Gospel Story Finder

While I have had many experiences in my life that follow this pattern, my call as a member of the Seventy is illustrative. The call came the first week of June 1992, and my first assignment was to serve as a member of the Central America Area Presidency beginning on August 1. During my vacation time in July, I immersed myself in the scriptures, especially the Book of Mormon, and spent hours studying, praying, and pondering to help me prepare and overcome my feelings of inadequacy.
Based on Matthew 4:1–11 and the Joseph Smith Translation of Matthew 4:1–11, the parallels shown in table 2 came to me.
Table 2. A Pattern for Spiritual Growth (see Matthew 4)
Verses
Phrases from the Scriptures
Parallels to Our Day
1
The Savior sensed His sacred responsibility and sought to commune with God.
I sensed my sacred responsibility and sought to commune with God.
1
He communed with God.
Enlightenment came as I studied, fasted, pondered, and prayed.
3–10
He was tempted and challenged.
I was challenged with feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness.
11
Angels ministered to Him.
The Holy Ghost comforted, taught, enlightened, and strengthened me to go forward with divine assistance.

I remember when I was a young man, one Sunday I noticed a new family in our meetinghouse—a young mother with two daughters. It wasn’t long before the three were baptized and became members of the Church.
I know the story of their conversion intimately because the oldest daughter’s name was Harriet, and later she would become my wife.
Harriet’s mother, Carmen, had recently lost her husband, and during a period of introspection, she became interested in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After studying the doctrines, Carmen and her daughters knew the Church was true and made plans for baptism.
When Carmen told her mother about this decision, however, her mother was devastated. “How can you be so unfaithful to the faith of your fathers?” she asked.
Carmen’s mother was not the only one who objected. Carmen’s strong-willed sister, Lisa, was every bit as troubled by the news. Perhaps troubled is too soft a word. She was very angry.
Lisa said that she would find those young missionaries and tell them just how wrong they were. She marched to the chapel and found the missionaries, and, you guessed it, Lisa was baptized too.
Many years later, Carmen’s mother also received a testimony that the gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored to the earth. One day she said to her daughters and grandchildren, “I want to be in the same heaven as you.” While in her mid-70s, she too entered the waters of baptism and became a member of the Church.

Celie turned the butter knife over and leveled the top of a cup of flour. “I can make it flat with one try,” she told her grandmother.
“I think you’re going to be a baker when you grow up,” Grandma said, pitting the cherries. She pinched another plump cherry, and juice splattered all over her glasses. “Uh-oh. I’m going to need windshield wipers for my glasses if the juice keeps hitting me instead of the bowl.”
Celie laughed. “I can measure the flour, but I’m glad you did the seed part. That’s too messy.”
Grandma finished the cherries and walked over to check on the pie dough Celie was making. “It looks like there might be too much salt,” she said. “What did you use to measure it?”
Celie leaned over the bowl and stared at the mixture inside. A big tear slid down her nose. “I think I goofed. I put one cup of salt into the bowl instead of one teaspoon.”
Grandma wiped away Celie’s tear. “I know how to solve this problem. I have a great play-dough recipe that calls for lots of salt.”
Grandma pretended to have a magic wand and waved it over the bowl. “Poof, you’re now play dough—not pie dough.”
Celie giggled.
Grandma set aside the play dough. “I’ll help you start over with the pie dough. After we measure the dry ingredients, I will teach you how to cut in the shortening.”
“Cut it?” Celie asked. “With scissors?”
Grandma laughed. “No, I use a pastry cutter.”
“How are we going to get all those crumbs flat?”
“The rolling pin makes the dough smooth and round,” Grandma answered.
“You mean like when I roll clay into a long, round snake?”
Grandma chuckled. “No snakes in our pie.”
“You know what I like about cooking?” Celie asked, wiping the flour off her hands.
“Licking the bowl?”
“That’s second best,” Celie said. “Most of all I like doing things with you.”
Grandma squeezed Celie’s shoulder. “When I was a little girl my grandma taught me how to make tarts. They’re like miniature pies. While my grandma was busy peeling apples, I stuffed the tiny tart tins full of dough. I filled them so high there wasn’t room for the apple filling.”
“Did she get mad?” Celie asked.
“No, she showed me how to fix the tarts and rolled the leftovers into a ball. I got to play with it. She even let me sneak a taste of the dough.”
Grandma pinched off a piece from the edge of the cherry pie and popped it into her mouth.
“Grandma, you’re still sneaking it,” Celie said, shaking her finger.
Grandma laughed and gave her a hug.
Celie was quiet.
“What are you thinking?” Grandma asked.
“Your grandma taught you to make pies. And now you’re the grandma and you’re teaching me.”
“That’s right,” Grandma answered.
“Heavenly Father has a good plan,” Celie said. “He puts us in families. When I’m a grandma, I can teach my granddaughter to make a pie. If she puts in too much salt, I’ll turn it into play dough too.”
Grandma smiled. “We all make mistakes, Celie. Sometimes we have to do things over. Sometimes we just learn and go on. Mistakes help us grow.” Grandma sprinkled sugar over the pies and slid them into the oven. “Let’s go finish that play dough.”
Celie held Grandma’s hand and skipped to the counter.
“I’m kind of glad you put in too much salt,” Grandma said. “I think I’ll roll out a long play-dough snake.”
Celie laughed. “And I’m going to make some windshield wipers for your glasses.”

A similar story is told about a fly fishing fanatic who decided to organize a little fly fishing club among poor minorities in the inner city. They, too, were greatly improved as human beings getting out into nature, learning the art of fly fishing. He was a catch-and-release man. Many of his troubled learners were malnourished and asked if they could catch-and-keep, at which point he taught them how to prepare a delicious trout or bass.

“I’ve been known to spit when I speak,” he began. “So those of you in the front row are like the people at Sea World who sit in the splash zone!” I smiled at this clever attention getter given by the last speaker of the day in the “Introduction to Persuasion” speech class that I teach at Oregon State University. What I didn’t know was that the real attention getter was yet to come.
Teaching college students the art of persuasive speech is always a challenge for me. Although arguing comes easily for most students, constructing reasoned arguments is another matter. Analytical skills must be drilled and re-drilled. This, their final speech, was to be a polished culmination of the skills they had rigorously studied during the quarter. The assignment was to persuade their classmates to perform some action.
It had been a good day. The arguments had been strong and the issues relevant, and now one of the most promising persuaders in the class, Phil Sanchez, had just engaged our interest with his good humor. Phil was a newly returned missionary from my ward, and I looked forward to what he had to say.
But I was momentarily stunned by his bold delivery as he said, “One of my heroes is a man named Joseph Smith. Shortly before his death he said: ‘I have a conscience void of offense toward God and toward all men. I shall die innocent.’”
The attention of the class was abruptly captured, as was mine. I was seized with a sense of panic. I now felt powerfully protective of the things Phil was about to cast before this crowd of self-proclaimed nonbelievers.
In an attempt to give credence to critical thinking, I often goaded the students into frank discussions about a variety of controversial topics to allow them to test the waters of opposition. Conflict was no stranger to this group. As a result, everyone’s personal values, beliefs, and attitudes had been hung out for all to see. We had a snowboarder who pushed the limits of authority, admitted to drug use, and approached life as a party he was hosting. We had our so-called punk with spiked orange hair and body piercings. We had several students who openly opposed religion and any belief in God. We had a born-again Christian, and, of course, Phil and I were both members of the Church. It was a wonderful and diverse group of students who had developed a remarkable affection for each other, despite their vast differences.
Involuntarily, I stole a glance around the room, fully expecting to see a smirk or a hint of hostility. I wondered briefly if Phil had listened to my lecture on audience analysis. I was certain he had opened a gate through which a flood of cheap shots could flow.
Just then he dipped his long arms into a big box and announced that he had a gift for everyone. He called each student in the class by name and presented each one with a copy of the Book of Mormon. On the inside cover, he had written personalized messages to each of his classmates. To one he wrote, “Check out Helaman, chapter seven. You remind me of Samuel the Lamanite because of your individualism and courage. I think you will enjoy getting to know him.”
After all of the 19 students had their books, Phil asked them to read with him about Lehi and his family. They then turned to successive scriptural passages that were already neatly marked and followed along as Phil moved them through the key components of his message. I continued my surveillance of the youthful faces and noticed a visible transformation taking place. As I watched this class reverently turn to Alma, then 3rd Nephi, then Moroni, and eagerly and respectfully read along, I felt their willing collaboration as their spirits were touched. Phil gave his personal witness to this precious gift and glowed as he told of his joy in being a missionary. He closed by having them read Moroni’s promise that they could also know the truth. He then issued a stirring and sincere challenge for them to read the book.
Our routine was for each speech to be immediately critiqued by pre-assigned peers. On this day, the two assigned to give verbal criticisms had been particularly brutal with their comments in the past. As I called for the first critique, I warily wondered what words Ty, our wise-cracking “skater dude” would choose to describe his experience. He simply said, “This is the first time in my whole life I found myself believing something just because the person who was saying it believed it so much.”
The second student, Josh, had previously told the class on several occasions about his run-ins with religion in general and with various clergymen. I nearly shuddered as I asked for his response. Without a trace of defiance, Josh offered a lopsided grin and said how great he thought it was that Phil had taken the time to personalize the books and give them as gifts. He then vowed to read his book, openly admitting that this was the first time he had ever received a religious message without any feelings of malice or disdain and without wanting to argue back.
Then the time was up. The class was over. Nineteen students stowed their new copies of the Book of Mormon in their backpacks and quietly—almost reverently—filed out of the room.
The courage, testimony, sincerity, and good will of a young returned missionary had invited the Spirit, the best kind of persuasion there is.

I'm grateful for learning that lesson through the example of a wonderful missionary companion. Throughout my mission we served in many poor areas, and sometimes I worried about teaching people the principle of tithing. I thought that even though they would be excited about the gospel, it would still be difficult to tell them about tithing, knowing that they had so little with which to care for their families. After teaching a particularly poor family I remember thinking, and I regret to admit this, that it's too bad we have to teach this family about tithing that's going to be so hard for them. Now I hadn't said aloud what I was thinking to my companion when he turned and said to me "I know we aren't supposed to teach them about tithing for a few more discussions, but can we teach them about tithing next time?" Here I was trying to stall from teaching this family while he didn't want to put it off any longer. He said, "My family lived just like them until we found the gospel, and Heavenly Father blessed us so much, I know if we teach them about tithing then the Lord would bless and help them, can we please teach them the law of tithing so that they can keep that commandment and be blessed?"

It completely changed my attitude on the things we were teaching, I was so grateful for humble, obedient missionary companions to teach me the great blessings of knowing the Lords commandments so that we may qualify for His help. My testimony is that when we rely on the teachings of Jesus Christ then the Lord will bless us.

Florence Chadwick was a record-breaking, long-distance, open-water swimmer.
Open-water swimming is a grueling and often dangerous sport. Ms. Chadwick set out to be the first woman to swim the 22 miles from Catalina Island to the California coast. She was already recognized as the first woman to swim the English Channel in both directions. Ardeth G. Kapp, former Young Women General President of the Church, tells the rest of the story this way:
The day she made the attempt, the California coastline was obscured in dense fog. Her mother and her trainer were at her side in a boat, warding off sharks several times with rifles and encouraging her along. After fifteen hours, she asked to be taken out of the water, but her problem wasn’t so much fatigue as it was the bone-chilling cold of the ocean. Though she knew she must be near land, all she could see when she looked toward the shoreline was the thick fog. She stayed with it for a while longer, but near the sixteen-hour mark she was finally lifted, exhausted and freezing, into the boat. It turned out she had given up only half a mile from her goal. ‘Look, I’m not excusing myself,’ she told one reporter, ‘but if I could have just seen land I might have made it.’ [1]
Two months later, she tried again. She encountered the same thick fog, but this time she persevered and accomplished her goal. What was the difference? Well, she said that, while she swam, she kept a mental image of the shoreline in her mind. [2] In other words, the thing that made the difference was that she kept the end in mind.

Lorne C. Campbell, a priest in the Como Ward, Southern River Stake, Western Australia, has a major past, present, and future in theatre. He began dance, drama, and music lessons when he was just five. By 14 he was composing his own songs, choreographing production numbers, and teaching. At 16 he wrote and produced a full length musical play, and now, at 18, Lorne is on a Rotary Exchange Scholarship to Belgium, where he attends the multilingual Athenee Royale.
All this, and Lorne never missed a beat in Primary, priesthood, or Young Men. He plans on furthering his studies at the University of Western Australia and on serving a mission. It looks like Lorne is making all the world his stage.

I’ve never forgotten the sacrament talk of an Englishman who had spent four years in a Japanese prison camp. Two missionaries had found and baptized him just before the capture of Singapore. He lost all his possessions save a photograph of the two missionaries. And that he kept hidden from his captors. He survived, he said, largely by finding moments, sometimes hidden under a blanket, when he could look at the picture and imagine himself talking to the elders again. So vivid is that evening sacrament meeting to me that I remember now, thirty-five years later, that he finished his testimony and sang “The Holy City.”

Joseph Smith gave enthusiastic support to a “Young Gentlemen’s and Young Ladies Relief Society of Nauvoo,” which developed under Heber C. Kimball’s guiding hand. It began simply as a small and casual discussion gathering. But week by week more youth came and bigger and bigger meeting places were arranged. Once when the group met in the large room above the Prophet’s store, he came to speak to them. He praised Elder Kimball for helping organize this “good and glorious work,” complimented the youth on their good conduct, “and taught them how to behave in all places, explained to them their duties, and advised them to organize themselves into a society for the relief of the poor.” Specifically, he asked them to fund and then build a house for a brother who was lame. In response, the youth drew up a constitution, elected officers, called monthly meetings, and opened their membership to anyone under age thirty in Nauvoo, LDS or not, including young men and “the tender, lovely, and beautiful females of our city.”

Monica May wasn’t exactly active in the Church during high school, but the summer before she went to college she decided to make church a regular part of her life. She missed the gospel.
Once at college she wasn’t perfect with her goal, but by the end of her first semester, she looked forward to church as well as her institute class.
Monica had always known the gospel principles. But “I didn’t see the importance of them until I came to institute,” she says. “It’s really opened my eyes. My testimony has grown, and institute has increased my desire to work at living the gospel.”
It was during this realization that Monica’s blossoming testimony was put to the test. It seemed she had found the perfect man. He was a handsome engineering student; he wanted to marry her; her parents thought he was great. But there was one major drawback—he was not a member of the Church.
During this same time, Monica had also developed a strong friendship with Chad May, who had returned from his mission in Taiwan and seemed quite serious about her.
Confused about what she should do, Monica turned to prayer and what she was learning in institute for answers.
One evening, the answer finally came. After watching part of a rec league basketball game Chad was playing in, Monica slipped out of the gym to go on a date with the other guy. But on the way, she says, “I got this terrible feeling in my stomach. I’d had this kind of prompting before, not acted on it, and regretted it. So this time I listened.” She never dated the engineering student again. And less than a year later, Monica and Chad were married in the Dallas Temple.
“Institute provided a constant reminder of my standards,” Monica says. “Without it I wouldn’t have known which way I should be going.”

A few years ago on an assignment to Tonga, I was asked to speak to the student body at the Liahona School. As we gathered on the stand, I gazed out over 900 beautiful students seated before me in the school’s cultural hall. After the opening exercises and a special musical number, the entire student body entered into a scripture chase. Scriptural questions were introduced, and all the students who could immediately find the answer in the scriptures would turn to it and then stand up signifying their success in locating the correct scripture. After each question, a number were eliminated. Finally, only six students remained. They were brought up to the front of the hall for the final challenge.
To make everything even, they were invited to place their scriptures on their heads. The instructor would then read the question, and the participants would reach for their scriptures, take them from their heads, find the scriptures, and then hold up their hands signifying success. The first hand in the air was the scripture chase champion.
The young lady who was the winner was absolutely amazing! She placed the scriptures on her head, listened intently to the question, bowed her head, and her scriptures would fall open in her hands on the page with the correct answer. She was so efficient I thought there must be some trick attached to the game. So I asked the instructor for the list of questions and gave her my set of scriptures. Then I challenged the six students to respond to the question that I would ask, requiring her to use my scriptures to find the answer. She was clearly the winner again, even using my set of scriptures. She was truly a most remarkable young lady.

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys their age in school. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Labrador and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered one time the two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY—WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school. The next day they were having a school activity and they could wear their play clothes, Jeff put on his yellow T-shirt and went to school. When he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it,” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, what if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned? “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened upon him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was a Boy Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

Mother’s closet was magic! It was full of wonderful fabrics. There were cottons, challises, and ginghams for the best doll clothes in the neighborhood. Denims for the strongest jeans and book bags. Velvets and satins for the prettiest dresses, and dozens of other fabrics that I wouldn’t know the names of for many years to come. The fabric closet was magic because it was never empty.
My father died when I was 14 (leaving Mother with eight children, ranging from 15 years to 5 weeks old), and the fabric closet became our clothing store. We would go to the closet and pick out what we wanted, and then mother would either sew it for us or help us make it ourselves. Even my brothers learned to sew this way.
Mother would often give fabric away, much to my disappointment. Boxes at a time would be given to struggling families or others in need. At a time when we were often uncertain about where our next meal would come from, my mother would give away the only source of clothing we had. She tried to console me by saying that there was still plenty of fabric for our needs, and how could we expect the Lord to help us if we would not help others? In all the selfish wisdom of a 14-year-old, I would try unsuccessfully to convince Mother that fabric does not reproduce itself and even her faith was not enough to do that. She didn’t seem to worry about it and continued to give fabric away to those in need. All this time the closet was never empty. It was a magic closet!

A latter-day example of willful rebellion with a happier ending is the story of William W. Phelps. Phelps joined the Church in 1831 and was appointed Church printer. He edited several early Church publications, wrote numerous hymns, and served as a scribe to Joseph Smith. Unfortunately, he turned against the Church and the Prophet, even to the point of giving false testimony against Joseph Smith in a Missouri court, which contributed to the Prophet’s imprisonment there.

Later, Phelps wrote to Joseph asking for forgiveness. “I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me.”

In his reply the Prophet stated: “It is true that we have suffered much in consequence of your behavior. … However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Heavenly Father has been done, and we are yet alive. … Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, for friends at first are friends again at last.”

With sincere repentance, William Phelps buried his “weapons of rebellion” and was received once more in full fellowship, never again to fall away.

Frank Fourie, first counselor in the Capetown South Africa Stake presidency, belongs to one of several such families who have been members for more than fifty years. Recalling his late mother Johanna’s conversion, he says: “Mother had several gospel queries which our minister could not explain. She warned him: ‘If I find a church that does have the answers, I will have to join it!’
“In 1934, Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked at our door, were invited in, and answered every question. Mother and we children were baptized in the Old Hall at Mowbray, now demolished. Looking up at a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall, she vowed she would go there one day. It was during the Depression, so her dream seemed unlikely, but it came true in later years.” Johanna served as a Primary president for many years. “I have a copy of Cumorah’s Southern Messenger [a Latter-day Saint publication of an earlier era] describing her eightieth birthday party while still serving in this calling,” President Fourie says.

One Friday night I went to do temple baptisms for the first time. I thought the temple would be a spotless place where I could feel the Spirit. I was not disappointed. When I first arrived, I saw my Papa Skip. He was working in the baptistry that night. He was dressed all in white. White tie, white jacket, white everything!
I was going to be baptized for a special ancestor with a fun name. His name was Abraham Abraham. I had never heard of anyone who had the same first and last names. I felt really good when I was baptized for him. I felt like he was happy to finally have a chance to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Before I was confirmed for Abraham Abraham, Papa Skip talked to me about the importance of being part of the Church. Temples provide opportunities for all of God’s children to become members of His Church. When we’re confirmed, we receive one of the best gifts in the whole world. When we are worthy, we get to have the Spirit with us! This means when we have choices to make, we should listen for the Spirit to help us make wise choices. It means I must listen for the Spirit to lead me instead of letting the world lead me.
I want to live my life so that someday I will get to shake Abraham Abraham’s hand and tell him how happy it made me to help him become a member of the Church.
When I left the temple, my mom asked me my thoughts about the temple. I said, “It was a great experience, and I want to go back again!”

When my family lived in Seoul, South Korea, we were within walking distance of the school my youngest son attended. My wife could have driven him to school every day, but she enjoyed the time walking to school with him. Twenty minutes is a long time to talk, so they would often sing hymns and Primary songs too.
“Would you teach me a song you learned from Primary this week?” my wife would ask. Sometimes she knew the songs already, but Sun Yoon would sing loudly and proudly. He liked teaching his mom his favorite Primary songs.
They had a good time together on those walks. One day my son observed, “Mom, I want to live in a world where I can hear hymns and Primary songs everywhere I go.”
Many places in South Korea had large speakers that blasted popular songs that sounded very different from the sweet songs my son and wife sang together. Sun Yoon found that singing good songs tuned his mind to enjoy good music. He had good songs in his heart.

There are many ways in which we can misuse our opportunities. Some time ago I read a tender story written by Louise Dickinson Rich which vividly illustrates this truth. She wrote:
“My grandmother had an enemy named Mrs. Wilcox. Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox moved, as brides, into next-door houses on the main street of the tiny town in which they were to live out their lives. I don’t know what started the war between them—and I don’t think that by the time I came along, over thirty years later, they remembered themselves what started it. This was no polite sparring match; this was total war. …
“Nothing in town escaped repercussion. The 300-year-old church, which had lived through the Revolution, the Civil War, and the Spanish War, almost went down when Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox fought the Battle of the Ladies’ Aid. Grandma won that engagement, but it was a hollow victory. Mrs. Wilcox, since she couldn’t be president, resigned [from the Aid] in a huff. What’s the fun of running a thing if you can’t force your enemy to eat crow? Mrs. Wilcox won the Battle of the Public Library, getting her niece, Gertrude, appointed librarian instead of Aunt Phyllis. The day Gertrude took over was the day Grandma stopped reading library books. They became ‘filthy germy things’ overnight. The Battle of the High School was a draw. The principal got a better job and left before Mrs. Wilcox succeeded in having him ousted or Grandma in having him given life tenure of office.
“When as children we visited my grandmother, part of the fun was making faces at Mrs. Wilcox’s grandchildren. One banner day we put a snake into the Wilcox rain barrel. My grandmother made token protests, but we sensed tacit sympathy.
“Don’t think for a minute that this was a one-sided campaign. Mrs. Wilcox had grandchildren, too. Grandma didn’t get off scot free. Never a windy washday went by that the clothesline didn’t mysteriously break, with the clothes falling in the dirt.
“I don’t know how Grandma could have borne her troubles so long if it hadn’t been for the household page of her daily Boston newspaper. This household page was a wonderful institution. Besides the usual cooking hints and cleaning advice, it had a department composed of letters from readers to each other. The idea was that if you had a problem—or even only some steam to blow off—you wrote a letter to the paper, signing some fancy name like Arbutus. That was Grandma’s pen name. Then some of the other ladies who had the same problem wrote back and told you what they had done about it, signing themselves One Who Knows or Xanthippe or whatever. Very often, the problem disposed of, you kept on for years writing to each other through the column of the paper, telling each other about your children and your canning and your new dining-room suite. That’s what happened to Grandma. She and a woman called Sea Gull corresponded for a quarter of a century. Sea Gull was Grandma’s true friend.
“When I was about sixteen, Mrs. Wilcox died. In a small town, no matter how much you have hated your next-door neighbor, it is only common decency to run over and see what practical service you can do the bereaved. Grandma, neat in a percale apron to show that she meant what she said about being put to work, crossed the lawn to the Wilcox house, where the Wilcox daughters set her to cleaning the already-immaculate front parlor for the funeral. And there on the parlor table in the place of honor was a huge scrapbook; and in the scrapbook, pasted neatly in parallel columns were Grandma’s letters to Sea Gull over the years and Sea Gull’s letters to her. Though neither woman had known it, Grandma’s worst enemy had been her best friend. That was the only time I remember seeing my grandmother cry. I didn’t know then exactly what she was crying about, but I do now. She was crying for all the wasted years which could never be salvaged.”

After the projects were complete and youth conference was over, the gifts were stored and forgotten—but not for long.

Marie Taylor, a Laurel, spent a lot of time on her Laurel project. She coordinated the collection and wrapping of several large boxes—giant Christmas containers to be filled with food and delivered to hospice patients and their families. During youth conference, the boxes were wrapped and made ready to go. They wouldn’t be filled with food until the holidays, so they needed to be in storage for a while before they were used. But after being transported a few times, some of the boxes looked a little worse for the wear.

“I did a lot of crazy things to get those boxes,” says Marie, who rounded up her friends to help and then asked local merchants to let her take boxes they no longer needed. “Most of the store owners were nice, but I had to work for those boxes! At one place, with the permission of the owners, I actually climbed into the Dumpster to get a bunch of boxes out.”

So you can imagine her dismay when, just before the holiday season, she discovered that some of the carefully wrapped boxes had come unwrapped or were otherwise unready to be used for food.

“It was discouraging to do things over again,” says Marie. “But we really wanted them to look good. So the other girls in the ward and I had a wrapping party to re-do the damaged boxes. It turned out to be pretty fun.”