Gospel Story Finder

I remember meeting with a man some time back. Seventeen years before, his wife had a problem. She embraced another man in a moment of weakness, and then this was kept a secret for 17 long years. And this good brother, her husband, who had kept the law, who had never violated the code, all of a sudden found out about this, and it almost totally destroyed him. He came to see me and he asked, “What do you think I should do?”

And I said, “You must forget and forgive. And when I say forget, it must be taken from your mind forever and ever.”

He said, “But I can’t. I can’t get it off my mind, seeing her in someone else’s arms.”

And I said, “Then you remember what it was like in the temple, and you view her in your mind every time kneeling across the altar from you. I am sure she has been punished enough and has suffered enough; she needs no more. She has repented, and you forgive her.”

Well, he took that advice and was kind enough to follow it.

Now back to Highway 89. I have recounted the experience of my first two photographic trips along the highway, but it was on my third trip where I really challenged myself to see the possibilities that the highway offered. This trip was undertaken with a much different goal in mind: I determined that I would travel the entirety of the highway—more than 2,200 miles—and that I would make a photograph every mile. This time the project took more than a year and dozens of excursions to complete. What I learned over those months of driving, stopping, looking, thinking, and photographing made me a more intense observer and a better photographer. In the same manner, we need to practice seeing the miracles that God has provided and that He continues to provide to us daily. It isn’t always easy. Let me share an example of a small miracle which I nearly missed because I was out of practice and viewing things through a lens of skepticism. This miracle happened years ago when my son Chris was very young. Chris had come to tour the space research facility where I worked with his elementary school class. At the end of the tour, I was supposed to take Chris and run some errands before heading home. As usual, I was in a hurry. Our car at that time had a slowly failing battery—it sometimes took two to three tries before the car would start. When we got into the car to run our errands, I turned the key and to my dismay all I got was “click-click-click.” I tried it again. Same result. Again. Same result. I probably repeated this eight to ten times and by then even the clicking was getting weaker. I was upset and I slammed my palms on the steering wheel in frustration. Then from the back seat I heard Chris say, “Don’t worry, Dad. I will say a prayer that the car will start.” I thought to myself, “Don’t bother. The battery is dead. It ain’t going to start.” I was just about to get out of the car to call my wife when Chris said, “Try it again.” I almost didn’t. I knew better. A prayer wouldn’t change anything. But it did. I turned the key once again and . . . the motor turned over!
I took a moment, said a silent prayer of my own, one of thanks and seeking forgiveness for my faithless skepticism.
Was that small event really a miracle? For me it absolutely was. It was a miracle showing that God cares about even the little things in our lives. It wasn’t flashy or showy. No mountains moved. No one was healed. But it was a miracle. God was teaching me to see.

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

One night Joseph and Emma stayed up late to take care of the babies, who were both sick. A mob of angry men came into the home. The men grabbed Joseph and carried him away from the house.
The wicked men hurt Joseph and poured hot tar on him.
When the mob left, Joseph was very weak. He crawled back to the house. When Emma saw Joseph hurt, she fainted.
Joseph’s friends carefully washed him.
Sunday morning—the next day—Joseph preached to the congregation as usual. Some of the men from the mob came to listen.
Joseph and Emma’s baby son caught a bad cold the night the mob attacked Joseph. A few days later, the baby died. But Joseph and Emma continued to have faith in Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation.

Let me tell you another experience about a friend of mine. His name was Robbie Shields. He’ll never go down in the annals of history as one of the great men of the world—only a few people knew him in the Church. The thing that Robbie Shields had going for him was that the Lord loved him. Robbie Shields lived next door to me in his later life. As my brother and I were growing up, first he was my brother’s senior home-teaching companion, and then he was mine, always faithful, always there, always with a word of prayer before we went out, always taking care of the duties of a home teacher with faithfulness and loyalty, always helping us to do our job as Aaronic Priesthood bearers and home teachers.

I can remember sitting in the Tooele First Ward on many occasions on fast Sunday and listening to Robbie, who would always sit on the north side halfway back, tell of the experience of how the Lord spoke to him. In his younger days he was teaching a Sunday School class, and they were looking for an answer to one of their questions. He prayed and searched and read and prayed and searched and read.

One day he was out hauling hay in Pine Canyon. He was by himself forking the hay onto the wagon when a voice spoke to him calling him by name.

He said to the voice, “Who are you?” and the voice said, “I am the Lord.”

Robbie Shields said, “Why can’t I see you?”

The voice said, “Because you don’t have to.” That was absolutely true for Brother Shields. Robbie Shields had the faith and testimony to keep him true whether he heard the Lord’s voice or not. The Lord gave him the answer to the question he had as a Sunday School teacher. I heard, as many of us did, Brother Shields giving that testimony many times.

It taught me a number of lessons in my young life. One is that the Lord does speak to us. Sometimes He speaks to us the way that He spoke to Robbie Shields. More often than not He speaks to us the way He spoke to Enos, that is, He speaks to our mind and to our heart, but He does speak to us. It taught me another lesson in my young life, and that is that He doesn’t usually speak to us in the classroom. I know He can speak to us anyplace. He wishes, but usually He doesn’t speak to us in the classroom. He doesn’t always immediately speak to us when we contemplate and study and look at a question.

The Lord didn’t speak to Robbie Shields in the classroom. He spoke to him as he was out in the world performing his every day duties, carrying on his individual activities, doing that which was expected of him, earning his living, keeping the commandments. I have come to know that, if the Lord is going to speak to us, that is quite often how it happens.

I would like to tell you about a little bird that was lying on the parking lot pavement. During the night it had been blown from its nest by the high winds in the storm. Apparently hatched just a few days earlier, it had few feathers, but enough to identify it as just a common sparrow.
As it lay there awaiting whatever fate would come, a young woman walking to her car in the parking lot saw the little sparrow and picked it up. Feeling sympathy for the helpless little bird she took it home to care for it. She prepared a nest in a basket with soft tissues, which were changed often to keep a clean and comfortable bed for the little bird.
She fed it often each day, watching it gain strength, and within a few days it opened its eyes and could see for the first time. It saw the girl who fed it and the family who lived in the home. It heard and became accustomed to the sounds around it, and it was not afraid.
As the days passed, it was able to hop about, and it was taken from the basket and put into a clean birdcage.
It trusted the girl and the family, and when it wanted food, it would chirp and flutter its growing wings rapidly, and when the cage door was opened it would hop out onto the girl’s hand and sit there patiently while she fed it.
It would sit on her hand as she walked through the house and even when she went outside. To help it become accustomed to the outside world where it soon would have to live, she would take it out on the lawn where she and her sister would sit under the tree and visit while the bird would look and observe all around it.
It came time for the girl and her sister to go to girls’ camp, so the bird went with them and spent the week on Cedar Mountain with the girls. It was there that it tried to fly for the first time, flying from the girl’s hand to the low branches in a nearby tree.
It was glad to come back to the familiar hand and security of the girl’s love, and although it was learning to fly it did not leave. When the girls’ camp was over the bird came home with the girls and continued its flying lessons.
The girl, realizing the bird must soon join its own kind, took it out on the front lawn and encouraged it to fly away. It flew across the lawn to a small pine tree, where it perched and looked around. The girl left it there, assuming it would now join the other birds, and she returned into the home.
It wasn’t long before a chirping could be heard outside in front of the home, and when the girl went out to see what the bird was chirping about, it flew out of the tree and landed back on her hand, and she fed it.
For the first few nights the bird would come back to the house and want to come in with the family for the night. Soon, however, it began to stay out with newly found friends living in the trees close by the home. When the girl would go outside and whistle, it would respond and return and land on her hand, and my daughter, Trinilee, would feed it.
That little bird and my daughter taught me a great lesson in faith and trust. Although it was just a fraction of the size of its human friend and could be in great danger for its life amongst humans, it trusted her and had faith it would not be harmed and would be fed by her—and it responded to her beckoning call.

In the April conference of 1951, the same year that he and Emma Ray celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary, David Oman McKay stood in the Tabernacle on Temple Square and spoke to those assembled. At the age of seventy-eight, he was unanimously sustained by the Saints as the prophet, seer, and revelator—and President of the Church.
“Brethren and sisters, brethren of the General Authorities,” he began, “God keep us as one, overlooking weaknesses we see, keeping an eye single to the glory of God and the advancement of his work.
“And now to the members of the Church. We all need your help, your faith and prayers, not your adverse criticism, but your help. You can do that in prayer if you cannot reach us in person. The potency of these prayers throughout the Church came to me yesterday when I received a letter from a neighbor in my old home town. He was milking his cows when the word came over the radio which he had in his barn, that President Smith had passed. He sensed what that would mean to his former fellow-townsman, and he left his barn and went to the house and told his wife. Immediately they called their little children, and there in that humble home, suspending their activities, they knelt down as a family and offered prayer. The significance of that prayer I leave for you to understand. Multiply that by a hundred thousand, two hundred thousand, half a million homes, and see the power in the unity and prayers, and in the sustaining influence in the body of the Church.”
President McKay’s administration, like his life before, was filled with remarkable accomplishment. He and Sister McKay went to nation after nation to visit and bless both members and nonmembers. Temple building commenced in many countries, missionary activities expanded, Church population grew. A great spirit of progress seemed to captivate everyone, and goodwill developed toward the Latter-day Saints.
But it was his commitment to love every person that thrilled Church members. One day a Sunday School class of youth came several miles to see him, by appointment, but he had just rushed off to the hospital where his brother, Thomas E. McKay, lay near death. The following Sunday, miles away from his office, there was a knock on the door of the Sunday School classroom. When the teacher opened the door, there stood President McKay. He had come to meet the class and apologize for being gone the day they had come to see him.
After explaining why he was not in his office that day, he shook hands with the teacher and with each of the children. “I want you to know,” he said, “that the President of the Church keeps his appointments if at all possible.”
This great caring about how we behave toward everyone around us was one of the great lessons President McKay taught. On the trip to Europe to dedicate the temple sites in Switzerland and England, President McKay was surrounded by eager English youth seeking autographs from him. The first in line was a young girl about nine years old. She asked the President’s son, who was accompanying him, “May I have President McKay’s autograph?” The son, who thought his father was too tired, began to dissuade her. But President McKay, overhearing the conversation, turned to her and asked jokingly, “Do you think I can write plainly enough so you can read it?” The girl wasn’t sure whether he was in earnest, and she became flustered. At that moment, an aide interrupted with a pressing question, and several minutes of conversation ensued. When the President turned back to speak again to the girl, she had disappeared.
“I have never seen father more upset,” said his son. “Please find that girl in the blue dress,” President McKay directed. “I’m sure she has the impression that I didn’t want to sign her book. She misinterpreted my remarks. You must find her.” Before long, branch presidents and mission presidents were looking for a little girl in blue. But the search was in vain. Finally, a missionary thought he knew who the girl was. He telephoned the President later that night and then received these instructions: “Tell the girl that I am sorry I missed her, and that I have asked the branch president to send her book to me by mail to Salt Lake City; I will sign my autograph and mail it directly back to her.” And he did!
The worth of a soul! President McKay felt that every living thing deserves our respect and thoughtful care. He felt this way even about animals and birds, and he liked to return often to his Huntsville farm to ride his horses and to visit. Once, someone broke into the farm and stole the President’s saddles. When the saddles were replaced with new ones, they were kept in the saddle house under lock and key. One day President McKay’s sisters stopped to check on things at the farm, and seeing one of the windows on the saddle house open, they closed it to avert a second theft. Hearing from his sisters what they had done, the President gently said, “I left that window open purposely because there is a bird’s nest inside, and that is the only entrance the parent birds have to carry food to their babies. I think I shall just have time to run over.” He went and opened the window and, returning, said in a gracious way, “It was just as I expected—one little bird was outside trying to get in, and the mother bird was inside attempting to get out.”
While serving as a member of the Council of the Twelve, Elder McKay owned a big boar named Caesar. One Sunday morning Caesar broke out of his enclosure. Not having time to repair the fence before boarding a train, Elder McKay put him in the chicken coop. But he forgot to tell any of his boys about it. That night at 2 A.M., the McKay household was awakened by the incessant ringing of the telephone. Answering it, and fearful that a tragic message was involved, they received a telegram over the phone: “Caesar in chicken coop. Water him!”
President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in everything he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the Savior was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what had happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”
David O. McKay was a prophet who saw good in everyone and who truly cared for people.

Lucy took the box of valentines out of the sack. Tomorrow was Valentine Day, and she still hadn’t decided whether to give a card to Carla, the girl next door.
Lucy sighed. Nothing had been the same since Carla had moved in at the first of the year. Lucy and her mother had taken homemade cookies over to Carla and her family, but Carla hadn’t even said hello.
“She’s just shy,” Carla’s mother had explained.
Lucy quickly decided that Carla wasn’t shy—she was just a bad-tempered girl who loved to make life miserable for everybody around her. The first week after Carla had moved in, she had thrown rocks at Lucy’s dog, Jumper, and now he was afraid to go outside.
At school Carla bullied the smaller children on the playground. She was in the principal’s office at least twice a week. Lucy and her friends were embarrassed to be around her because she was loud and rough.
And now Lucy’s mother had said that she should give Carla a valentine.
“But, Mom,” Lucy argued, “valentines are supposed to be for people you like. And I don’t like Carla Bentley!”
“Carla has a lot of problems, Lucy. Maybe if she had some friends, she wouldn’t be the way she is,” Mother explained. “Sometimes people need attention so badly that they’ll do anything to get it, even things that they shouldn’t.”
Lucy sat on the floor of her room, her valentines spread out before her. She was putting two candy hearts in each one. As she wrote each name on an envelope, she checked it off her list. In class they had passed out a list with all the students’ names on it so that no one would be missed. Lucy popped a candy heart into her mouth. Only seven more, and she still hadn’t decided about Carla.
Finally Lucy checked the last name off the list. She stacked the cards carefully and put them into a bag. Then she realized that all her valentines were used up! “Mom!” she called, running into the kitchen. “Guess what! I can’t give Carla a valentine.”
“Why not?” Mother asked.
“Because I don’t have any more. Remember, we bought a box of thirty cards? Well, that was just enough for my class, so now they’re all gone.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” her mother said. “If you decide to give a valentine to Carla, we have lots of things you can make a card with.”
“Make a card?”
“Sure. Lots of people make cards instead of buying them. It’s fun to do,” Mother said, going over to her desk and pulling out a drawer. “See, we have pink and red construction paper, and I remember some white doilies in with the napkins.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure that I want to, though.”
“Well, I’ll just leave the things here in case you need them. I’ll be back in a while. I have to pick up your brother at soccer practice.”
Lucy thought, If I give Carla a valentine, maybe she won’t be so mean. I could make a really cute one with some of the stickers I have.
Lucy went to her bedroom to get her sticker collection. Some stickers were funny, others were pretty, and some smelled like root beer or peanut butter or strawberry when she rubbed them. She picked out three: a heart in different shades of pink, a furry kitten, and a cluster of sweet-smelling strawberries.
Hurrying down to the kitchen table, Lucy folded a sheet of white paper in half, drew half a heart along the fold, and cut it out. When she unfolded it, she had a pattern to trace around on the construction paper.
Lucy folded a sheet of pale pink construction paper in half, then cut out two red hearts and placed them and the strawberry sticker on the front of the card. She put the kitten and heart stickers on the inside. Then she signed her name at the bottom.
Holding the card up, Lucy thought, It’s pretty, but it’s not really a valentine if there aren’t any words except my name. But I can’t write a fancy poem to a girl I don’t even like. Finally, after trying out a number of ideas on scratch paper, Lucy wrote in red ink:
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
I’d rather be friends
Than fight with you.”
The sun was shining on Valentine Day morning. Lucy got up early and dressed quickly so that she could run over to Carla’s without being seen. As she hurried around Carla’s front porch, the Bentley house was quiet. Lucy propped the card up against the front door, rang the doorbell, and ran. She hid behind the bushes separating the yards and watched for someone to answer the door.
Mr. Bentley opened it and looked first to the left and then to the right. Lucy could see him smile when he finally looked down and saw the card. He picked it up and closed the door.
Lucy let her breath out. That’s that, she thought. She hurried home to eat so that she could meet Kim, her best friend, before school.
The morning passed quickly. After Lucy’s class exchanged their valentines, the room mothers came in and they had a party. For treats they had red punch and cupcakes with white frosting and red gumdrop hearts on them.
Lucy didn’t see Carla until lunchtime. Carla was walking toward Lucy and Kim with a funny look on her face.
“I don’t believe it,” Kim whispered. “Why is she coming over?”
“I gave her a valentine,” Lucy whispered back.
Kim looked at her quickly. “You did? Maybe she’s going to beat you up.”
“I don’t think so,” Lucy said, smiling shyly at Carla.
“Hi,” Carla said.
“Hi,” said Lucy and Kim together.
Carla looked down at her tennis shoes. “I—I want to thank you for the valentine, Lucy.” She held out a card to Lucy.
“You’re welcome,” Lucy said, taking the card. “Thank you.“
“I didn’t have time to make one.” Carla stood awkwardly.
“Oh, that’s OK. Would you like to eat lunch with us?” She heard Kim’s sharp gasp but ignored her.
Carla’s face lit up. “OK!” Then Carla looked at Kim and added, “If you don’t mind.”
Kim looked from Carla to Lucy then back again. “Of course not. Come on, let’s get over to the tree before somebody else does.”
As the girls sat on the bench beneath the old cottonwood tree, four boys walked past.
“Hey! Happy Valentine Day!” Carla yelled happily at them.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed by such women. My departed wife, Dantzel, was such a woman. I will always be grateful for the life-changing influence she had on me in all aspects of my life, including my pioneering efforts in open-heart surgery.

Fifty-eight years ago I was asked to operate upon a little girl, gravely ill from congenital heart disease. Her older brother had previously died of a similar condition. Her parents pleaded for help. I was not optimistic about the outcome but vowed to do all in my power to save her life. Despite my best efforts, the child died. Later, the same parents brought another daughter to me, then just 16 months old, also born with a malformed heart. Again, at their request, I performed an operation. This child also died. This third heartbreaking loss in one family literally undid me.

I went home grief stricken. I threw myself upon our living room floor and cried all night long. Dantzel stayed by my side, listening as I repeatedly declared that I would never perform another heart operation. Then, around 5:00 in the morning, Dantzel looked at me and lovingly asked, “Are you finished crying? Then get dressed. Go back to the lab. Go to work! You need to learn more. If you quit now, others will have to painfully learn what you already know.”

Oh, how I needed my wife’s vision, grit, and love! I went back to work and learned more. If it weren’t for Dantzel’s inspired prodding, I would not have pursued open-heart surgery and would not have been prepared to do the operation in 1972 that saved the life of President Spencer W. Kimball.9

Today’s starting like any other day, eight-year-old Gage thought as he slipped into his cotton shirt and pulled his suspenders into place. Why does it feel different? Gabriel, the rooster, crowed like always to wake up the sun. The sun peeked through the curtains and lit up the face of Roosevelt, his old, worn panda that sat on a chair by his bed, as it always did. Yet things seemed different. Gabriel’s crowing was easier to tolerate, somehow. The light seeping through his worn curtains looked … brighter. And this morning Roosevelt’s stitched-on smile appeared happier than ever. He looked the stuffed bear straight in his black button eyes. “What’s going on, Roosevelt?”
Gage pulled on his boots. Papa would be out in the barn by now, hitching the field horse to the plow. It was Gage’s job to walk behind him and seed the furrows, a chore that somehow never ranked as high on his list of things to do as fishing or playing marbles with Ansel Clanton did. But now the thought of spending the whole day in the field, seeding the dry earth, didn’t rouse even one sigh. In fact, he discovered himself looking forward to it!
“What is going on, Roosevelt?” he asked again as he started for the door, stuffing his shirt into his trousers. He paused in the sunlight that inched its way through the shadows of his room. “At least this first light is cold, like it’s supposed to be,” he told the old bear. “Except,” he added, his face puzzling up again, “this morning it doesn’t make me wish I was still in bed under Mama’s comforter, like it usually does.” He faced himself in the little dresser mirror. “Yep, it’s me all right. It’s just everything else that’s changed.” He scratched his head. “Maybe I’m dreaming or something, Roosevelt.” He pinched himself. “No, it’s real enough all right.”
Gage quickly ate the two eggs, biscuit, and glass of goat’s milk that Mama had waiting for him. He hated goat’s milk, but today it seemed easier to swallow.
Mama turned from her work at the butter churn and regarded her son. “Is anything the matter, Gage?”
“Do you feel any different this morning, Mama, than you did yesterday?”
“Feel any different about what?”
“About … everything?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. Why?”
“It’s hard to explain. I don’t rightly understand it myself.” He eyed the empty glass in his hand and set it on the table. The screen door banged closed on his way out.
Mama watched him through the wire door as he crossed the yard toward the big field. Then she smiled, shrugged, and turned her attention back to the churn.
As Gage walked behind his father, depositing seeds into the newly-plowed furrows, he glanced at the old scarecrow that stood a short way off. He had seen it a thousand times before. It looked just like it always had—a straw man dressed in raggedy clothes. So why did it seem like he was looking at it for the first time? “Do you notice anything different about the straw man, Papa?”
Papa glanced at the raggedy figure with the lifeless stare. “Yes,” he responded lightly, squinting from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, “now that you mention it, Son.”
“Really, Papa?” Gage exclaimed. “I was starting to think that I was the only one who—”
“No, no,” the tall farmer with the dark, laughing eyes interrupted teasingly, “I’d say that scarecrow looks at least a day older!” He chuckled.
Gage sighed. “That isn’t it, Papa. Can we talk a minute?”
Papa looked over his shoulder at the boy veiled in dust, and stopped plowing at the end of the row. “I suppose I could give Thaddeus here a little rest. He patted the big field horse on the rump and sat down with a little grunt. “What is it, Son?”
“I wish I knew what words to use to explain it, Papa.”
“Is whatever’s bothering you bad?”
“No, Papa—I just don’t understand it.”
Papa looked relieved. He pulled off his hat and scratched his head. “You asked me a moment ago if I noticed anything different about that scarecrow over there—”
“It isn’t just the straw man, Papa,” Gage interrupted. “It’s everything.”
“What about everything, Gage?”
“It’s like I’m feeling and seeing and tasting and smelling and hearing everything for the very first time. It’s like I was a different person or something. The sky looks bluer. The scarecrow looks more … interesting.” He lifted a handful of dirt and let it sift between his fingers. “The dirt even feels good. What’s the matter with me?”
Papa’s eyes misted over. “I remember when I first felt the same way.”
“You did? When, Papa?”
Papa gazed off across the field into the morning light that spilled down the flanks of the hills. “The same day I was baptized.” His eyes returned to his son’s. “I felt alive all over, just like you.”
“I was baptized last night,” Gage uttered softly, his eyes rounding even more, like the sun above the hills.
“Yes,” his father said softly, “and you said you woke up this morning feeling different—about everything.”
“Will it be like this every morning, now that I’ve been baptized?”
“No,” Papa answered. “Not every morning.”
A tear slid down the boy’s dusty cheek. “I don’t ever want to stop feeling like I do. Never.”
“You made some very important promises to Heavenly Father at your baptism, and he made some to you. Be true to those commitments, Son, and your life will stay full, bright, and alive. It’s like this field—the harder we work to do everything right, the bigger and better and more beautiful the harvest. We can’t just sit here with our hands in our pockets and expect the corn to bang into those clouds, now can we?”
“Nope—we can’t!”
The two continued their slow journey down the lengths of the field, the tall man guiding the plow, the small boy seeding the furrows.
At the end of the day, Papa and Gage made their way back to the farmhouse. Even though he was tired, Gage wore a dusty smile. He had worked hard, and it had been a good day. Tomorrow would bring another beautiful morning.

Several years ago an unusual motion picture swept the theaters in this and in other lands. It was entitled Field of Dreams and was the story of a young man who revered the baseball players of his youth and, from this foundation, carved out a large section from his cornfield and located there a full-blown baseball diamond. People mocked his foolishness and ridiculed his lack of common sense. The film goes on to show the many challenges he faced in completing the project and readying the baseball diamond for view. His was not an easy task. During the period of doubt as to the future success of his dream, he was driven by the reassuring words, “If you build it, [they] will come.” And come they did. Travelers by the thousands visited this unique place, which was filled with baseball’s many memories.

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

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

In 1971 I received my college degree and we moved to Illinois, where I was to teach at Southern Illinois University. A few months later I had an unusual experience which brought Douglas’s story vividly to mind once more.
It was Saturday, and I had risen early to grade papers before getting ready for a Church leadership meeting. Finishing just in time to dress and get to the meeting, I hurried down the hall toward our bedroom.
As I reached the end of the hall, I felt a sudden, intense pain on the forepart of my left foot, a pain so intense I fell to the floor and grabbed my foot. I had stepped on a needle! I called for help, and Susan and the children rushed to my side as I sat holding my foot, wincing with pain.
The whole event was painfully familiar. Susan got the pliers, and I pulled on the needle. It wouldn’t come out. We agreed that I should go immediately to the hospital. I found I could drive our station wagon even though I had a needle in my foot. Unlike Phil Garland, however, there was no question whether the needle should stay in or come out.
It was about 6:00 A.M. when I limped into the emergency room and told the nurse what had happened. The doctor arrived a few minutes later and did some preliminary examinations. He found that the needle was so deeply imbedded in my foot that he would have to call a surgeon to remove it. Instructing me to lie on the operating table and wait for the surgeon to arrive, he left me alone. For nearly forty-five minutes I waited there, with no one else in the operating room. During that time I began to think seriously about things that matter most when one believes his life to be in danger. I immediately recalled my Christmas talk in Tallahassee, Florida, the previous year. What irony! Here I was, living Phil Garland’s experience. And like him, I found myself thinking about dying—and more importantly, about living.
The surgeon finally arrived and began his examination of my foot. “Is it true that a tiny piece of metal in the body can eventually cause you to die if it is not removed?” I asked.
The doctor smiled. “I think I’ve heard that before … but I’m not certain it’s true. But you won’t have to worry,” he continued, “yours will be out in a few minutes.”
As the surgeon went to work on my foot, a scripture I had quoted many times as a missionary again came to mind: “As in Adam all die …” (1 Cor. 15:22.) Symbolically, I thought, we all have a tiny piece of metal in our bodies. The Lord calls it mortality. I think it was at that moment that I fully realized for the first time in my life that I, too, would eventually die.
After the surgery, I returned home to my family. They meant more to me then than they ever had before.
My foot eventually healed, but the vivid impression of the experience has never left me. Since then, I have thought seriously about my life. What is the purpose of this life? What matters most? Where do I spend most of my time?
I have located and purchased a copy of “Precious Jeopardy: A Christmas Story.” I read it each Christmas season and reflect on my experiences, both those that are past and those that lie ahead. And like Phil Garland’s needle, my needle is mounted on velvet and placed on our dresser as a constant reminder of the uncertainty of life and the importance of priorities. It is a precious gift, one I will always remember.

One day I was up in the tree fort in our backyard, when all of a sudden I noticed that our neighbors’ cat, Kiska, had escaped from her home. I knew that the neighbors didn’t want her to be outside because she could run away. I was able to catch Kiska. I felt happy that I had helped Kiska be safe so she could go back to her family. This experience helped me gain a testimony of faith in Jesus Christ because He said I should help others and think of their needs before my own and that I would feel happy if I did.

Eleven-year-old Eduardo Dourado knows what he would do—nothing. Although some of his schoolmates make fun of him for keeping the standards of the Church, he chooses the right and refuses to fight. “I could beat them,” he says, “but I don’t want to hurt anyone. Sometimes I’ve had to protect myself, but I try other things first to keep from fighting.”
As Jesus taught, Eduardo ignores insults. But it isn’t always easy. Because he won’t swear and do other bad things, kids make fun of him. Sometimes he feels lonely. But he knows what Jesus wants him to do, and that is what he chooses to do.

Young women in the Mansfield Ward, Arlington Texas Stake, worked countless hours to produce this stained glass nativity scene. After the work was completed, the nativity was displayed in their ward meetinghouse so that the whole ward could enjoy it. Martha Kate Downey, a nonmember in the area, helped the girls produce the beautiful work. In return, they gave her the gift of a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written inside the front cover.

I was good at saying my evening prayers. But morning prayers were a different matter. I always managed to find an excuse for not praying when I left my room in the morning. The Spirit would often prompt me to think, “I really should be saying prayers every morning.” I tried but often failed after a few poor attempts.
For about a year, I had been praying for an answer to a question. I was planning to go to university, but with just a few weeks to go before my application forms had to be finished, I still didn’t know what to study. I couldn’t work out why I had not received an answer.
My nervous and often desperate feelings of confusion became so bad that on one particular night I lay awake in bed, tears in my eyes, unable to sleep. Why hadn’t Heavenly Father answered my prayers? I had patiently prayed for a year about various courses and options, but I felt I still hadn’t received an answer.
One night while reading the scriptures I came across Alma 37:37: “Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let your heart be full of thanks unto God.”
I had read that scripture before in Primary, Young Women, seminary, and Sunday School lessons, but this time I really understood what I was reading. I made up my mind to pray every morning. I left little notes everywhere to remind me, and sure enough they began to work.
A few days later, I received an answer to my prayers about what to study. I knew what I had chosen was wrong, and I knew what I had to do instead. The cloud of uncertainty that had hung above me lifted, and the prospect of university became much brighter. I was even excited.
Heavenly Father did answer my prayers, just as the scriptures said He would. I know He loves us and listens to our prayers. I had to listen to what the Spirit was telling me to do and exercise a little extra faith and effort before my prayer was finally answered.

I ask you "Was my testimony complete?" To that my answer is no. I knew that God lived and that Jesus was the Christ, but at that point in time, I did not have a confirmation concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. As a result, I made it my aim to gain that testimony. Over a period of approximately three-months, I carefully read the Book of Mormon until I completed the entire text. During that journey I had many experiences with the Spirit, but due to my lack of keen spiritual sense, I was unable to recognize that what I was feeling at that time was indeed the Spirit. However, as I concluded the Book of Mormon, I followed the familiar direction in the promise written by the prophet Moroni. Once again, I knelt beside my bed and in my evening prayer I asked God if the Book of Mormon was true. I received an answer to that prayer. It was almost identical to the experience I had a few months earlier with the New Testament. As a result, I came to know that the Book of Mormon was also His truth, and I knew that Joseph Smith had to be a true prophet of God because this scripture came to us through him.

Well, since then, I have felt the Spirit on many occasions, but these two experiences were very special and very sacred to me. The Spirit truly confirmed to my entire being that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that the Book of Mormon and Bible are the Word of God, that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints is His Church, and that we have a true and living prophet who leads this Church this day. I know this. I really know it to be true.

I am fortunate to have had good women in my life: a nurturing and courageous mother, wise and faithful sisters, and a loving and supportive wife. I wish to honor one of these influential women, my older sister, Thelma, for her impact in my life through her continuous good example.
When I was young, my father taught me to follow Thelma’s lead when he and my mom were not around, and I am eternally grateful for this counsel.
Three of my eight siblings joined the Church in El Salvador the same time I did. Thelma was 14 years old and my oldest sibling when we got baptized. I was 8 years old at the time and the youngest of the family, so she was our leader.
We were introduced to the Church by our neighbor who sang songs that we later learned were hymns. Our neighbor told us about a wonderful place called Primary, where children learned to sing. The missionaries were contacted, and they started visiting our home to teach us.
However, my dad had strong feelings against the Church and about his children being taught by the missionaries. Being a small boy, I never understood what those two elders went through to bring the gospel into our lives. Dad would kick them out if he found them at our home, and he would deliberately turn off the lights if the elders stopped by in the evening. Just as my dad was relentless in trying to stop the missionaries from teaching, Thelma was twice as determined to learn about the gospel and read the Book of Mormon. Thelma and the elders never gave up, and for this I am thankful.
Going to church was a struggle because Dad tried to stop us by using a variety of tactics, such as requiring that we do chores before we could leave for church.
One Sunday morning was particularly hard. He did not want to let us go, but we refused to be stopped. He kicked a garbage can and spilled its contents all over the floor we had just cleaned. Thelma quietly began picking up the garbage without complaining. After she had cleaned the floor again, she asked if we could go to church. We had finished all the chores and more, but he still did not want to give his permission. Finally he asked pointedly, “Why do you insist on going to this church anyway?” Thelma then bore a powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and of the message of the Restoration of the gospel. As she concluded, my dad waved his hand and gave his permission.
Dad never tried to stop us again after this incident and eventually, even though he did not like it, gave his consent for us to join the Church.
I had no problem attending church on Sunday, but I was not as enthusiastic about attending Primary because it was on Saturday morning at that time. When I was 10, Thelma came home one Saturday and told my other siblings about a great soccer game between the deacons and the Blazers (11-year-old Scouts). She pointed out how unfortunate it was that I had missed the game because I had not attended Primary. Needless to say, I went the following Saturday (with my soccer cleats on) and never missed it again.
When Thelma was 16, she was called to be the Primary president. Our bishop had been trying to find someone to handle the many challenges the Primary organization was facing. The ward covered a large area, and it was difficult and expensive for many families with small children to travel by bus to the church both on Saturdays for Primary and on Sundays. Many of those children were not attending Primary, and no solution had been found. The bishop had been prompted to call Thelma but could not bring himself to do it because she was so young. The prompting continued, and after receiving approval from the stake president, the bishop extended the call to my sister.
This proved to be an inspired decision, and it blessed many children—including me. Thelma magnified her calling by following inspiration, using common sense, and implementing innovative ideas to develop training programs to bring the gospel to the children. She asked her counselors and teachers to hold Primary meetings at several places closer to their homes, and she provided ongoing training for those teachers. This solution allowed members to save time and money and enabled children who were previously not attending Primary to receive the blessings of this wonderful organization.
My siblings and I continued to follow Thelma’s lead as time progressed. We held family home evenings and attended all of our Church meetings. Shortly after I was ordained a deacon, Thelma turned to me during one family home evening and recognized me as the priesthood holder in the family. This event taught me a valuable lesson about respect for the priesthood.
She also made sure I never lacked the proper encouragement and extra incentive to attend my priesthood meetings or to fulfill my responsibilities. For instance, Thelma used every noisy and energetic way to get me out of bed on Sunday mornings so I could attend priesthood meeting. She also taught me to look forward to my advancements in the Aaronic Priesthood.
At Mutual and seminary I didn’t mind that I was always known as “Thelma’s brother.” Some of my friends had the support of their parents in the Church, but I had my bishop, Young Men leaders, and Thelma.
Thelma continued to be an example to me as she held a variety of callings until she left for her mission. She served honorably in the Guatemala Quetzaltenango Mission, and the fruits of her labors included the baptism of our mother two days after Thelma returned home. Our joy was full as I, then a priest, performed this sacred ordinance. Following Thelma’s example, I began to earnestly prepare to serve a mission.

Many of the most important lessons Robert learned as a child came from the example of his parents and from his experiences in the Queens Ward. As deacons quorum president, Robert learned to respect his priesthood leaders after an experience with the bishop. At that time, the ward met in the Citizen’s League Hall. The sacrament table was on the main floor in front of the stage. The deacons used to take the sacrament trays, climb up onto the stage, put the trays away, and then run and jump off the stage, grab another tray, and repeat the process until all the trays were put away. “I came sailing off of that stage,” says Elder Hales, “and our new bishop was standing there. He caught me in flight. I said, ‘Well, everyone else is doing it,’ and he said, ‘Yes, but you are the president of the deacons quorum.’ The bishop said he wanted the sacrament taken care of properly, with reverence. That was when I began to learn an important lesson. I’ve appreciated priesthood leaders who have taken the time to teach me.”