, can also become ill. Depression is a chemical imbalance of the brain that can usually be successfully treated with medication and therapy. Maybe if our son would have read your article he would have received the courage he needed to ask for help. I hope there is someone out there who reads this article and then asks an adult for help.
Stacy HonePayson, Utah (via e-mail)

“What color was the sky today, Benjy?”
Benjy picked up his pewter supper plate and took it into the dark little bedroom where his twin sister, Betsy, lay ill. She and their mother had eaten earlier, but she liked to have Benjy sit near as he ate.
“Why, uh, blue, I guess. Isn’t the sky always blue?”
“Oh, no, Benjy! It can be almost white, or nearly black or gray. And there are so many different blues. Was it blue-blue all over, or sort of white-blue, like it can be when there are lots and lots of high thin clouds? Or was it an angry blue—very dark, as though a storm might be coming? What color was it, Benjy?”
Benjy hadn’t left the glassworks, where he had been apprenticed to Mr. Gibson for all of his three years in Boston, until almost dusk. He had made deliveries along the way—one square pane of glass to Mr. Edmund Litton, and two roundels for Mr. Alexander Greene. But Benjy had had his mind on not breaking the precious glass and had not noticed the sky.
“I’m sorry, Betsy,” he said. “When I went on errands today, I guess I had my mind on other things. Did you know that Mr. Trenton will return in two weeks? That means there will be another month or two of school. I was so pleased to hear that news that I guess I just didn’t notice the sky.”
Benjy hated to disappoint her. Sometimes he forgot how long the days were for a twelve-year-old who had to spend most of them in bed. Dr. Bryant said that the weakness in her heart came as a result of the high fever she had last winter. He hoped that with plenty of good food and rest, the time would come when she could again run and play as other children did, without pain or shortness of breath.
The heavy piece of waxed paper in the cabin window made the bedroom dark, even at midday. Someway, somehow, Benjy had to get a pane of glass for Betsy’s window.
Mother did fine sewing for ladies who lived in the big houses high up on King’s Row. She worked hard but made only enough for food and other necessities for the three of them. She heard Betsy’s question now and came to Benjy’s aid. “The sky was blue-blue, Betsy—just like your very own eyes, not greenish-blue, like Benjy’s. And the sunlight? It was every bit as warm as your smile. Today was what your father used to call a ‘Betsy Day’ because it was just like you. Remember?”
Betsy laughed, delighted. “A Betsy Day! I haven’t heard those words in so long, not since Papa …” She stopped and her face clouded, remembering that great storm at sea three years before, after which neither her father nor his boat had been found.
A good friend to the family, Mr. Gibson had taken Benjy on right away as an apprentice. “You are a bit lacking in years, lad, and ordinarily I wouldn’t have one so young around the molten glass. But I have confidence in you, and if you mind instruction, we should get along. Now find your tongue, lad. Be you willing to do what is to be done, rather than what you might be wanting to do?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, Mr. Gibson! Then, when I have a trade, I will be able to help my mother—”
Mr. Gibson had interrupted. “Now, understand from the first, lad. There is no pay until you have finished your apprenticeship. That won’t be the day after tomorrow. Seven years it is, lad. But you’ll be getting an early start, and after those seven years, well, we’ll have a place for you in the Gibson Glassworks. Or, who knows, perhaps you’ll set up your own business. Glass is here to stay, and people will always be wanting to have windows in their houses. So it’s a good chance I’m offering you, lad—but best know from the beginning that it won’t be easy.”
Mr. Gibson had been right. It had not been easy. Benjy began by working next to the great brick oven in the center of the furnace room, sweeping up the fine white sand and lime and soda ash that spilled from the shovels. Later he began shoveling the ingredients into the big pot himself. And later yet, Mr. Gibson entrusted him to deliver some of the smaller panes to the buyers.
But Benjy was still anxiously awaiting the day when Mr. Gibson would think him ready to blow the glass himself—to dip the end of the long blowpipe into a glowing, orange-red mass and see the magic of the expanding glass as he blew.
Benjy felt confident that he could do it. He had seen his master and Rolf, who also worked with him, do it many times. So though he had kept his promise to Mr. Gibson, his eagerness grew to try his hand at blowing the glass. He wanted to make a windowpane for Betsy, although he didn’t know how he could pay for it. If only he were making a very small salary! If only he had time to take another job.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful—Mr. Gibson even gave him time off for school, allowing him to work before and after class to make up for the time. Few apprentices had that privilege! But Mr. Gibson had told him, “You must learn to read and cipher, lad, if you are ever to have your own business. It is important that you be present when the schoolmaster is in town.”
Other than this, however, Mr. Gibson made it clear that the boy’s time belonged to him. There were always ashes to be removed, cleaning to be done, and deliveries to be made, and the master insisted that his apprentice be there, working.
Benjy appreciated the schooling, and not just for himself. With their mother’s help, he taught his lessons to Betsy. She would draw the lamp closer to her bed in her dark little room, and she soon was reading better than Benjy. It pleased her to find that on occasion she could help him.
“The Bible is so big. It has so many words,” he complained once in his struggle to read it.
“I know, Benjy. But it is a blessing to be able to read the words of God. And once you can read the Bible, think how well you will be able to read other books when we get them.”
He was kept so busy at the glassworks that it gave him a feeling of guilt to return at night and realize that all day long he had given little thought to Betsy. On stormy days the closed shutters made the room darker than ever.
It was on just such a day that he arrived home and Betsy asked again, “Benjy, what color was the sky?”
This time Benjy knew. “It was bright blue this morning, Betsy. Then about noon, when I took a pane of glass over to the church, the clouds were coming in and it was more gray than blue. Tonight as I was walking home, at sundown, the clouds were quite black, but rimmed with gold at the sundowning. I wish you had seen it, Betsy. …”
He stopped, knowing only too well how very much she wanted to. If only he could get the glass! Through the little window to the west she could see the sundowns herself.
On his thirteenth birthday, it happened! Mr. Gibson said, “This is the day, Benjy. You are beginning to be a man, and you are beginning to be a glassblower. You have watched Rolf and me often enough. On this day you shall try it for yourself.”
As much as he had wanted this moment to come, Benjy’s hands were shaking as he picked up the blowpipe. Stepping up to the big pot that held the red bubbling mass, he dipped the rod in carefully, lifted the glowing ball, and began to blow. As Mr. Gibson had instructed him, he blew gently, then more gently as the bubble grew and began to thin and expand into a long tube.
When the tube started to cool and harden, Mr. Gibson helped Benjy take it off the blowpipe, cut off its ends, and slit it lengthwise. Then Benjy reheated it enough to bend it flat and smooth it out.
Both Rolf and Mr. Gibson applauded. “There you are!” shouted Mr. Gibson. “You see what we have here, Rolf? No longer just a boy apprentice, but a real glassblower!”
Rolf grinned. “This gives us one more man in the shop. We will be able to make more glass than we have ever made!”
Mr. Gibson nodded, and said to Benjy, “This pane is not quite perfect, but it is wonderfully done for a first one, and you will learn to make them better in time. We’ll hang it on the wall, lad, and then, as you improve with experience, you can compare your panes with this first one.”
Benjy’s heart was pounding harder than when he first dipped the blowpipe into the glass. “You mean you’re not going to melt it down again? You’re just going to hang it on the wall? Here?”
“Why, yes, lad. We could throw it back in, melt it down, and try again, but I thought that you might like to keep your first piece. Do you not wish to see it on the wall?”
“Oh, yes!” Benjy exclaimed. “But if you’re not going to sell it, could you … could I … well, could I put it in Betsy’s window at home?”
When he showed the pane of glass to Betsy, Benjy thought her eyes were the bluest blue he had ever seen.
“Oh, Benjy! How can I ever thank you? I know I’ll be better soon now! I just know it!”
Upon his return from work the following day, it was Benjy who asked, “Betsy, what color is the sky?”
“Blue, Benjy! So very blue!” She looked up at him and grinned. “Aren’t skies always blue?”

As soon as Sister McKee was well, we started sharing the presentation with some of the people we were teaching as a supplement to the discussions. Our most spiritual experience was with the Aranda family. The Arandas wouldn’t commit to baptism even though they were praying and reading and asking questions. We decided to make a final effort. We would share our presentation about the Savior with them.
So began one of the most unforgettable experiences of my mission. As we gave the presentation, Sister McKee and I could hardly read our parts because our emotion was so great. When it was over, no one dared to break the silence and interrupt the peace that had filled the room. Brother Aranda had his head down. When he finally spoke, his eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t know what it is that I am feeling here”—he pointed to his chest—“but it is so strong, so wonderful, that I can’t express it.”
When we returned a few days later, the Arandas had decided to be baptized.

Born in Semarang, Indonesia, in 1914, Julie was one of six children. Her father died when she was eight, and her Chinese mother, who had been disowned by her family for marrying a Dutchman, was unable to take care of her children. Julie lived with a foster family for several years until the family was reunited.
Julie finished school, earning a degree in education, and worked as a secretary until she met Rudolf Jacobs, whom she married in 1938. When World War II started, Rudolf, an experienced pilot, was called into action and soon became a Japanese prisoner of war.
Julie, pregnant with twins, was left to care for her infant son. As she struggled for the next three years to provide for her children, she sold knitting and other handiwork, trading everything she could to obtain food.
Rudolf returned from the prisoner-of-war camp very sick and underweight, and the family decided to move to the Netherlands, where better medical help was available. So in 1947 Julie left Indonesia, not realizing she would never return to the land of her birth.
Six years later, Rudolf Jacobs was killed in a plane crash and Julie was again left to provide for her family—four children ranging in age from five to fourteen. She went to work teaching typing and shorthand. In 1960 Julie suffered another blow when her oldest son was killed in a car accident.
Reeling under the loss—“It felt like part of my body had been torn away”—Julie experienced a crisis of faith.
“I couldn’t understand why I had to go through this,” she says. “I struggled every morning and evening to bend my knees in prayer, as I was used to doing, but I found I could not pray.”
Even though Julie had never attended a church, she had a strong belief in God that pulled her through. “After a while I heard a voice that seemed to repeat, ‘And still God is love.’”
She began to pray once more. “In thankfulness to my Father in Heaven, I searched for a church where I could serve him.” One rainy evening in 1962, two Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Jacobs’s door.
Not long after, one of Julie’s sons was baptized, followed by her sister and mother. But Julie was not yet convinced. The evening before her daughter was to be baptized, a missionary challenged her to pray in an effort to gain a testimony of the gospel.
“I did not promise the missionary anything,” Julie remembers.
“And when I said my prayers that night I did not mention the Church. But in the middle of the night I woke up with an urgent need to ask Father in Heaven if this was indeed the true church where I could serve him.
“Never had I prayed so sincerely or for so long. And never had I felt God’s love and strength as I did on that night. When my prayer was over, I saw the sun shining through the curtains at my bedroom window. As I gazed outside in the early morning hour, I felt a happiness and peace I had not known since before my son’s death,” she recalls, her face reflecting the wonder of that morning a quarter of a century ago. She was baptized that very day, along with her daughter.
For the next twenty-one years, Sister Jacobs served in the Relief Society. For five years she was Relief Society president of The Hague Netherlands Stake. “It wasn’t always easy, but during those years I learned to kneel in prayer often to receive the help and inspiration I needed.”
Three times a year a special week in the London Temple is organized for the Dutch members. “We usually leave at night, driving for several hours,” Sister Jacobs explains. “Then we take the night boat to England, and drive for three hours. Each day we are there, we arrive at the temple before 6 A.M. and stay until 6 P.M. When I get back to Holland I am tired, but happy that I was able to work in the house of the Lord.”
“Life isn’t always easy,” Sister Jacobs admits. “But our final reward will be that God will lovingly take us in his arms when we leave this world. Thinking about that gives me the courage to accept the things that happen in my life.”

When I was in my last year of Primary, a wonderful older lady named Marth Christensen was our teacher. She helped us learn the Articles of Faith. To this day I still know the Articles of Faith because of what I learned in Primary. We visited Sister Christensen’s home often. It was always a wonderful experience to be there. She taught us cooking skills, and we made cookies and candy. Sometimes we took the treats we had made to somebody who was homebound. The examples of wonderful teachers taught me to serve.

The big glass jar had the words “Fill Your Life with Service” on the side. Each week the young women and their leaders from the Titusville Ward in Florida anonymously wrote down the acts of service they had given during the week. The slips of paper were then rolled, taped, and placed in the jar. The young women used yellow paper, and the leaders used green. Plus, on one Mutual night for each of the six months of the project the young women held a service activity.
The first month focused on service to family, week two on friends, and then the priesthood, neighbors, community, and the world. The slips of paper revealed all kinds of service: “I helped my brother with his homework,” “I baked my friend a cake,” “I volunteered at the animal shelter,” “I sent some mail to missionaries from our ward.”
Jessica Crook, a Beehive, said, “I think the activities helped all of us understand more about helping and serving others.” In the end there were more yellow papers than green, so the young women were rewarded with a dinner prepared and served by their leaders.

One morning I was walking up a steep hill on the south side of the Brigham Young University campus when I heard a crash behind me. I turned around and saw a young man lying facedown on the pavement, his bike several yards away in pieces. I stood in shock until he weakly tried to lift his head. Then I hurried toward him, along with four other people who had been walking up the hill.
The student who reached the biker first carefully turned him over, revealing severe cuts on the biker’s lips, nose, chin, and eyebrow. Another student called for help on his cell phone. A young mother standing next to me offered a piece of cloth, and the first student stanched the biker’s bleeding lip with it. A second woman and I stood by, anxiously waiting for paramedics to come.
The injured man’s eyes flickered open, and he looked in confusion at the faces around him.
“Where am I?” he said. “What happened?”
The student holding the cloth to his lips answered, “You’re on the south side of campus. You crashed your bike.”
The biker groaned. “It hurts,” he said. “Help me.”
The student said that help was on the way and asked the young man his name.
“David,” he said, sobbing softly. “Where am I?” he asked again.
An older man in a suit—likely a professor—approached and asked David if he wanted a blessing. He nodded gratefully.
The professor paused. “I don’t have any oil, though,” he said, looking around. Those nearby shook their heads. The injured young man groaned and feebly gestured toward his pocket. The student next to him reached inside it and pulled out a large key ring with a small vial of consecrated oil attached.
“He has some!” exclaimed the student.
The biker calmed down as soon as the professor and the male students laid their hands on his head and gave him a blessing. A feeling of calm came over me too as the professor promised the young man that he would recover, be at peace, and draw nearer to the Savior through this experience.
Soon the paramedics came and took the biker away. As I walked to class, I realized that he carried consecrated oil with him so he could use the priesthood to bless someone in need. This day, however, he himself was blessed. I left with a deep feeling of love for faithful men who live ready to bless others and for the Lord, who also blesses them.

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
I stared out the window as I washed my hands in the kitchen sink. It was a very warm summer day and the birds were singing. The sun was bright and the grass was green. I could see the little dirt road that ran down the hill past our house to the fields, which were flooded again. This happened all the time when the water was let into the canal so the farmers could water.
I was just about to return to my afternoon hideout in my room when I got a sudden feeling that I should go play with my brothers. And even though I couldn’t hear them and I hadn’t seen them for hours, somehow I knew they were outside playing in the water.
Now, I really like my brothers. Blake was 5, and Morgan was almost 4. And even though I enjoyed spending time with them, I didn’t usually seek them out to play. But this time, I knew I needed to.
As I left the house, heading toward the flooded road and the ditch beyond, my main concern was that I didn’t want to get wet. A small children’s tricycle was sitting next to the road, so I used it like a scooter to begin my journey through the water.
The dirt road that led to the neighbor’s field ran on top of a culvert, a drainage pipe that carried water underneath the road and let the water out into the ditch on the other side. As I was making my way toward the culvert, I heard yelling and instantly knew I had to get there fast! Abandoning the tricycle, I ran through the water to the ditch. As the water drained through the culvert, it made a whirlpool. It was an impressive sight. But when I saw my brothers, I gasped.
Morgan had been sucked in! Blake was standing on one side of the culvert’s opening and Travis, our cousin who was the same age as Blake, was standing on the other side. The water was swirling around their legs and each of them was grasping one of Morgan’s hands. Only Morgan’s head and arms were above water. Only the desperate grips of two small boys were keeping him from being swept into the culvert.
Morgan went under the water. Blake and Travis pulled with all their might and were able to bring him up just far enough that his head came out of the water again. Thoughts of confusion and panic were rushing through my head. The one thing I remember thinking was that it was going to be hard to pull Morgan out of the water, like pulling your foot out of mud that’s halfway to your knees. But when I grabbed him and pulled, it was more like pulling a hot knife out of butter. He just slid out of the water.
The current from the whirlpool was so strong that it had pulled off Morgan’s shoes and socks. I bundled him up in the other boys’ shirts and laid him in a wagon and took him home.
After we got home and told Mom what happened, I went back down to the ditch to get Morgan’s stuff. What I saw there made my heart stop. On the other end of the culvert was a grate that had been welded on. It was there to keep anything other than water from leaving the culvert. The grate was full of garbage, and nothing bigger than a leaf was getting through. Had Morgan been pulled into the culvert, he wouldn’t have come out. He would have been stopped by that grate and drowned.
I know it was the Holy Ghost who gave me the impression to go play with my brothers that day, and it was because of the Holy Ghost that I knew where my brothers were. I’m thankful I have the Holy Ghost with me to help protect me and those I love. And I’m thankful I listened when I was inspired to go play with my brothers.

I was a missionary serving in Sendai, Japan. Early in December we had a heavy snow, which was unusual for Sendai’s mild climate. As my companion and I were leaving the apartment that morning, we noticed our neighbors trying to clear the snow from the parking lot so the cars could get out. No one had snow shovels, so housewives and kids were trying to remove the deep blanket of snow with whatever they had. My companion and I armed ourselves with frying pans and dustpans and joined our neighbors. I had never had so much fun clearing snow before. When the parking lot was cleared, we poured some hot water on our bike chains and gears to unfreeze them and went tracting.
As we tracted that day and throughout the month of December, I noticed my companion making notes as we left some of the houses. We were having a terrible month with very few teaching opportunities, and I finally asked him what he was doing. He replied that he was simply making a list of people who were nice to us, even if they weren’t interested in our message.
As Christmas got closer, my companion and I really started to catch the spirit of the season. We went to the nearby canal bank where some evergreens were growing and cut off a branch. In our apartment, we stuck the branch in a two-liter glass bottle and hung Japanese coins on the branch as ornaments. We strung Styrofoam packing peanuts on dental floss and wrapped them around the branch. Since the branch was too flimsy to support our tin-foil star, we suspended it from the ceiling with dental floss so it hung about two inches above the top of the branch. We decorated our wall with Christmas cards we received from home. Altogether, we thought the apartment looked very festive.
The streets became snow packed, with two ruts where the cars would drive. We would ride our bikes down the outside rut in the road. When a car approached, we’d climb up onto the snowbank with our bikes to let it pass. As we rode, we would sing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs, which was quite a feat in the cold winter air as we panted in our hurry to reach our destination.
On Christmas morning, my companion woke up early and made a racket in the kitchen. I was looking forward to a big breakfast, but when I finally wandered into the kitchen, all I got was a piece of toast. Instead of a Christmas breakfast, my companion had baked chocolate chip cookies to take around the neighborhood.
After we opened the presents we had received from home, we used the wrapping paper from our gifts to wrap copies of the Book of Mormon. Using the list my companion had made of people who were nice to us, we delivered plates of cookies and gift-wrapped copies of the Book of Mormon to the people on the list. Many of them were surprised to see us again, but we explained that on Christmas it’s customary to give presents to your neighbors. We told them that the present we gave them was precious because it contained the word of God and His Son, Jesus Christ, whose birth is commemorated at Christmastime. Most of them seemed touched that we would return to their home with a gift, and many scrambled back inside and returned with bags of oranges or persimmons to give to us. Many of the people we visited that day accepted the discussions as a result of our service.
As we returned to our apartment that evening, I felt very peaceful and content. That holiday season I realized more than ever before that Christmas is all about Christ. It is easy to see that the focus of His life was service. As we try to emulate His life, the Christmas season presents a unique opportunity to serve our fellow men and open doors to share the gospel with them. I’m grateful for that memorable missionary Christmas that taught me what the true spirit of Christmas really is.

Perhaps I can place in clearer perspective all that I have said about the oath and covenant of the priesthood by relating a story based on a true experience.

The son of a very wealthy man was called to serve a full-time mission. He entered the mission field and began his work. At first things went well; however, as he met rejections and as other challenges of finding and teaching surfaced, the young man’s faith wavered.

Mission associates gave encouragement, but it did not seem to help. One day the young man announced to the mission president that he was abandoning his call; he was returning home. The mission president did all within his power to dissuade the missionary. It was to no avail.

When word of the missionary’s decision reached the father, he obtained permission to visit his son in the mission field. In one of many tense conversations, the father said, “My son, I have lived for the day when you would serve a full-time mission. I did so because I love you and I love God. And I know that there is no work more essential than that of teaching truth to the peoples of the world.”

Somewhat sobered by his father’s words, the son meekly replied, “Dad, I didn’t realize that a mission meant so much to you.”

“It means everything to me,” the father declared. Then he added with some emotion, “All my life I have worked and saved with one person in mind: you. And my one goal has been to provide you a decent inheritance.”

“But Dad,” the son interjected, “the work is difficult and I don’t enjoy …”

The father didn’t allow him to finish his sentence. Instead he asked, “How can I trust my businesses to your care if you cannot prove yourself by serving the Lord for two short years?”

There was an awkward pause as the son pondered the father’s question and studied his anxious countenance.

Then with measured words, the father promised, “My son, my only heir, if you will be faithful in this calling and prove yourself worthy in every respect, all that I possess will be yours.”

Noticeably touched by these earnest pleadings, the son rose to his feet, embraced his father, and sobbed, “I will stay.”

The son did stay in the mission field; he did serve faithfully from that day forward. And yes, in due time, he received from his father the promised inheritance, even all that his father had to share.

Several years ago, we lived in the suburbs of Brisbane in Queensland, Australia. On one beautiful Sunday afternoon, we decided to take our family out to a known footpath that would lead up to the Brisbane Temple. We drove with our five young children to the Brisbane CBD where the large Brisbane River winds through its center. At one point, the river has carved out beautiful and dramatic cliffs. Wonderful for rappelling and climbing, the Kangaroo Point Cliffs are a famous attraction right in Brisbane’s busy downtown waterway.
We drove down the hill toward the water’s edge and parked near the base of these cliffs. Then we pleasantly strolled through a park over to the side of the cliffs where a paved footpath was built to lead those from the bottom of the cliffs to the top. As we made our way there, our eyes wandered to what lay across the wide river: a stunning view of skyscrapers and high rises. We followed those along with our eyes until the buildings dipped down and gave way to a brush of trees and bamboo directly opposite us. We knew that brush made up the Brisbane Botanical Gardens.
Taking in deep breaths of the vegetation drenched in a recent shower, we turned to our object, and maneuvered around the railing of the path to begin what we anticipated to be a spiritual and happy time together.
We had taken only a few steps onto the trail when a blaring electric guitar, and muffled talking over a microphone, sounded. Startled, we looked back in the direction of the sound, only to see the dense brush of the botanical gardens across the river. It occurred to us that in the amphitheater of the gardens, hidden from view, a concert was starting.
As we took more steps, drums and yells echoed across the water and bounced loudly off the nearby cliffs. Rounding a bend, we slowly ascended the first switchback. Deep screams and growls from the amphitheater began to cloud our thinking and made it difficult to have conversation. But, with good faith and optimism we determined to cheerfully go on—perhaps, wishfully thinking the heavy metal concert would end soon.
On we pressed, but as we did, so did the concert. We continued through several more switchbacks. The deafening sounds of the concert continued. I began to feel annoyance, even frustration. Why was this happening? How could other’s choices have this much influence and distraction over mine?
The trail was now getting steeper and we gripped the metal railing for support. As we went up, the volume of the concert also seemed to climb. It now became difficult to think of anything else. Occasionally, after traversing steep sections, we would pause to catch our breath and have a look at the views. The skyline was beginning to grey against the lowering sun.
Our eyes penetrated the dark and deep water that was now so far below. A memory came to my mind: another day we had floated that river together on a hot afternoon. The guide of our tour boat had taught us about the danger of the river due to bull sharks that swam up from the nearby harbor. Because of the ocean’s backflows, that dark river water was actually salty.
Up again we went. Tired from both the climbing and the jarring music, our optimism was fading. We tried to enjoy each other and the hike, but the screams and language worsened with each of the rock band’s numbers. Now, unable to hear each other, we quietly hiked along with our children. The views were beautiful, but the noises seemed to block the Spirit and any feelings of peace. Our pleasant time together was being ruined.
Presently, a thought came to me: “Isn’t this life? Is this not the vision of Lehi?” I considered the screeching heavy metal which seemed to be mocking us all the way. I looked again at the deep and dangerous river and glanced up at the “great and spacious” buildings on the other side. I felt the “rod” there, cold in my hands, protecting me and my family from a great fall (see 1 Nephi 8).
Several more minutes went by. I guess these thoughts were consoling me. Life is not meant to be perfect. Maybe its imperfections are the very things we need to become perfect.
I watched my tennis shoes plant on each narrow step. And then one of the most empowering, and loving impressions came over me: this music may be annoying, the yells were too, but they were not stopping us from putting one foot in front of another. Nor were the voices and sways of the world. They, in themselves had absolutely no power, because we were giving them none. We were free to act for ourselves!
I began to hike with a new determination.
How many times since have I heard the screams of close family members and friends walking and laughing away from the Church and into forbidden roads, beckoning me to follow? How many temptations, burdens, or feelings have I experienced which made the way difficult to see or the gospel extremely hard to focus on? At times, these noises have even blocked my ability to feel the Spirit.
But no matter the racket, how heavy the burden, or how dark or confusing the feeling, nothing has been successful in stopping me from walking step-by-step with the Lord back to His house. Exercising faith and repentance, we constantly move forward.
As dusk settled on us that evening in Brisbane, we all smiled together for a photo while shouts and guitars swirled in our ears. But in the background of that photo stood the temple. We had made it!
I testify, that every one of us CAN make it back to our Heavenly Father’s loving home. He is there waiting for us.

The next morning I was up a little before five, tossing bundles of the Herald onto the back seat of the car. During the night the snow had stopped and the world was buried under its wet cottony mass. I glanced down the driveway and wondered if I should take a few minutes to push some of the snow away before pulling out. Blowing on my numb fingertips and stomping the snow from my feet, I shook my head. I didn’t have time, I reasoned. And I was sure I could get out without getting stuck.
The first stop I made was at Sister Rencher’s. With most people I didn’t make the effort to set the paper inside the front door. I just tossed it in the general direction of the porch. But with Sister Rencher I made an exception because it was so hard for her to get around. I snatched a paper off the back seat, stepped from the car, and sprinted for the front steps. I stopped at the end of the walk and stared in disbelief. The front walk and steps were swept completely clean. I glanced at my watch—5:15 A.M. “Boy, somebody’s sure been up early this morning,” I muttered, hurrying up the clean walk and setting the paper inside the storm door. “Maybe Sister Rencher can get around with that walker better than I thought,” I grinned.
“That was quick,” Dad called to me as I burst in from the cold 90 minutes later. He was just putting on his coat and stuffing papers into his briefcase before heading out the door for work.
“There’s a ton of snow out there,” I remarked. “It must have snowed another four inches after we went to bed.”
“I guess you cleaned off the walks and driveway,” Dad joked.
“What did you want me to do, get up at three o’clock?” I grinned back. “I was lucky to get the papers delivered. But somebody was sure up early. Sister Rencher’s walks were clean as spring.”
Dad smiled. “What about Sister Hatch’s and Sister Ballard’s?”
“Dad, I was delivering papers, not home teaching. I don’t go over that way.”

Elena R., 13 , also felt nervous about camp but for a different reason. She was excited to accept the Fit Challenge and to share what she was doing with her friends at school, but she was worried they might make fun of her. She invited one of her friends who is not a Church member to participate in the Fit Challenge with her, and to her surprise, the friend accepted. The two finished the challenge and went to camp together.
“I just felt like this would be a really great opportunity for her to learn about the gospel,” Elena said. “I was really excited that she was reading the Book of Mormon every day. I thought Young Women camp would be a great time to learn about the Church because we’d be around girls our age who are part of the Church.”

My mind goes back in memory to a general priesthood meeting held in 1956. At that time I was serving in the stake presidency of the Temple View Stake here in Salt Lake City. Percy K. Fetzer, John R. Burt, and I, the stake presidency, had come to the Tabernacle early, that hopefully we might find a place to sit. We were among the first to enter the Tabernacle and had almost two hours to wait before the meeting would begin.
President Fetzer related to President Burt and me an experience from his missionary days in Germany. He described how one rainy night he and his companion were to present a gospel message to a group assembled in a schoolhouse. A protester had broadcast falsehoods concerning the Church, and a number of people threatened violence against the two missionaries. At a critical moment, a woman who was a widow stepped between the elders and the angry group and said, “These young men are my guests and are coming to my home now. Please make way for us to leave.”
The crowd parted, and the missionaries walked through the rainy night with their benefactress, arriving at length at her modest home. She placed their wet coats over the kitchen chairs and invited the missionaries to sit at the table while she prepared food for them. After eating, the elders presented a message to the kind lady who had befriended them. A young son of the woman was invited to come to the table, but he refused, preferring his position of solitude and warmth directly behind the kitchen stove.
President Fetzer concluded the account with the comment, “While I don’t know if that woman ever joined the Church, I’ll forever be grateful to her for her kindness that rain-drenched night thirty-three years ago.”
The brethren sitting in front of us here in the Tabernacle had been speaking to one another also. After a while, we began listening to their conversation. One asked the friend sitting next to him, “Tell me how you came to be a member of the Church.”
The brother responded, “One rainy night in Germany, my mother brought to our house two drenched missionaries whom she had rescued from a mob. Mother fed the elders, and they presented to her a message concerning the work of the Lord. They invited me to join the discussion, but I was shy and fearful, so I remained secure in my seat behind the stove. Later, when I once more heard about the Church, I remembered the courage and faith, as well as the message, of those two humble missionaries, and this led to my conversion. I suppose I’ll never meet those two missionaries here in mortality, but I’ll be forever grateful to them. I know not where they were from. I think one was named Fetzer.”
At this point, President Burt and I looked at President Fetzer and noticed the great tears which coursed down his cheeks. Without saying a word to us, President Fetzer tapped on the shoulder of the man in front of us who had just related his conversion experience. To him he then said, “I’m Bruder Fetzer. I was one of the two missionaries whom you befriended that night. I’m grateful to meet the boy who sat behind the stove—the lad who listened and who learned.”
I do not remember the messages delivered during the priesthood meeting that night, but I shall never forget the faith-filled conversation which preceded the commencement of the meeting.

When the Manti Utah Temple was under construction some 120 years ago, George Paxman worked as a finish carpenter. He and his young wife, Martha, had one child and were expecting another.
While hanging one of the heavy east doors of the temple, George suffered a strangulated hernia. He was in terrible pain. Martha laid him in a wagon and took him to the town of Nephi, where she put him on the train and took him to Provo. There he died. Spurning marriage, she remained a widow for 62 years, supporting herself with needlework.

June pushed as Grandpa pulled the old red wagon up and down the long rows of vegetables. Grandpa stooped to inspect a knee-high, leafy green plant. “June, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?”
June stooped down to look. “Yup.” She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
“Yup,” Grandpa agreed. “Just right.”
June smiled and picked two more. She carefully placed them next to the corn in the wagon. The wagon was almost full, but there were still cucumbers, green beans, and squash to harvest.
She beamed as she looked at the beautiful fresh vegetables in the wagon. There were big red tomatoes, ears of yellow corn, orange carrots, leafy green lettuce, red radishes, and now, big green peppers.
Grandpa and June had planted the big garden in the spring. First they got the soil ready. Next, June helped Grandpa plant seeds in little holes. Then they carefully covered them with dirt.
After the seeds were covered, she helped Grandpa sprinkle the rich, dark soil with water. Up and down the long rows they went, digging and planting and watering.
They had also put in some small plants. “If we plant these instead of seeds, we’ll get vegetables sooner,” Grandpa explained. “I just can’t wait to pop a ripe tomato into my mouth!” Grandpa loved tomatoes.
Together June and Grandpa watered their garden almost every day. Grandpa put on his big black irrigating boots, and June tugged on her little blue rubber puddle hoppers. It was fun walking up and down the long rows, getting their boots muddy while they made sure that each plant got enough to drink.
Grandpa and June spent a lot of time weeding the long rows of vegetables, too. “Weeds drink up all the water,” Grandpa explained. “Now what is this I see?”
June squatted next to Grandpa to have a look. “Does it look like the plants around it?” Grandpa asked.
June compared the green plant to those near it. “Nope.”
“Weed or vegetable?”
“Weed,” June stated firmly and pulled it out with a hard jerk.
“Yup,” Grandpa said with a big smile, “you sure are a good gardener.”
June looked up at Grandpa. “Wow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!”
“Yup, with lots more to come!” He unloaded the last acorn squash from the wagon onto the back porch. He sat down and wiped his forehead with his little red handkerchief. “Well, June, do you think we can eat all these vegetables ourselves?”
“Nope. We couldn’t eat that many in a hundred years.”
“You’re right,” Grandpa replied with a chuckle. “Well then, what do you think we should do with them all? I hate to waste any of our hard work.”
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables and didn’t want to waste any, either. “I know! Let’s share them!”
“Now, that’s what I call a good idea! But who do you think would want some?”
June didn’t have to think very hard. “Sister Rencher doesn’t have a garden since she can’t bend down to pull weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa thoughtfully. “Who else?”
June’s mind was working fast. “Sister Rice works all day. She doesn’t have time to plant and care for a garden.”
“Good thinking, June. And the Sorenson’s next door don’t have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.”
“May we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?” June asked. “I know she would like them.”
“Yup,” Grandpa said. “Now, how many people is that?”
June counted on her fingers. “Sister Rencher is one. Sister Rice is two. The Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.”
Grandpa scratched his gray head. “How can we get all these vegetables to all those people?”
“I know! I know!” She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. “We can put vegetables in a different sack for each person!”
“That’s a great idea,” Grandpa said. Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks.
“How can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?” Grandpa asked.
“Can we take them in our wagon?”
“Yup. I think that will work.” Grandpa said. “You always have such good ideas! Now, who should we visit first?”
“The Sorensons. They’re the closest.”
Later, June held Grandpa’s hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. June’s small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpa’s big one. She felt good inside.
“Grandpa, it’s sure fun to plant a garden. It’s even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know what’s the most fun of all?”
“What?”
“Sharing the vegetables.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a big smile.

Remember names. One youth leader said: “I attended a youth fireside with a guest speaker from outside our stake. I was impressed to see the speaker mingle and visit with the youth before and after the talk. He asked the young people their names and called them by name. He made each individual feel included and important. I decided that if a visiting speaker could make an effort to learn names, I could certainly try harder.”
This youth leader set a goal to learn the name of every young person in his ward and at least a few others he saw regularly at stake functions. “I tried some memory techniques but didn’t find them as helpful as simply writing down names inside the folder I always take to church,” he said. “Then if I forgot a name during the week, a quick glance at my folder would refresh my memory.”

My first few months of being a new member of the Church were rough ones—especially for my friends. On one hand, I was excited about what I had found, the feelings of inner peace and the joy I felt in my close relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
On the other hand, in my excitement to share my new understanding of the restored gospel and its teachings, I started to regularly tell my non-LDS friends when they did something I thought was wrong.
Of course, I was about as subtle as a bull elephant on a charge.
One evening in the early summer, I finally realized how judgmental and self-righteous I had become. About five months after my baptism, I went to an outdoor concert with a good friend. As we walked around the grounds trying to find a spot to eat our picnic before the concert began, I noticed many of the people around us had brought wine to share with their dinner. Not one to pass up an opportunity to show how much wisdom I had acquired by being a member of the Church, I hissed to my friend, “Look at all those people drinking wine—that’s disgusting!”
My kind and patient friend turned to me and said, “I’m sure that when Jewish people go into a restaurant, they don’t walk around and criticize everyone with ham on their plates.”
I finally had the good sense to be silent for a little while and ponder what he said. I realized that in all the lessons I had been taught, there had been no mention of members going forth and judging their neighbors. As a matter of fact, the terms “silent example” and “loving nature” had been used a lot.
Embarrassed, I thanked my friend for his wisdom and apologized for my lack of consideration.
I am happy to report that his message came through loud and clear. I stopped demanding changes from my friends and started demanding change from myself. I still stand strong for the things I believe in, but in a polite way—a way that, happily, has made my friends comfortable in talking to me about the Church.

Bang! Crash! The broomstick hit the garbage can lid such a blow that Steven fell to the ground. “You’re not supposed to hit so hard. I’m not a real dragon, you know.”
“Sorry, Steve,” Mike said. “I know you’re not, but I wish you were. I mean—I just wish there were still dragons around someplace.”
“Me too,” said Steven. “I’d slay them all and rescue people.”
“And when we got back to town they’d have a big parade for us,” suggested Mike.
“And root beer floats,” Steven added.
“But it’s no use,” Mike complained. “There’s nobody to rescue anymore. No dragons. No maidens in distress. Nothing exciting to do.”
“Steven! Are you out there?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I need something at the store. Will you go for me please?”
“OK, Mom, in a minute.”
“That gives me an idea!” Mike said, jumping up from the grass. “There’re still people to rescue. Your mom needs to be rescued right now.”
“That’s not rescuing! I go to the store all the time.”
“Yes, but this is different. Now we’ll go looking for chances to help people just like knights did in the olden days!”
“OK,” said Steve, catching his friend’s enthusiasm. “And if it’s a lady, we can give her a red rose from one of our bushes. Knights love to do stuff like that.”
“Thanks, boys,” said Steven’s mother when they returned from the store. “I really needed these things in a hurry. You saved my day.”
“Well,” said Steven, “that’s our job.”
“Here you are, madam. This red rose is for you to remember us by,” Mike added. “Now we have more knight work to do.”
“Night work?” asked Steven’s mother incredulously, as she put the rose in some water. “But it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon! However, I’m grateful for your help whatever time you’re going by.”
“It was our pleasure, madam, and all in a day’s work,” Mike said, bowing extravagantly.
The boys were pleased as they ran outside. “Now what?” they said, laughing because it sounded like one voice. Looking around for something else to do, they noticed that Mrs. Thompson’s yard was covered with leaves. A half hour later there was not a single fallen leaf to be seen, and a red rose was tucked into Mrs. Thompson’s mailbox. “She’ll never know it was us, “Mike said, grinning with pleasure.
Just then the two knights saw something that alarmed them. Little Jimmy Black had wandered into the street, chasing a big beach ball. And a car was coming around the corner only a block away. “Mike! Quick!” shouted Steven. “You get the ball. But be careful!” The two boys ran at top speed down the sidewalk. Looking carefully, they walked quickly into the street.
Mike grabbed the ball, and Steven picked up Jimmy.
Just as the boys returned to the curb, the car whizzed past and Mrs. Black ran out of her house. “Boys,” she cried, “I can’t thank you enough! I saw Jimmy in the street, but by the time I got here, you already had him out of the path of that car. I’m so grateful to you.”
“That’s all right. You don’t have to thank us. We like doing this kind of work.” The two boys smiled.
Just then Mike’s mother called from his house, “Mike! Steven! Could you come here a minute?”
As the two boys climbed the porch steps, they saw a tray and began to smile. “I thought you might like a treat,” said Mike’s mother.
“Root beer floats!” said Steven. “My favorite!”
“Mine too!” Mike agreed. “Being a real, live knight is lots more fun than fighting pretend dragons.”
When Mike’s mother came out to pick up the tray and glasses, the boys were already gone. But their empty glasses were neatly placed on the table, and beside them lay a beautiful red rose.

When I was in high school, I had the same thoughts as you do. I did poorly and was close to failing. I dropped out in my junior year. I thought I was miserable in school, but it was worse in the working world. Employers are biased against those who don’t hold a high school diploma. Most better-paying jobs require a college degree. If you hate high school now, how will you adjust to college? It’s no fun to work low-paying jobs and not be eligible for better employment. The best thing you can do is to stick it out. It’s a small investment of your time. Pray to our Heavenly Father for the strength and patience to finish high school. If you pray with a sincere heart he will help you.
I am currently in prison. I wish I had the words to tell the hardships I have encountered by dropping out of high school. Not all dropouts end up here, of course, but I’d say at least 80 percent of the population here are dropouts.
Name withheld