Gospel Story Finder

To illustrate, I’d like to share one of the most significant dots of my life: attending Ricks College.

I began attending school in Rexburg during a summer term in 2000. I intended to earn an associate’s degree before serving a mission and then transfer to a four-year college. Those plans changed on June 21 of that year, when President Gordon B. Hinckley, the 15th president of the Church, announced that Ricks College would become Brigham Young University-Idaho. I remember the impression I had that I would attend BYU-Idaho following missionary service.

Countless dots of paint have since been applied to the canvas of my life via lessons that I’ve learned from roommates, friends, faculty mentors, supervisors, and ecclesiastical leaders. They would not, however, exist in the same ways or forms had I not followed the prompting to attend BYU-Idaho.

Finally, here is one last special experience. For the last few months I have struggled with my 15-year-old son, Andy, to keep him practicing the piano. He made the choice to play some years ago, and I feel within my heart that he should continue. My stock remarks have included, “Someday you’ll be grateful I kept you at it. Someday you’ll have to play while on your mission or elsewhere.” How excited I was this evening when my husband picked up the June 1983 New Era and, after scanning it briefly, called our son to him and began reading aloud. All six of our children listened intently as he, with a cracking voice, read Alma J. Yates’s “A Hymn for Guaymas.” In it, Elder Richards’s curse—his mother’s insistence that he practice the piano daily—became a blessing when he was pressed into playing in that little branch.
Tears ran down my husband’s cheeks as he read that few of those members had ever even heard that piano played. They hardly dared think it possible that they would be able to sing “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” with piano accompaniment. More tears came when the elder wrote asking his mom to sell his prized stereo so that he could have the piano tuned. “Mom,” he wrote, “thanks for making me practice the piano.”

When I was about six or seven years old, our family went to Kanab, Utah, to visit my aunt, who was married to a forest ranger. My uncle was in charge of the Kaibab Forest, one of the largest national forests in the United States. We arrived there late at night and went right to bed at their home.
The next morning I was awakened by my cousins, who were younger than I. They said, “There’re some deer out there. Come and look.” I jumped out of bed and got dressed and ran to the back door. Sure enough, within twenty yards of the house was a doe with her two little fawns. After we watched for a few minutes, I wanted to get closer and try to touch them.
My three cousins and I started walking toward them, but just as we got close to them, they moved away. They kept doing that, and we kept following them. All of a sudden, the mother deer decided that she’d had enough and bounded away, her little ones behind her.
My cousins and I turned around to go back to the house and realized that we were lost. In our minds it seemed easy to just turn around and go back, but we had gone much farther than we thought we had.
I had never been in a forest before. My cousins kept saying, “Let’s go this way.” “No, let’s go this way.” So we just wandered around, and pretty soon we started hearing sounds that we imagined were bears and cougars.
We called and whistled for our families to answer, but we didn’t hear a thing. We wandered around in the tall trees for maybe an hour and a half. Then the thought came to me that we should pray to Heavenly Father. We knelt in a circle, and I said a simple prayer. As we got up, I had the distinct impression that we should walk in a certain direction, which we did. We walked that way for another thirty minutes or so. The little ones were tired, and I had to carry the smallest one on my back.
When we heard a motor in the distance, we knew enough to walk toward the sound. All of a sudden, we broke into a clearing. We could see a road, and the motor we’d heard was in a road grader. We were really tired and upset, but we knew that we had to get over to the road grader before it went by the clearing, so we ran as fast as we could. When we got close enough, we waved, and the road-grader operator saw us and stopped. He put us in the cab and took us down to the forest rangers’ headquarters. By that time, my parents and aunt and uncle had all the forest rangers out looking for us, so they were glad to see us. That experience was a testimony to me that Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers.

Many years ago, our family had an experience which left an indelible impression as to the importance and value and power of a father’s blessing. The lessons learned may be of interest to you.
When our oldest children were ready to begin formal schooling, Sister Bateman and I decided that a father’s blessing would be given to each child at the beginning of the school year. The family home evening preceding the start of school would be the occasion. The year our oldest son, Michael, entered the third grade holds special memories for us. During the preceding summer he had participated in Little League baseball. He loved the sport. When we gathered for family home evening just before the start of school, Michael announced that he did not need a blessing. He had completed his first season in Little League, and blessings were for younger children.
Sister Bateman and I were stunned. We encouraged him, suggesting that a blessing would help him with his schoolwork. It would be a protection to him. It would help him in his relations with his brothers, sisters, and friends. Our encouragement, along with some coaxing, failed. He was too old. Believing in the principle of agency, we were not about to force a blessing on an eight-year-old. All of the children except Michael received a blessing that year.
The school year proceeded normally. Michael and the other children did well in school, and the family enjoyed their associations together. Then the following May arrived, and it was time for Little League baseball to begin. Following the last day of school, Michael’s coach called a team practice. Michael’s anticipation could not have been greater. His dream was about to be realized. He was to be the starting catcher. The baseball diamond was only a few blocks from our home. The boys and the coach walked to the baseball field, crossing a busy highway. Following the practice, the boys and coach started for home. Michael and a friend ran on ahead of the coach and the other boys. As the two boys approached the busy highway, Michael failed to look and darted in front of a car driven by a 16-year-old young man out for his first drive. Can you imagine the fear that must have struck the young man’s heart? He slammed on the brakes and swerved in an attempt to miss the boy. Unfortunately, the side of the front fender and bumper hit Michael and threw him down the highway.
A short time later, Sister Bateman and I received a telephone call from the police. Michael, in critical condition, was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital. It was important that we hurry. Before leaving, I called a friend and asked him to meet us at the hospital and assist in giving a blessing. The 20-minute drive was the longest of our lives. We prayed fervently for the life of our son and to know the will of the Lord.
As we parked the car by the door of the emergency room, we saw a policeman exiting with a young man who was crying. The policeman recognized us and introduced the young man as the driver of the car. We knew enough of the story to put our arms around him and tell him that we knew it was not his fault. We then entered the hospital to find Michael. As we entered his room, the doctors and nurses were working feverishly, attending to his needs. My friend had arrived, and we asked if it would be possible to have two or three minutes alone with him. My priesthood brother anointed, and I sealed. As I laid my hands upon Michael’s head, a feeling of comfort and peace came over me, words flowed, and promises were made. He was then rushed to the operating room.
For the next four weeks, Michael lay in a hospital bed with his head bandaged and his leg in traction. Each Wednesday, his Little League teammates would visit him after the game and give him a report. Each Wednesday, tears would well up in Michael’s eyes and run down his cheeks as the boys relived the game. After four weeks in traction, Michael was put in a body cast from his chest to his toes. On two or three occasions we took him to a game to watch his friends play. Another four weeks passed, and the body cast was replaced with a cast from his hip to his toes. Two days before school was to begin, the final cast was removed. As the family gathered the next night for school blessings, is there any wonder as to who wanted the first blessing? A nine-year-old boy, a little older and a lot wiser, was first in line.
Over the years our children have come to understand that accidents are not always prevented by priesthood blessings, but they also know that more than one type of protection is available through the priesthood. Today, our grandchildren are the recipients of priesthood blessings. The tradition is in the second and third generations. We believe that this practice, like the family, will prevail through the eternities.

After 11 exciting years of working at that job, I was in a meeting one night with those developing an essential part of the nuclear power plant. My secretary came in and said, “There’s a man on the phone who says if I tell you his name you’ll come to the phone.”
I said, “What’s his name?”
She said, “Harold B. Lee.”
I said, “He’s right.” I took the phone call. Elder Lee, who later became President of the Church, asked if he could see me that very night. He was in New York City, and I was in Washington, D.C. I flew up to meet him, and we had an interview that led to my call to be a mission president.
The head of the program I was working for was Admiral Hyman Rickover, a hard-working, demanding individual. I knew him well enough that I felt I needed to tell him as soon as possible that I was being called. As I explained the mission call to him and that it would mean I would have to quit my job, he became rather upset. He said some unrepeatable things, broke the paper tray on his desk, and in the comments that followed clearly established two points:
“Scott, what you are doing in this defense program is so vital that it will take a year to replace you, so you can’t go. Second, if you do go, you are a traitor to your country.”
I said, “I can train my replacement in the two remaining months, and there won’t be any risk to the country.”
There was more conversation, and he finally said, “I never will talk to you again. I don’t want to see you again. You are finished, not only here, but don’t ever plan to work in the nuclear field again.”
I responded, “Admiral, you can bar me from the office, but unless you prevent me, I am going to turn this assignment over to another individual.”
True to his word, the admiral ceased to speak to me. When critical decisions had to be made, he would send a messenger, or I would communicate through a third party. He assigned an individual to take my responsibility, and I trained him.
It wasn’t going to be hard for me to leave; I knew I had been called as a mission president by the Lord. But I knew that my decision would affect others. In the Idaho Falls, Idaho, area were many members of the Church whose jobs depended upon working in the nuclear program. I didn’t want to cause them harm. I didn’t know what to do. My heart kept saying, “Is this going to turn out all right, or will somebody be innocently hurt who depends on our program for livelihood?”
As I prayed and pondered about it, I had a feeling about the hymn “Do What Is Right.” A line from the hymn would come to mind: “Do what is right; let the consequence follow.” Other words from the hymn were reinforcing such as “God will protect you; then do what is right!” (Hymns, no. 237).
My last day in the office I asked for an appointment with the admiral. His secretary gasped. I went with a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hand. He looked at me and said, “Sit down, Scott, what do you have? I have tried every way I can to force you to change. What is it you have?” There followed a very interesting, quiet conversation. There was more listening this time.
He said he would read the Book of Mormon. Then something happened I never thought would occur. He added, “When you come back from the mission, I want you to call me. There will be a job for you.”

I used to have a monster crush on Tyson Davis. Used to. I mean, he’s gorgeous. But he knows it. Besides, he’s kind of a jerk.
I am not going to call him. No way.
But …
Last Sunday I saw Tyson at church. It was the first time he’d been there in about a year. He looked really sad and miserable. He was sitting in the back row, and if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d been crying.
He didn’t stay for the whole meeting. I sort of wish he had. I wanted to talk to him. He looked so sad.
Ever since I saw Tyson, I can’t get him out of my head. I feel like I should call him. I’m not going to, though. When Tyson first moved into the ward, I called him all the time. I invited him to do things with the Young Women and Young Men. He never did anything with us, though, and he treated me like a pest. He made me feel stupid.
I am not going to call him.
Besides, I’m late. I’m going to the church dance.
I make it all the way to my car and start backing out of the driveway before I finally sigh. “Okay, I’ll call him.”
The urge to do it is too strong to ignore. And I grumble to myself all the way to the phone. I’ll call him, and he’ll make me feel like an idiot. But at least then I can go to the dance in peace.
“Hi,” I say when his little sister, Kari, answers the phone. “Is Tyson there?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” she says. “Who is this?”
“It’s Michele.”
She’s silent for a moment. “From church?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “Michele from church.”
“He’s probably not here, then,” she says. “But I’ll check.”
I hear her put down the phone. I’m almost positive she is going to come back and tell me he’s not there. Apparently he’s having the six-year-old screen his calls. So I’m pretty floored when a minute later Tyson picks up the phone.
“Hello,” he says, “Michele?”
“Yeah.” He sounds friendly. Weird. Maybe Kari didn’t give him the whole message. “It’s Michele from church.”
“I know,” he says. “Hi.”
“Hi. Well, I was just calling—well, wondering, um, I saw you at church Sunday and you seemed really sad.”
Tyson is silent for a moment. “Yeah, I was.”
“I’m calling because there’s a dance at the stake center tonight. Maybe you should come.” I feel sort of lame inviting him, knowing how he feels about the Church. He’s been pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with us. Still, I can’t get my mouth to shut up. “Maybe it could cheer you up,” I tell him.
“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds thoughtful. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I nod, even though I’m talking into the phone. “Okay.”
“And Michele?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
When I hang up the phone, I stand staring at it in amazement. Did I dial the wrong number? Was that really Tyson? Tyson Davis? Mr. I’m Too Good for Church Dances?
When I pick up Audrey and Shawna they don’t believe me about the conversation. “Tyson actually said he would come? Tonight? To the dance?” Shawna asks.
I nod. “That’s what he said.”
“He was being sarcastic,” Audrey decides.
When we get to the dance, we look all over the building. No Tyson. I dance for a while then go back to the parking lot—not really to wait for him but just because I have the feeling I should check it out. There I find Tyson sitting in his car.
I knock on his window, and he gives me a sad kind of smile. “Hi,” he says. He looks sort of embarrassed.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t go in,” he says. “I was going to but, ah, I don’t know. I was hoping you would come out. I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I get in the passenger seat, and I’m surprised to see that he’s dressed up. I can tell he planned to go in. “What did you want to talk about?”
He’s silent for a moment. “When you called tonight it was weird. I’d been praying. I hadn’t done that in a long time—prayed, I mean. And then you called.”
He explains that his best friend, Seth, had died two weeks ago. He wasn’t from here. He lived in Florida where Tyson used to live.
“Seth was drunk and ran into a car,” Tyson says. “He died and everyone in the other car—a family—died too.”
Tyson wipes away a tear. “Seth messed up. He really messed up his life. I have too. I’ve messed mine up really bad. But I want to change. I really do. That’s what I was praying about, see, but it’s hard. My friends are partiers. That’s what we do. We party.”
Tyson’s silent for a moment. He looks tormented. “And I don’t have other friends. I mean, friends in the Church. I blew them off a long time ago. I was so mean to you. But then tonight you called.” He sounds full of wonder.
I didn’t know what to say. “I just felt like I should.”
“Yeah, see, that’s it,” he says. “You’re really close to God. He talks to you and you listen.”
Tingles run through my body. “Yeah, but Tyson, you can have that too. It’s the Holy Ghost. If you listen, He’ll talk to you.”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m not like you. You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve done bad things.”
“But Tyson,” I protest.
“Look, you don’t have to bear your testimony to me. I know what you believe. You live what you believe. I watched you all last year. You can’t know how it is for me. You don’t do things wrong.”
“I do too!”
“Well, not like me,” he says. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re the way you are. I needed someone to talk to tonight. I’m glad it was you.”
I blush, feeling totally complimented. “So, do you want to go into the dance?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he says. “I thought I was. I want to change my life around. That’s what I want. But it’s harder than you think.”
“I don’t think it’s as hard as you think,” I tell him, pulling him out of the car. “It’s just a church dance.”
I take his hand. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you.”
“Mormon Michele, protector of the inactives,” Tyson says with a grin.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And don’t you forget it.” I give his hand a squeeze. “I mean it, Tyson. Don’t forget it.”

Let me share with you some great examples from my experience. Two Christmases ago we received a phone call on Sunday evening. The caller did not identify himself, rather he asked if we would be home. My son said, “Yes,” but before he could tell him it was our family home evening, the caller said, “Fine, then tell your folks to expect a visitor about 9:00 P.M.” Family home evening was held and the caller forgotten. Then refreshments were served, and right in the middle of the activity, the doorbell rang. Our son answered the door and, lo and behold, there was Santa Claus. Now I know this was the real Santa Claus because I looked at his boots. He had real boots on, not vinyl coverings. He came into the living room smiling and laughing. He shook hands with everyone; then he had each of my children sit on his knee, and he visited with them. Then he turned to me and he said, “Bishop, will you come over here?” So I went over and sat on the floor Indian-style in front of him. He said, “Santa Claus wants to do something.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope and he said, “I want you to give this to some needy person this year.” Tears came to his eyes as he passed me the envelope. I opened the envelope and there was a fresh, crisp $100 bill. Then Santa said, “I’ll come back next year and give you another one and see what you did with the first one.”

I took the $100 bill and put it in my wallet. Everytime I opened my wallet I was reminded to search for someone to whom I could give it. I went to many cities and countries, always watching and praying that I would give it to the right party. I saw many in need, many who could have used it, but I never felt impressed to give it away.

Then at the area conference in Sweden, I met a good friend of mine, Hakan Palm. I asked him if he knew anyone who needed this money. He told me of a lady whose husband had passed away. She lived way up in the north of Sweden above the Arctic Circle. She worked at a hotel as a cleaning woman to support herself and her two children. The missionaries who labored in that community knew she could never afford to go to the area conference without help, so they wrote home to their fathers. They told of the plight of this faithful Latter-day Saint who lived in such humble circumstances. The father of one of the missionaries wrote back to his son and sent enough money to get this woman and her two children to the area conference. It was an answer to her prayers. Now she could take her two children and the three of them could see the prophet, something she hadn’t even dared to hope would take place in this life.

She and her children traveled to Stockholm in pure faith. She did not have the slightest idea how they would get back home or what they would use for food and lodging while in Stockholm. Hakan Palm said $100 would take care of their meager needs while they attended the area conference and would pay their way back home. I think that a kind and loving Father in heaven knew her needs and put the $100 bill in its trajectory course (as Elder Neal Maxwell would say) to provide this family with the means to see the prophet.

Christine (8) and Spencer (6) Harris and their family saved their money for a long time so that they could be with their grandparents in Rarotonga at the end of their mission. One of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, Rarotonga is part of the New Zealand Auckland Mission. It was a long distance to travel from their home in Seattle, Washington. In fact, the family flew on three different airplanes to get there. First they flew to California, then to Tahiti, and then on to the beautiful island of Rarotonga. They had not seen Grandma and Grandpa Harris for nearly a year and a half, so it was wonderful to be together again.
On the island, they explored the sites, including the wonderful beaches and warm, blue lagoons. Christine and Spencer liked to snorkel within the coral reef and see the thousands of colorful fish. They had fun collecting seashells and coral. The children also enjoyed eating the unusual, but delicious fruits and fresh coconuts on the island.
Meeting the many nice people to whom their grandparents had taught the gospel was heartwarming for the children and their parents. On Sunday, they attended church. Christine and Spencer found it comforting to sing the familiar Primary songs in the unusual setting of an open-walled church with exotic birds and chickens around it.
When the children found out that their father and grandfather were planning a special hike that included them, they were thrilled. The hike would take them across the island, through the tropical jungle, over some old volcanoes, to a sharp mountain peak called Mount Te Manga (The Needle). Even though it was a difficult hike that was ordinarily just for adults, their father thought that the children were prepared.
It was a perfect morning for a hike—clear and sunny, but not too hot. The children were up early to help make lunches and pack their gear. The four hikers said good-bye to the other family members, who would spend the morning at the open market and then pick them up on the other side of the island in the afternoon.
The hikers walked along a scenic valley road, past a papaya plantation and a lush farm, to the trailhead (the place where a trail begins) at the base of a volcanic mountain. The trail led them through a large green forest of ferns, across several streams, and then up a steep stairway of tangled tree roots. Christine and Spencer took turns leading the hike and had a contest to see who could spot the most lizards along the trail.
Eventually the group entered the heavy overgrowth of the dense, tropical jungle. The gigantic leaves and vines that surrounded them were amazing. But they soon realized that they were no longer on the trail! Everyone looked all around for the path but could not find it. They tried to backtrack to where they had come from, but it seemed like the more they hunted for the path, the steeper and thicker and more difficult the jungle became. Father and Grandfather were very frustrated. Eventually they found a stream and started to follow it down the side of the mountain. But the vines and jungle growth were so dense that it soon became impossible to travel any farther.
Although they didn’t complain, Christine and Spencer were not having fun anymore. They knew that they were lost. To make things worse, Christine had stumbled on a root and hurt her leg, and Spencer was tormented by swarms of mosquitoes. The group searched for the missing trail for about two hours and were getting scared.
Grandfather said, “We need to pray. We need Father in Heaven’s help to guide us back to the path.”
Everyone humbly knelt in the steep, thick jungle by the stream with the mosquitoes buzzing around them. Grandfather prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help them find the trail. Everything became quiet and peaceful. Grandfather rose to his feet and started walking. Christine, Spencer, and their father followed. In less than five minutes, they were standing on the hiking trail! In astonishment, they all shouted for joy. Everyone knew that they had been guided by an answer to prayer.
It didn’t take long for them to hike up the ridge to a spectacular, breathtaking view of The Needle. At the base of the peak, they stopped to rest and have lunch. But first they prayed again to Heavenly Father to thank Him for guiding them to safety.
After lunch, they hiked down the trail and along the rugged mountainside and on to the other side of the island. They met the rest of their family by a beautiful waterfall. Christine and Spencer told how they had lost the trail in the dense jungle and how, through an answer to Grandfather’s prayer, they had found it.

My sister Nancy is on a mission, and she says I, Erin Christensen, should start writing a journal, so here it is.
Today President Schultz spoke in church. He’s our stake president. Mom and Dad got really excited about his talk. It was about the rewards of being member missionaries. More says we’ll talk about it in family home evening tomorrow.
We pray about our missionary work lots of times every day. I know that we need Heavenly Father’s help if we are going to be good missionaries. Barbi and I built a clubhouse in the backyard after school. She said she’d like to come to the activity day on Saturday, but she needs to ask her parents.
I invited Barbi to go to Primary with me today. She couldn’t go because she was going to visit her grandma. Maybe next week. We’re having a Primary activity day on Saturday. I’m going to invite Barbi.
We checked out a video from the ward library and watched it at family home evening. It’s called “Our Heavenly Father’s Plan.” I’m pretty sure that my sister shows it to her new investigators. (Those are people who want to know more about the Church.) I’m learning a lot about being a missionary!
Barbi is going to go with me to the activity day!
More and Dad took Mr. and Mrs. Brown to the ward dinner party tonight. It was just for adults, so Barbi and I stayed home and made posters for our clubhouse.
Activity day was called “Peace Among All Nations Day,” and Barbi got to carry the Italian flag to represent Europe. I think she had fun. I sure did!
More and Dad fasted today, even though it wasn’t fast Sunday. Dad says that if we fast, we’ll be able to get closer to Heavenly Father and He’ll help us in our missionary work. I hope so—Barbi still couldn’t come to Primary.
The Browns came over for family home evening again tonight. Mom gave a great lesson about loving our neighbors. I made the treats—graham crackers with chocolate frosting!
Dad invited the Browns to hear the missionary discussions next week. They said no. I was sure that they’d come—they’d be great Latter-day Saints! Now what do we do?
Dad invited the Browns to look at the slides from our camping trip to Maine last summer and have popcorn with us on Friday. They live next door, and Barbi Brown is my best friend. It would be great if they got baptized!
Tonight was great! More and Dad showed them the slides, and we ate lots of popcorn. I think the Browns had a good time. After they left, we had a family prayer. I felt really good about our missionary work. I think we’re going to have someone ready to listen to the missionaries. Maybe it’ll be the Browns!
I wrote a letter to Nancy today. She’ll be happy about our missionary work. I wonder how she gets people to teach on her mission.
Wow—we’ve decided to work as a family to have someone ready to hear the missionary discussions. The meetings will be right here at our house. Dad says that we don’t even have to know who that person is right now. We just need to pray, have faith, and do everything we can to help as many people as we can to know about the Church. If we do, Heavenly Father will help us.
When I said my prayers this morning, I said a special prayer for our missionary work. I hope I can get one of my friends to join the Church. We need more girls in my Primary class!
Dad and I raked leaves for Mrs. Thompson across the street. She’s old and can’t do it for herself. Dad says that doing things for other people is part of missionary work. I think it made her happy. Her husband died last summer, so she needs help with some things, I guess she’s lonely too.
I felt sad all day because the Browns don’t want to listen to the missionaries. Then this afternoon the most amazing thing happened! I went to Mrs. Thompson’s house to rake leaves again. While I was raking, she came out with some milk and cookies for me, and we sat down on the porch. We started talking about families. She thinks our family is pretty special. I told her that Mom and Dad were married in the Washington Temple and that that means we’ll be together forever. She got tears in her eyes and asked me if there was a way she could learn more about being married forever. I said, “Sure—just come over to our house next Tuesday, and the missionaries will teach you.” And she’s going to come!
We had a busy weekend. Dad talked with Mrs. Thompson Saturday morning, and she said she couldn’t wait till Tuesday. So the missionaries came that night and the next night, and tonight too. And she asked to be baptized! Heavenly Father answered our prayers, even though it wasn’t the way I expected. The Browns are still our friends, and maybe someday they’ll want to learn about the Church and get baptized too. I hope so. Meanwhile, I’ve already written to tell Nancy the good news about Mrs. Thompson. I guess I know a little about how she feels being a missionary. It feels GREAT!

There is yet another gift some of you may want to give that takes starting early. I saw it started once when I was a bishop. A young man sat across my desk from me. He talked about mistakes he had made. And he talked about how much he wanted the children he might have someday to have a dad who could use his priesthood and to whom they could be sealed forever. He said he knew that the price and pain of repentance might be great. And then he said something I will not forget: “Bishop, I am coming back. I will do whatever it takes. I am coming back.” He felt sorrow. And he had faith in Christ. And still it took months of painful effort.

And so somewhere there is a family with a righteous priesthood bearer at its head. They have eternal hopes and peace on earth. He’ll probably give his family all sorts of gifts wrapped brightly, but nothing will matter quite so much as the one he started a long time ago in my office and has never stopped giving. He felt then the needs of children he had only dreamed of, and he gave early and freely. He sacrificed his pride and sloth and numbed feelings. I am sure it doesn’t seem like sacrifice now.

I had always planned to be a missionary, but I’d figured on waiting till I was older so I could get sent to Mexico, Africa, Russia, or some other far-off place. Turning me into a nine-year-old missionary was Sister Munn’s fault. She started talking in Primary opening exercises about the sons of Mosiah, the Apostle Paul, and Heber C. Kimball. Then, after church, we bumped into each other in the hall and she said, “You look like you’re eager to be a missionary, Benjamin. Are you?”
Well, my oldest brother, Matt, was a missionary in Spain, and I planned to be like him, so I grinned and nodded. “I wouldn’t mind going to Spain in about ten years. Matt thinks it’s pretty nice there.”
Sister Munns smiled. “Benjamin,” she said, getting real serious, “you don’t have to wait ten years. You can be a missionary now. You have some new neighbors moving in next door, and I don’t believe they’re members of the Church. Would you be willing to share the gospel with your new neighbors, just as your brother is sharing it in Spain?”
“I’m a little young,” I mumbled. “I don’t know what to say or how to say it.”
“The Lord says we’re a peculiar people,” Sister Munns explained. “That means that we’re different. People want to know why we’re different. Part of being a missionary is telling people why we’re different. Will you do that, Benjamin?”
“Sure,” I said. “I can do that.”
“Who are our new neighbors, and when do they move in?” I asked Mom as I ate Sunday dinner.
“They’re a young couple,” Mom answered. “His name is Conrad, and his wife’s name is Tricia. He just finished law school.”
“I told Sister Munns that I’d be a missionary and share the gospel with them,” I said. My whole family stopped eating. “How can I do it?” I asked.
My big brother James smiled. “Well, if you were like Ammon in the Book of Mormon, you could be their servant.”
“Huh?” I grunted. “Sister Munns didn’t say anything about being a servant. Isn’t that kind of like being a slave?”
Mom laughed. “James means that you can make friends with them by helping them. After they know that you care about them, you’ll be able to share the gospel with them.”
When the moving van showed up, I was a little afraid to make my first move as a missionary, but since I’d promised Sister Munns, I had to try. “Hello,” I said a little shakily, holding out my hand to Tricia, who was trying to decide which box to haul into the house next. “My name is Benjamin Tripp. I live next door.”
Tricia smiled and shook my hand. “Conrad,” she called, “come meet our next-door neighbor, Benjamin Tripp.”
“Well, Benjamin Tripp, it’s great to know you,” Conrad said, shaking my hand. He was a big, tall man with lots of thick brown hair and a huge, friendly smile. I liked him right away.
“Most people just call me Ben,” I mumbled. “I came over to … well, you know, to be your … servant.”
Conrad and Tricia grinned. “That sounds great,” Conrad said. “I could use a good servant right about now. Why don’t you start hauling some of these boxes into the house?”
I grabbed a big box off the lawn and started for the house. The box was heavy, and I couldn’t exactly see where I was going. I was thinking that there were four steps up to the front door, but there were five. I hit that fifth step and fell flat on my face, dropping the box and hearing a crash.
“We won’t worry about a few dishes,” Tricia said, smiling and patting me on the back. “Conrad breaks them all the time.”
“I do?” Conrad asked, giving her a funny look.
I tried to be more careful after that, and I did pretty well until I carried a chair to the dining room. I had to squeeze between stacks of boxes. One of the chair legs bumped a box, and it fell with a thud and a bunch of books fell out of it. I had them all put back by the time Conrad and Tricia came charging into the dining room.
Conrad took a deep breath. “I tell you what, Ben,” he said slowly, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate your being our servant and all, but maybe you could serve someplace else this afternoon.” He smiled. “Like over at your house.”
I thought a minute and then asked, “Are you hungry? If you’re hungry, I can bake some really good chocolate chip oatmeal cookies.”
“Have you ever made cookies?” Conrad asked suspiciously.
“I don’t have to make them. Mom already made the dough. All I have to do is put the blobs of dough on the pan and bake them.”
“I could use a cookie,” Conrad said. “You will bake them at your house, won’t you?”
It didn’t take me long to plop gobs of dough onto a cookie sheet and put them into the oven. They were supposed to bake twelve minutes, so I went into the family room and played on the computer.
“What’s burning?” I heard Mom exclaim.
I charged into the kitchen. The tops of the cookies were fine. I discovered that if I put the cookies on a plate just right, you hardly noticed that they were black on the bottom.
“Those are fine looking cookies,” Tricia said happily as I handed her the plate.
Conrad grabbed a cookie and bit down on it. Nothing happened. At least nothing happened to the cookie. It might have hurt Conrad’s teeth a little, though. He studied the cookie, turning it over.
“They got a little burnt,” I explained, fidgeting. “But if you just chew the tops off, they’re pretty good. Do you want me to make you a different batch? Mom has dough for sugar cookies.”
Conrad held up the cookie in his hand and pointed to the plate of cookies with the other hand. “No, Ben, I think this will keep us for a while. Thanks for thinking about us, though.”
I was about to leave when I spotted Conrad’s truck all covered with mud. “Your truck’s dirty.”
Conrad nodded, gnawing on the top of a cookie. “I’ll have to spray it off one of these days.”
Right then I got an idea. If I was going to be Conrad’s servant, I’d serve even when he didn’t ask.
Early the next morning I sprayed the mud and dirt off the truck. I was hiding in the bushes when Conrad hurried out the front door, dressed in his suit and carrying a briefcase. He stopped in front of the truck and smiled. “Well, I’ll bet Ben’s been here. It comes in right handy having a servant.”
Conrad opened the truck door, tossed his briefcase inside and sat down. Immediately he let out a yelp and shot out of the truck, banging his head on the door. “The seat’s soaked!”
I caught my breath. The windows had been rolled up last night … ! I hunkered down in the bushes. Tricia came out of the house with a towel and helped dry Conrad off. He was fuming and sputtering, but Tricia calmed him down. “Everything will dry out fine,” she assured him. “Ben was just trying to help.”
“Maybe he shouldn’t try so hard.”
It was late that evening before I dared go over to apologize. “I’m sorry about the truck seat,” I said when Conrad answered the door. “I was sure the windows were all up when I went home last night.”
“They were,” Conrad replied, smiling slightly. “I guess I left mine open after we went out for ice cream. It’s OK—I think everything dried out.”
For a little while I stayed and talked to him and Tricia. I decided to ask my first missionary question. “Do you know what makes me different?” I asked slowly.
Conrad and Tricia looked at each other and smiled. “I have some ideas,” Conrad answered.
“I’m a Latter-day Saint. Some people call us Mormons,” I said excitedly. “And Mormons are different. Do you know any Mormons?”
“I had a friend in college who was a Mormon.”
“Was he like me?”
“He didn’t go around knocking over boxes, burning cookies, and flooding my truck.” Conrad winked at me and grinned. “Maybe he just wasn’t a very good Mormon.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” I said, feeling my cheeks and neck burn with embarrassment. “That’s just me. Mom says I’m growing faster than my brain can operate.” I swallowed. “If you want to know more about Mormons, you just let me know.”
Tricia smiled and took Conrad’s hand. “We’ll do that, Ben.”
The rest of the week I was pretty careful about not being a disaster around Tricia and Conrad. I mainly just talked to them without touching anything. I talked about our family, about Matt serving his mission in Spain, about family home evening and reading the scriptures, and other things.
Saturday afternoon as Conrad was fixing his lawn mower, I asked, “Do you and Tricia go to church much?”
Conrad thought a moment, then shook his head. “I get pretty busy on Sunday.” He grinned. “That’s when the fish bite.”
“I like going to church,” I said. “We sing and tell stories.”
“I’m afraid the singing and storytelling would scare the fish away.” Conrad laughed, slapping me on the back. “Right now I need to get some big fat night crawlers so that I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
I didn’t want Conrad going fishing on Sunday, but if he needed night crawlers, I knew where to get him some. I went out in our garden and pretty soon I had a dozen of the biggest, fattest worms a guy could find. “Here are your night crawlers,” I said as he put his lawn mower away. “Dad says our night crawlers are the best around.”
He took my tin can filled with dirt and worms. “Well, thanks, Ben. You’re a real pal.” He winked at me. “And you didn’t even burn them.”
I missed having Conrad and Tricia in church Sunday. I thought about him out on the lake, fishing with my worms. We got home from church just as he pulled up in his truck.
“You were right, Ben. Those were great night crawlers. I pulled in half a dozen of the best fish I’ve seen in a long time.”
I kept visiting Conrad and Tricia, but not because I was a missionary—Conrad finally had told me that he didn’t think he’d ever have time for church. I kept visiting them because I was their friend.
I helped them out when I could, and I was getting better about not being a disaster as soon as I walked through their door. I still had a few accidents—like the time I knocked Conrad’s grape juice all over his white shirt. There were good times, though, like when I helped Tricia plant her flowers, and when I helped Conrad dig postholes for a back fence.
The Saturday afternoon before our Primary put on the sacrament meeting presentation, I took Conrad his can of worms. He and Tricia were in the backyard, sipping lemonade. “I guess you’re going fishing tomorrow, aren’t you?” I asked as I set the can down.
Conrad peered into my can. “If you have some of your famous night crawlers, I should come home with a real trophy tomorrow. Do you want to come with me?” He grinned.
“We’re putting on a special presentation tomorrow in sacrament meeting,” I said softly, ducking my head. “I’m going to be Joseph Smith. That’s kind of like the main part. You could give the fish a rest,” I said hopefully. “They’d have a week to grow even bigger.” I looked up at him and then over at Tricia. She was looking at Conrad, too. “Then you could come to church with me.”
Conrad took my can of worms and turned it around in his hand, thinking but not saying anything for a while. “Ben, what difference does it make if I go to church with you?”
I thought about that. “You’re my friend,” I finally said. “I care about you. And going to church is better than going fishing on Sunday.”
“I’m not much of a church man, Ben. I’ve just never done it.”
“But you need it. Lots more than you need those fish. After a while, the fish will be gone. But if you have Jesus and His church, you’ll have them forever.”
“It means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Ben?”
I nodded and looked down at the ground. For a long time we were all really quiet. Then he handed me the can of worms. “Just one Sunday,” he said, trying to sound real stern. “And I’ll go just because you’re going to be Joseph Smith.” He smiled. “Now, if you put those back in your garden, do you think you can find them again for next Sunday?”
I hesitated and looked at Tricia. She winked at me and then said to Conrad, “Maybe after you go to church with Ben tomorrow, you won’t want those worms next Sunday.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” I said with a huge smile. “Who knows, maybe the fish bite even better on Saturday. That way I could go with you.”
Conrad laughed as Tricia reached over and took his hand. “I think everybody needs a servant like our Benjamin Tripp.”

Alan picked up one of the beer cans and studied it. “When’s the last time I held one of these?” he thought to himself.
It was in high school and he had been working at a gas station after school. He was just finishing up one night when a carload of kids from high school came in to get a dollar’s worth of gas. The driver, Nick Hill, got out and talked to him. Alan and Nick had played on the football team.
“Hey, when are you through working?” Nick asked.
“In about five minutes.”
“Why don’t you come with us? We’re just driving around. We’ve got an extra girl.”
“I should get home,” Alan said.
“You’re not afraid to go, are you?”
“No.”
“Then come along.”
“My folks’ll expect me home.”
“So what? You’re old enough to do what you want, aren’t you?”
“Okay, I’ll come, but just for an hour,” Alan said.
He had been in the car for only a few minutes when someone handed him a can of beer and an opener. He nervously stared at the can for a long time. The girl beside him looked at him with curiosity.
“Are you through with the opener?” someone in front asked. He handed the opener forward and gently placed the unopened can on the floorboard of the car.
Nick drove the car to an overlook above the town and parked. There were a few nervous jokes, and then it grew silent. Alan turned and looked at the girl next to him. She smiled awkwardly at him.
“Do you want to take a walk?” he finally asked her.
They got out and walked down a path near the edge.
“It’s a nice view,” he said.
“Yes, it really is.”
“I forgot your name,” Alan said.
“Candy.”
“Oh, sure. I’m sorry about tonight. I’m not very good at things like this.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t drink the beer.”
“No.”
“Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were. I was wondering what you’d do.”
“They said they were just going to drive around,” Alan said.
“You knew what it’d be like, though, didn’t you?” she asked.
“I guess so. Maybe I did. Maybe I just got tired of always saying no to people. Why did you come?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s fun to be asked—to be important to somebody—even for just a few hours. I can’t take being a nothing.”
“Is that what you think you are?”
“Yes. Isn’t that what you think I am?”
“No. You’re special.”
“I wish I were. I dream that I am—a movie star or something like that. But I’m just plain.”
“Can I teach you a song? A Mormon song? Would you mind?”
“What’s the name?”
“‘I Am a Child of God.’”
When they got back, they made noise purposely so Nick and the others would know.
“How long are we gonna be here?” Alan asked.
“We just got here,” Nick replied.
“I need to get home.”
“What’s the matter, are we corrupting you? We found your beer in the back. You didn’t drink it.”
“I don’t want it. You drink it.”
“Are you ever going to grow up and act like a man?” Nick asked.
“You don’t mean act like a man. You mean act like you. Never. I never want to be like you. Does that answer your question?”
Nick got out of the car, as did one of his friends. There was a fight, and before it was over, it was Nick and his friend against Alan. When they were through, they drove off and left him and Candy. After they stopped the nosebleed they both walked down the dirt road to the highway where they phoned a friend who came and gave them a ride back to town.
Alan tossed the empty beer can into the garbage container.

Years ago when I was serving as a bishop, a recently converted family moved into our rural Utah community. These good people had joined the Church in the eastern United States and had been warmly fellowshipped and put to work in a small branch there. When they came to our larger, more-established ward, they somehow slipped through the cracks. Some of the family members, particularly the father, became disenchanted with the Church and its members.
One Sunday morning when I noticed the father was missing from priesthood meeting, I left the meetinghouse and drove to his home. He invited me in, and we had a very honest conversation about the struggle he was having with his new faith and neighbors. After exploring various possibilities for responding to his concerns, none of which seemed to appeal to him very much, I asked him with a tone of frustration in my voice just what we could do to help him. I’ve never forgotten his reply:
“Well, bishop,” he said (and I will need to paraphrase here slightly), “for heaven’s sake, whatever you do, please don’t assign me a friend.”
I learned a great lesson that day. No one wants to become a “project”; we all want spontaneously to be loved. And, if we are to have friends, we want them to be genuine and sincere, not “assigned.”

Another example can be found in Sisters, Eloise Richards and Beatrice Kailiponi were steadfast members of the Wailuku Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on the valley isle of Maui. They were recognized as competent, dedicated, knowledgeable leaders in Primary, Relief Society and other community organizations. They were credited with initiating and implementing various programs and helpmeets, such as the first 72 Hour Emergency Kit on Maui and the Kupuna Program for public schools Teachers by profession and dedicated genealogists by choice, they offered guidance, expertise, secular and religious education, compassion, humor, discipline and care to all. They, their spouses and children provided years of service. These women shared their love, attention and home willingly and often to a very impressionable little girl whose parents divorced when she was four years old. Her parents were good individuals but not active in church. So she would ask her mother to drop her off at church where she would sit with either Sister Richards or Sister Kailiponi during Sacrament Meeting. After church she would spend majority of the Sunday with their family at their home. She ate meals with them, discussed future plans and felt like one of the immediate family. She observed and participated in family prayers, outings, events and it filled a void, one of being a complete family. She loved the feeling and spirit within the walls of their homes and the lessons she learned in church. The little girl witnessed the two families saving their money and vacation time as they prepared to travel to O’ahu every year to do temple work for the whole week. These caring, unselfish sisters made a marked difference and a lasting impression. They became mentors for this little girl and consistently magnified their Christlike attributes in such a way that this little girl’s hopes and dreams started to take shape, to possibly become a reality. She wanted what they had, an eternal family that attended church regularly, a temple attending family that lived, loved and shared the gospel with others. She saw the adult children in their families go to college and serve missions. She understood the Lord’s admonition to study, learn and serve and desired to have this in her life when she grew up. As time went by she became more confident and determined to follow their example and create a spiritual refuge for her own future family. That little girl was me and Aunty Eloise and Aunty Bea were my grandfather’s sisters. I hope that as they help guide and direct me from the other side of the veil that they are pleased with my choices to follow in their footsteps so we can be reunited in the eternities.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity of traveling with the President of the Church to attend a series of area conferences. I will never forget the contrast between two conferences that were held just a few days apart.
The first area conference was held in a large arena, and as we sat on the stand, we noticed continuous movement by the people. We saw individuals throughout the arena leaning over and whispering to family members and friends seated next to them. Giving the members the benefit of the doubt, we thought that maybe the large building helped cause the lack of reverence.
A few days later, we were in another country attending another area conference in an arena much like the first. When we entered the building, however, an immediate hush came over the congregation. As we sat through the two-hour general session, there was very little movement among the people. Everyone listened intently. Great attention and respect was shown all the speakers, and when the prophet spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
After the meeting was over, I asked the priesthood leaders about what they had done to prepare the people for the conference. They told me their preparation had been simple. They had asked priesthood holders to explain to the members of their families, and also the families they home taught, that at an area conference they would have the privilege of hearing the words of the prophet and the Apostles. The priesthood leaders explained that the reverence their people felt for God and His servants was the basis for their reverent behavior at the conference.

That was a lesson for Katelyn. She had had difficulty seeing this kind of potential in herself. As a Beehive, she looked up to the other young women, but she didn’t feel like she had anything to contribute to her Beehive class. At school she felt pressure to try to be popular and fit in. “It’s hard when other people try to tell me what I am supposed to look like, act like, and do well at.”

One night for Mutual each young woman received a piece of paper with a name on it. The paper was passed around the room and each young woman wrote talents, abilities, or admirable traits about the young woman whose name was on the paper. As Katelyn read the kind words that the other Beehives wrote about her, she realized that the other girls saw talents and gifts that she had never seen in herself. That experience, coupled with her efforts visiting the hospital, “have taught me a lot about my role here.”

But my involvement with my parents was, in particular, emotionally heartbreaking yet also spiritually uplifting.

Sadly, on May 2nd of this year, 2007, my mother passed away. She was 87, a survivor of cancer, triple bi-pass heart surgery, and a host of other potentially terminal ailments. She was apparently the sick one in a large family of 13 but, to the surprise of many, outlived all her siblings by several years. Her love for her husband and her family, her strong faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and an enthusiasm for life kept her going. She actively engaged in many types of sporting, cultural, business, political, community and faith-based activities and had a tremendous endurance capacity. In accordance to her dying wishes, we took her body from New Zealand to Rarotonga, where she wanted to be buried next to her mother.

At the graveside, my father sang a farewell song, gave a powerful testimony about temple marriage and praised his beloved companion of 70 years. Although he was 95 years old, many of his students, 30 years his junior, marveled at his mental and physical state. Everyone thought he would be with us much longer. Sadly, a month after my mother departed, on June 1st 2007, my father also peacefully passed away.

The passing away of my mother and father and the manner in which they always expressed affection for each other, and to our Heavenly father right to the end, gave me an even stronger testimony and sincere appreciation of the power of the priesthood and our individual responsibility to anxiously engage and endure well.

It entrenched in me the beauty of love in an enduring relationship between two couples who never stopped loving each other. For all seventy years of their marriage, they actively engaged in maintaining a strong and loving relationship.

My brethren and sisters, last Sunday as I sat in my study thinking of what I might say on this occasion, I received a phone call telling me that Staff Sergeant James W. Cawley of the U.S. Marines had been killed somewhere in Iraq. He was 41 years of age, leaving behind a wife and two small children.
Twenty years ago Elder Cawley was a missionary of the Church in Japan. Like so many others, he had grown up in the Church, had played as a schoolboy, had passed the sacrament as a deacon, and had been found worthy to serve a mission, to teach the gospel of peace to the people of Japan. He returned home, served in the Marines, married, became a policeman, and was then recalled to active military duty, to which he responded without hesitation.
His life, his mission, his military service, his death seem to represent the contradictions of the peace of the gospel and the tides of war.
And so I venture to say something about the war and the gospel we teach.

The Lord is also giving the Saints information and comfort through miraculous means. For instance, a sister, who was having marital problems because of her husband’s authoritative attitude, told of a dream she had that helped her resolve her bad feelings. “This sweet gentle lady came to me and told me to be patient and loving, that Arnold was a good man, and that he would change his ways. The dream stayed with me for days; I couldn’t get it off my mind. I wondered who the lady was, and how she could say what she had. Then one day, not long after, we received some long-awaited photos of Arnold’s progenitors that we had sent for to put with our genealogy. Among the photos was one of Arnold’s mother. He had never really known her, since she had died when he was only seven. But apparently she knew him well. The woman who came to me in that dream was his mother.”

When Carrie and her mother, Ginger, returned home, they organized the youth in their ward, taught them how to read Old German script, and helped them prepare the names to be submitted for work at the Chicago Temple.
“We knew we were going to the temple, and we wanted to make the experience more meaningful,” explains Sister Hamer, a counselor in the ward Young Women presidency and a past president of the Minnesota Genealogical Society. “We wanted the youth to know that these names for which they would be baptized were not just names; they were actual people. We could even show them photos of their hometown.
“But it wasn’t until they began actually working with the names that the people became real. Suddenly the youth were saying things like, ‘Hey, this person was born on Christmas,’ or ‘This family had three sets of twins.’”
Young people in the stake became so interested that they spent several summer vacation days copying names. Then in October, 36 teenagers traveled to the temple and were vicariously baptized for 565 people who were no longer just names on a chart. The rest of the 1,500 names were also submitted for temple work.