Gospel Story Finder

My plan also included BYU for my undergraduate education. My father was not a member of the Church, but he was very supportive of education. He would often help us with science projects or on a variety of our homework assignments, particularly math—he was really good at math. My mother was a member of the Church, and each week she took us to Sunday meetings and made sure we had rides to the weekly youth meetings, which at that time were Primary for the children and Mutual for the teenagers. From my teachers in these Church programs I learned the basic gospel principles.

As a teenager I also learned about BYU. When the time came I applied to the colleges in my hometown of San Diego, California, as well as BYU. My plan included the study of medical laboratory science so that I could work as a technologist in a hospital setting. My plan was pretty set in stone, I thought. I actually put in my high school yearbook that I was going to go to BYU and that I was going to be a medical technologist. I do not know where this desire to be a medical technologist stemmed from. My father was a pharmacist, so there was a bit of the medical profession influence in my home, but I did not know anyone who worked as a medical technologist.

When I came to BYU I began my classes for the medical laboratory science major. Several semesters of chemistry were required, and I soon learned that I did not really love chemistry as much as a medical laboratory science major should. It was then that I realized my plan would need to change. I visited many colleges on campus and explored a variety of majors. Many were of interest to me. Each week I wrote handwritten letters home to my parents—this was before cell phones, email, and texting—and each week each letter contained a different idea regarding a possible major. I’m not sure what my parents told people I was studying, because I didn’t know what I was studying either.

I did not know which road to take, and when I finished my freshman year I returned home to San Diego, discouraged because I had not settled on a major. Near the end of the summer I received a letter with a BYU return address. It was an acceptance letter from the College of Nursing for the fall semester. In my search for a major I had visited the College of Nursing, but I didn’t realize I had applied. In today’s world I can assure you that would not happen, but what an opportunity that was for me. My plan was changing!

After consulting with my parents I decided to change my major to nursing. This change in my plan has had life-altering effects for forty years. I’ve been a nurse for more than thirty-eight years—now don’t start counting how old I am, but yes, that’s a long time—and I’ve done a variety of other things with my major. I’ve enjoyed the profession of nursing, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time here at BYU. I’m anxious to begin serving in a new role as the dean of the College of Nursing, and I’m sure that after I finish this talk, being dean will cause more anxiety than speaking does right now. But I know I can be of service, and I’m greatly appreciative of the opportunity to do so.

“Why can’t Grandma be like Caroline’s grandmother?” complained Gina as she folded the towels. “Yesterday Caroline’s grandmother sent her a new skateboard. It’s really neat! She gives her presents all the time. Grandma never gives me anything.”
Mother stopped in the middle of changing the baby’s diaper. “Gina! I’m surprised at you. Grandma Ross loves you and has always been very good to you. You’re nine years old now and that’s old enough to understand love doesn’t need a price tag. Grandma Ross doesn’t have money to spend on fancy toys. She started working when Grandpa became ill, and most of her money pays for his hospital bills.”
Gina could feel her face getting hot. She knew that what Mother said about Grandma Ross was true, but knowing didn’t make her feel any better. She carried the towels into the hall closet and stacked them neatly on the shelves. “I’m through,” she announced. “Now may I go with Caroline? She said I could try out her skateboard.”
Mother put little David down to crawl on the floor. She sighed and looked at Gina. “You may go after you set the table. And remember to put on an extra plate. It’s Thursday and Grandma Ross will be here for supper.”
Gina pretended she was skateboarding around the dining room as she put the plates on the table. Then she grabbed the knives, forks, and spoons. Mmm, mmm. Her arms were outstretched to balance her skateboard pose as she sailed behind the chairs and placed the silverware beside each plate. “I’m finished, Mom,” she called to the next room. “Now may I go?”
“Yes,” her mother answered, “but be home in time for dinner.”
With only thoughts of skateboarding in her mind, Gina ran up the hill and around the corner to the familiar brown house. Caroline answered the bell. “Hi,” she greeted her friend. “I thought you’d never come!”
“Well, I’m here!” Gina said breathlessly. “Where is it?”
Caroline opened the screen door and pushed the slender skateboard out for Gina to admire. It was bright red with glistening flecks of many different colors. She spun the wheels and they made an even, purring sound.
“Wow! What a neat skateboard!” exclaimed Gina. “How did your grandmother know what kind to buy?”
“Well,” confided Caroline, “last time she called I hinted around a lot …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Gina. The two girls giggled. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Gina watched enviously as Caroline balanced herself on the board and then breezed past her down the sloping sidewalk. She could hardly wait for her own turn. Finally Caroline handed her the shiny skateboard, but Gina promptly fell off. After a few more tries she managed to stay on, and soon she was feeling like an old pro. Gliding down the hill made her heart pound, but she loved it. Finally Gina noticed that the sun had gone down. “I’ve got to go home,” she said quickly. “My grandmother’s coming for dinner—Thursday night, you know.”
Caroline reached down for the skateboard and tucked it under her arm. “You sure are lucky, Gina,” she said. “All my grandparents live so far away I hardly ever get to see them. Well, sometimes I see them on Christmas and sometimes in the summer, but they don’t just come over for dinner like your grandmother does.”
Gina looked at her friend in amazement. “But your grandmother sends you presents all the time,” she said. “All that furniture for your dollhouse, new games and clothes, and now a skateboard. I wouldn’t mind all that.”
“Sure, that stuff’s OK, but it’s not like having a real person who can be with you. Well, see you tomorrow at school.” Caroline’s voice seemed a bit sad to Gina.
“Bye, Caroline,” Gina said softly, staring after her friend. Suddenly many thoughts went racing through her head. Maybe Caroline did have a lot of things sent to her, but she didn’t have a grandmother who played checkers with her, guessed at her riddles, and always came to school for open house. She didn’t have a smiling grandmother to give her a warm hug every Thursday night.
Gina smiled as she ran down the hill toward home, thinking gratefully of a loving grandmother who would be waiting there to greet her.

Trying to protect himself from the cold, Manco hunched with bent knees and pulled his pointed knit cap tightly over his ears. He was glad his brightly woven poncho hugged his body. A fierce wind swept up the rocky canyon, carrying snow as it came.
Impatiently, Manco shifted his weight. When will Papa come? he wondered. He promised me that it would be today. The boy’s stiff fingers touched the bamboo flute that had been tucked into his belt only this morning.
“My son,” his father had said with just a trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his wide, wind-wrinkled mouth, “here is the flute I have been carving for you. Today, I will teach you to play it.”
Manco felt a flush of pleasure as he remembered his father’s words. His father was Tupac, the finest flute player in the region.
Manco carefully noted the location of each of the family’s llamas and alpacas. When he was certain that the flock was safe, he drew the flute from under his poncho.
Tupac had carved the tiny finger holes and the mouthpiece with the greatest care as he sat by the cooking fire in their home high on the mountainside. He and his family grew corn and potatoes on the steep slopes there, and he and Manco climbed even higher each day to tend their small herd.
Manco put the polished wood to his lips. He wanted to send a shimmer of sound—a sound like the ones his father made—into the crisp air. But he knew he could not. He would wait until Tupac returned and taught him how to do it properly. And, he thought, I will someday be the finest flute player in all Peru. Someday my fingers will fly over the tiny holes, rippling like the birdsong I will play. And someday the women will weep at my songs of mourning, even as they shed tears when Papa played for Sinchi, who was called to the land of spirits.
Manco stood suddenly. He saw a small, dark speck descending the white ridge high above him. As the speck grew larger, the boy could see his father’s bright red cap against the snow, his face bent down to protect it from the icy blasts. He was struggling awkwardly to keep the wind from blowing him off the ridge.
The boy quickly scanned the hillside. One of the young animals was missing! Why had he not noticed it before? He had failed in his task. Now he knew why his father was having such trouble coming down the mountainside; now he could see the young llama gathered securely into his father’s warm poncho.
Suddenly Papa uttered a sharp shout. His legs twisted under him. He was caught in a snowslide!
The snow rolled over Papa’s dark figure, and Manco could see him no more. Manco plunged toward the rocky canyon that split the shoulder of the mountain. It would take a long time to descend to the bottom, then climb upward to where the snow had buried Papa.
Manco thought of going for help, but he knew there wasn’t time. Papa needed someone now, and Manco was the only one there.
When the boy reached the snow line at last, his arms and legs were like stones. His hands were bleeding, and his eyes were blurred with stinging perspiration and with his own tears. If only he could find Papa, he would never again fail to perform his tasks.
Searching the mass of snow and debris before him, Manco couldn’t see Papa anywhere! But wait—above the gasps of his own breathing, Manco heard a low moan. Swiftly he climbed higher and a little to the right. He saw a large, rough mound of snow moving slightly. “Papa?”
The boy tore at the snow with his bare hands. First he uncovered the young llama, which hobbled over to join the flock as soon as it was freed. Then Manco’s rapid digging uncovered an arm, then Papa’s shoulders, then his capped head. Tupac’s face was a strange color. His eyes were closed.
“Papa? Can you hear me?”
Tupac’s eyelids fluttered, then closed again. The look of tenseness and pain never left his face.
Manco pushed the snow from around his father’s limp form. He knew that he would not be able to get Papa home—it was too far.
There’s a shelter just over this ridge, he remembered. It’s only made of fallen tree limbs and branches, but it will be warmer there and out of the wind.
As Manco struggled to lift his father to a sitting position, Tupac came to and cried out with pain. But he struggled to his feet, saying, “I think that with your help, Manco, I can make it to the shelter.”
Evening shadows closed in on them as they made their way over the ridge. A few meters before they reached the shelter, Tupac slumped to the ground, overcome by pain and by his exertion. Manco was forced to drag his father the rest of the way.
Manco laid his father on a hastily made bed of twigs. He took off his own poncho and covered Tupac with it. Then he quickly cleared a space near his father, built a small fire, and set out to get help.
Manco soon found his uncles, who climbed up the mountainside and carried Tupac to his home. The boy’s mother and Cora, his sister, carefully tended to Tupac, cleaning and bandaging his wounds, and giving him soup to eat, and administering medicine. Manco watched anxiously until he saw his father fall into a relaxed sleep. Then the boy went to his own bed, exhausted.
It was late the next morning when he opened his eyes. His father, still in pain but feeling better, spoke his name.
“Yes, Papa?”
“The flock—is it safe?”
“No, Papa. I—I left them on the mountain.”
“You are the man of this house now,” his father told him. “Gather them and care for them. Go. And God be thy friend.”
Manco could not believe his ears. He was “the man of this house now”? But it was his negligence that had caused Papa’s accident. Papa knew why Manco hesitated, yet he called his son, who had erred, a man. The boy’s eyes stung suddenly. He bent over his father to hide tears of gratitude. “Yes, Papa. Thank you,” he whispered.
Manco stood, feeling somehow taller and older. He would not fail Papa this time. He would care for the herd alone.
Manco put on his poncho, pulled his cap over his ears, and went to the rough-hewn door.
“My son?” Tupac lifted himself slightly.
“Yes, Papa?”
“When you return, I shall teach you to be the finest flute player in all Peru.”

Our family had made the German adjustment well. In addition to assimilating another language and culture, we had been lovingly accepted into our little branch. However, we knew that our time in Trier would be relatively short.

Theaters in Germany are classified according to their size, the number of orchestra members, and available finances. Trier is a small “city theatre” and is listed among European theaters as a “D” house. The dream of every opera singer is to be employed as a soloist in an “A” house. “A” houses, or theaters, are comparable to the Metropolitan Opera Company in New York City and La Scala in Milan. They include such opera theaters as Hamburg, Munich, Berlin, and the Vienna State Opera.

It was also my goal to sing in such theaters. I had worked hard and had done everything in my power to climb the rungs to a “C” house on my way to the larger opera stages. I shudder to think how many auditions I sang and how many times I heard the words “Thank you. You will hear from us if we need you.” Many of my colleagues were landing jobs in “C” and “B” houses. With each audition and each rejection, my confidence and hope waned.

Three years passed. One afternoon I received a call from an agent in Vienna. He had seen me in the tenor role of Cassio in the opera Othello and had recommended me to Eberhardt Waechter. Herr Waechter was looking for a tenor soloist to complete the ensemble for his upcoming position as director of the Vienna Volksoper.

Before I boarded the train for Frankfurt, where the audition was to be held, Jeannie and I once again prayed for guidance. We had worked and prepared in every way possible and were trying to be patient. We shared our dream yet again with the Lord and put the outcome in His hands. Just a few hours later I called Jeannie with the miraculous news that I had, indeed, signed a contract. It wasn’t until later that I learned that the Volksoper was an “A” house.

With deep reverence and gratitude, my thoughts turned to the words “Neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field, saith the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 3:11; see also 3 Nephi 24:11).

Had I been offered a contract after any of the previous auditions, I would have immediately signed away the next several years of my life. I believe success had been withheld until my voice, my acting ability, and my command of the language had ripened. Even after signing, I had two additional years of preparation before the contract went into effect.

It was nearly Christmas. Mrs. Minerva, who lived alone in an upstairs apartment, got out the green plastic tree that she decorated every year. She stood the tree up in the corner of her living room. Then she sat down in her rocker and stared at it. Its branches were all bent out of shape.
“Little tree,” she said, “I’ve been happy with you for many years. But this year you look all worn-out. Anyway, I’m getting too old for a Christmas tree. I’ll just set you by the trash can and let them take you away.”
Tony lived on the floor below Mrs. Minerva. When he went outside to play that morning, he saw the tree by the trash can. “Wow!” he yelled. “What a lucky find!”
Tony dragged the tree to his apartment. He leaned it against the wall near the door. Then his mother called him inside.
Carl lived across the street from Tony. When he saw the old bent tree, he decided to fix it. In the sandpile behind his house, he found his big red pail. He filled the pail with sand and took it across the street.
Carl stuck the Christmas tree into the sand in the red pail. Then he fixed the bent branches.
The tree looked a lot better, and Carl felt good. But he did not want Tony to know who had fixed the Christmas tree, so he ran home.
Soon Karen came skipping home from school. Karen lived with her father in the apartment next to Tony. She saw the little plastic tree by Tony’s door. She thought, There’s a pretty green tree in a bright red pail. But it’s very plain.
That night Karen cut and pasted busily. She popped popcorn too. By bedtime, the table was full of red and white felt candy canes, foil stars, paper snowflakes, cotton snowmen, and popcorn chains.
Before she went to school the next morning, Karen decorated the tree with all the things she had made. Now it looked beautiful—just as a Christmas tree should!
When Tony went outside, his eyes lit up. “Mother! Mother!” he called. “Come see the magic Christmas tree. It was just an old, bent plastic tree yesterday. But now it’s a beautiful Christmas tree!”
And it was both beautiful and magic. Everyone who went by that day looked at the tree. Babies and little children laughed with joy when they saw it. Unhappy people smiled. People who didn’t know each other called out, “Merry Christmas!” as they passed.
On Christmas Eve, Carl, Tony, and Karen all went outside to look at the tree. Tony was happy that he had saved the tree from the trash. Carl was happy that he had fixed the tree and put it into his red pail. Karen was happy that she had made all the pretty things and hung them on the tree.
The children heard a noise above them. Looking up, they saw Mrs. Minerva. She was opening her window for some fresh air. An idea came to each of the children at the same time. Karen said, “Why don’t we take the Christmas tree up to Mrs. Minerva. She looks sad. Maybe its magic will make her happy again.”
And so they did. Carl and Tony carried the tree carefully up the steps. Karen ran ahead and rang Mrs. Minerva’s doorbell.
“Merry Christmas!” they cried when she opened the door. “Here is a Christmas tree for you.”
“What a beautiful tree!” Mrs. Minerva said. She did not know that it was her own old tree because it had changed so much.
When Mrs. Minerva saw the beautiful Christmas tree, she did feel much happier. She hurried to get glasses of milk for Karen and Carl and Tony. And she got a big plateful of cookies.
“This will be the best Christmas I’ve had in a long, long time,” she told the children. “That is a magic Christmas tree.”
And she was right.

Linda’s bike screeched to a stop next to the lawn where Jill was pulling weeds. “Can you finish your paper route by three o’clock today?” Linda asked.
“Sure, I’m always finished by then. Why?”
“My dad has a business meeting in Santa Cruz, and he says that he could drop Mom and us off to swim while he goes to the meeting.”
“Great!”
“We can’t be late though. We have to be ready when he gets here.”
“No problem,” Jill said. “I’ve been working all summer for a chance like this. Every day I try to do my route faster than the day before so that I’ll have more time to play. Now my practice is really going to pay off.”
“How fast can you do it?”
“Forty-three minutes, when the papers are small. Then I usually stop at Widow Wiggen’s for a few minutes before I come home.”
“Are you nuts? She’s a real weirdo.”
“She is not.” Jill stood up. “She’s just like a grandma.”
“She talks to herself.”
“You would, too, if you had something to say and no one to listen to you. Mrs. Wiggen has all kinds of exciting stories to tell about the old days, and she imitates what everybody sounded like until you feel like you know them all. It’s fun to talk to her. Besides, she’s really lonely. I think the main reason she takes the newspaper is to have someone to visit with. And since she can’t see very well, she usually asks me to read her the headlines, the weather, and the obituaries.”
“Obituaries?”
“Yes. She wants to know if anyone she knows has died.”
“Well, you don’t have to visit with her today, do you?”
“I’ll have plenty of time. The papers get here around one o’clock.”
“OK. But remember to be at my house by three o’clock. If you’re not, we’ll have to leave you.”
“Fair enough. I’ll bring my skimboard.”
Linda spun away on her bike, and Jill continued weeding. By the time she headed for her route, she had finished pulling the weeds, assembled all the things she wanted to take to the beach, and had them in a neat pile on the porch. She even wore her swimsuit under her jeans.
Jill whizzed along toward the pick-up corner, ready to jump off her bike, grab the bundle of papers, and whip through her route.
“Oh, no!” she groaned when she saw the empty corner. “The papers can’t be late today.”
But they were late. And later. And even later. As the minutes ticked by, Jill’s hopes faded.
While she waited, Jill tried to think of any shortcuts that she could take. The only thing that came to mind was to eliminate her visit with Mrs. Wiggen. Then, just as the papers finally came, Jill had another idea. If she didn’t go down the widow’s long lane at all, she could save five minutes. Jill looked at her watch. Five extra minutes were all that she needed. She would take the widow her paper after coming back from the beach. Mrs. Wiggen would understand.
But as Jill thought about her plan, she remembered what Widow Wiggen had said just the day before: “It’s a good thing that you come by every day to check up on me. You never know when an old lady might fall and break her neck.”
Mrs. Wiggen had laughed when she said it, thought Jill, but maybe she’d really meant it. What if she needed me this very day? Hogwash! Jill told herself. Mrs. Wiggen will be just fine if I don’t see her until later today.
Once Jill had talked herself into postponing the widow’s paper delivery, she tried not to think about it anymore. But the thought that maybe something was wrong at the widow’s kept popping into her head. Jill tried to think about the fun she’d have with Linda at the beach. She could imagine the slap of each paper on a porch sounding like the splat of the skimboard on the water. But every time she tried to imagine that she was jumping onto the whirling disk and skimming along the water, what came to her mind instead were the widow’s words: You never know when an old lady might fall …
I’m only imagining things, Jill told herself. The widow’s fine. She glanced at her watch and knew that Linda would already be waiting.
Slap, slap, slap. As the newspapers hit the porches, Jill again tried to summon the thrilling sensation of slipping along on the skimboard. But she couldn’t do it. Thoughts of Widow Wiggen drowned her attempt the same way a big wave washes away a sand castle.
A new thought shivered up Jill’s neck: The man who cut the widow’s lawn wouldn’t be around until Friday, and the only time the widow’s son came to visit was late on Sunday afternoons. Jill was the only person who saw her every day. What if something had happened to her?
Jill pedaled faster, hoping that she would see the elderly lady waving from her yellow lawn chair. But the lane was strangely quiet; only the whir of Jill’s tires resounding off the asphalt could be heard. When at last she saw the chair under the big oak, it was empty. Jill dropped her bike and ran for the house. Just as she reached the porch steps, she heard a small, desperate cry. “Jill …”
Jill turned toward the sound and found the widow crumpled on the ground beside the porch. Splintered pieces of rotted wood from the railing lay around her. The pain that she felt showed in her eyes, and a single tear slid down her cheek. “I knew you’d come,” she whispered.
Jill shuddered at the thought of how nearly she hadn’t.
“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner, but the papers were late,” Jill explained. Making her voice sound bright and comforting, she continued, “But don’t worry. The Daily News Rescue Service is here at last. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Yes, I know.” Widow Wiggen’s brave smile assured Jill that it would be.

Soon I’ll be celebrating the first anniversary of my baptism, thanks to the efforts of my neighbor Diane Novak who is ten.
Diane invited me to Primary at the Caribou Branch of the Church in the Houlton-Maine District of the Canada-Halifax Mission. Later I met with the missionaries and was baptized by Diane’s father in the swimming pool at Loring Air Force Base. Now I go to Mutual and take my nonmember brother and one of his friends with me.

“Son, get up! We’ve got a lot of things to do this morning.”
I turned over in bed and looked at my alarm clock. It read 5:30 A.M. I thought, the sun isn’t even out. It’s snowing, and I have to be to school at 8:15! Quickly I realized that I’d better quit complaining and do my chores before I was late for school.
Life wasn’t easy as a teenager growing up on a ranch in southern Colorado. I had many responsibilities, and my father depended on me to fulfill them. I found little time to watch television or just hang out with my friends.
I remember in the winter months, my job was to feed the bulls, the horses, and a few cows. In the summer when we were putting up hay, my Dad would assign me to certain tasks like cutting, baling, or hauling, and in between, I would have to find time to change the irrigation water. My Dad put complete confidence in me that I would get the job done. I often thought that this responsibility put a lot of pressure on me and that I would have gray hair by the time I reached 20.
I never could understand exactly why my parents wanted me to keep busy and gave me such responsibilities until I left for college. There, for the first time in my life, I was separated from my family. I then realized that because my parents had kept me busy, I had missed some of the bad influences that young people find when they get bored and have nothing to do. Having responsibilities taught me the importance of staying with a job until it’s finished and doing it right the first time. These habits helped me while I was serving a mission. I also found I had patience. (I probably got that from working with stubborn sheep and cattle.)
I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for permitting me to be born to such good parents, who taught me the importance of working hard. It has helped to this point in my life, and I know it will continue to help me throughout my life.
Every time your parents give you a chore or an assignment or a responsibility, take it and do the best you can.

In the late 1940s a young man named Tom was at a dance for the freshman class at the University of Utah. As he was dancing with a girl from West High School, a young lady from East High came dancing by. Tom took one look and decided that there was a young lady he needed to meet. However, she danced away and the evening concluded before Tom could dance with this mystery girl, much less find out her name. Several months later, while waiting for a streetcar at Thirteenth East and Second South in Salt Lake City, Tom looked up and could hardly believe his eyes! There was the young lady he had seen at the dance! She was with another young lady and a young man who Tom recognized from his days in grade school. However, Tom couldn’t remember his name. He squared his shoulders and plunged into his opportunity.
Tom walked up to the young man and said, “Hello, my old friend from grade-school days.”
The young man responded, “I can’t remember your name.”
Tom told the boy his name and then was introduced to Frances Johnson, who later became his wife (from Thomas S. Monson, Be Your Best Self [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1979], 131).
I wonder if Tom ever wonders what would have happened had he not gone to the freshman dance? What if he had decided to go somewhere else? What if he had decided that he was too tired or didn’t want to go dancing that night? Was Tom’s sudden interest in Frances just a random thing or was it something more than that?
We may not know the answers to these questions, although we certainly seem to enjoy asking them, but I believe some greater questions could be examined. Let’s assume that Tom had indeed felt the prompting of the Spirit that evening at the dance. Could he have felt what he did if he had been behaving in a disorderly manner? What if Tom had decided to just hang out with his buddies at the refreshment table? What if there had been something amiss in his life that would have prevented him from feeling the Spirit? How is it that the future President Thomas S. Monson was in the right place at the right time?

I should like to challenge you to measure your acceptance of counsel from the following experience related by President Marion G. Romney in a general conference:
“I was greatly impressed by the President’s [President Joseph Fielding Smith’s] remarks. I am glad he said what he did. Listening to him, I was taken back in my thoughts a quarter of a century ago to an experience I had with President Heber J. Grant. We were discussing some criticism that had been directed against an action taken by him in his official capacity. Putting his arm across my back and resting his hand on my left shoulder he said, ‘My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church, and if he tells you to do something wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.’
“And then he added, ‘You don’t need to worry, however; the Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead his people astray.’
“I haven’t forgotten his counsel. I think I have been faithful to that charge ever since.” (Conference Report, Apr. 1972, p. 111.)

An experience which remains vivid in my mind when I felt the Savior yoked up with me, was during the October 2010 general conference. A missionary who had struggled for over six months with homesickness and wanting to go home was really weighing me down. As we approached general conference, I asked for inspiration on how to deal with this challenge. I also asked the missionaries to identify personal issues they were struggling with, then to listen carefully for what would be said in the general conference. Missionaries were asked to listen to both spoken and unspoken words.

We had just watched the Saturday afternoon session, and we were waiting for the priesthood session. Since we were watching the sessions live, it was past midnight in Harare. Some of us were outside, and this missionary who had been struggling with homesickness came and stood next to me. He simply said, “President, I have decided to stay.”

I could hardly believe what he had said. I asked him, “Why have you decided to stay and serve your mission?”

He said that he felt it was the right thing to do. Then he added, “I decided to stay not for myself, but for my children and grandchildren.”

We embraced and rejoiced together.

This missionary became one of our strongest elders. He inspired other missionaries to look to the Lord and to serve with humility, faith, and power.

Now he and his sweetheart have been sealed in the temple, and they are noble, righteous parents. His decision to stay on his mission surely has brought blessings to his family and it will continue to do so forever.

I felt the Lord’s love in taking upon me his yoke as we listened to general conference and sensed this missionary felt the same way. As I now reflect on what transpired, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words come to mind: “If we teach by the Spirit and you listen by the Spirit, some one of us will touch on your circumstance, sending a personal prophetic epistle just to you.”1

Seeing 30 homes built from your own designs is quite satisfying, but when you are only 18 years old, it’s an outstanding accomplishment. Robert McArthur has had his own home designing business in the Salt Lake City area and has also worked for several builders and contractors even before his graduation from high school.
His love of home designing began early in his life—he was about 15 when he started sketching designs. While a senior at Bountiful High School (Bountiful, Utah), Robert won first place in architectural drawing in the State of Utah. This entitled him to a trip in the summer of 1975 to Washington, D.C., where he competed on a national level in architectural drawing. He took second place, with a gold medal in the skills contest. In 1975 he designed a home for the 1975 Parade of Homes in Salt Lake City, competing with professional builders and designers. The judges awarded him a trophy for second-best design in the show. In 1976 he designed a home for the 1976 Parade of Homes and again won second-best design and also the coveted award for “Best Home in the Home Show” (awarded by public vote).
Following graduation from high school he was awarded a full six-year scholarship from the Home Builders Association of Greater Salt Lake. But Robert decided it was time for more important things at that age—he decided he would complete a full-time mission, so he declined the scholarship.
Elder Robert McArthur is presently serving a mission in the Washington Seattle (Spanish-speaking) Mission. When he returns from his mission, he will have 30 homes, a challenging future career, and a very happy family waiting for him.

I stormed into my house, eyes flooding with tears after yet another disappointing piano lesson. It was my fourth year taking piano, and I had barely improved past “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” My teacher had tried to find something positive to say about my horrific playing, but I only felt worse. My parents were paying money for piano lessons that I didn’t want and had no hope for.
I wanted my parents to let me quit. “Please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything. What will it take?”
After discussing it between themselves, they said, “If you learn 50 hymns, we will let you quit.”
I started practicing right away. I wanted to quit so badly I was willing to spend extra time on the piano. The first hymn, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” (Hymns, no. 19), took nearly a month to master. I was still intent on quitting, so I continued practicing.
An interesting thing happened: the hymns got easier to master. I felt happier throughout the week. I found myself humming hymns during the day and singing louder in sacrament meeting.
Eventually, I stopped keeping track of how many hymns I knew. As I became more skilled on the piano, I realized I could learn a new hymn almost perfectly in less than 30 minutes.
When I finally did add them all up, I had learned way over 50 hymns. And there was no way I was going to quit playing piano. I had become much more confident in my abilities to play and had felt the power of the hymns in my life.
Hymns are like scriptures; they speak truth. When I play the hymns, I feel like I am immersing myself in the scriptures. Learning how to play the hymns has been a kick start to building my testimony and learning truth. I find myself going through the words of different hymns to help me throughout my day. Playing piano has strengthened my testimony and has opened doors for me wherever I go.

We love the Friend and read from it almost every morning. After reading “Conference Reverence Tent” in the October 2008 issue, we decided to make our own conference reverence tent for the next conference. We decorated the inside of the tent with pillows, blankets, and a picture of Jesus. We were happy we were listening when President Monson announced there was going to be a temple built in Calgary—that’s where we live!

The following story is about kindness. I felt inspired to ask a few former students about their experiences at BYU–Hawaii. I am very thankful to Cooper Johnson for providing me with a lot of information about his experience here, and I am focusing on just a small part of his story to emphasize the kindness that he experienced as a student. These are his words: “The teachers, students, staff, and community members all seemed to care about my well-being, even if we had never met before. People I didn’t know smiled and waved as I walked across campus. I learned that being kind to others was a way of life. I felt a built-in support network from the moment I got there.” Later on, in his message to me, he said, “Several months after I got to Hawaii, I felt a legitimate need to get a car. I prayed for help finding an affordable car in decent condition. I promised the Lord that I would show kindness and help others if I could have my needs met. The Lord blessed me. A friend of mine helped me find a car salesman that sold me a car in great condition and a very low price. In turn, I kept my promise while I was on the island. I picked up people walking in the rain, regularly gave people rides, helped people get to doctor’s appointments, and was the friend known for helping people go shopping on the other side of the island.” Cooper also mentioned how he was blessed through this experience. I appreciate this story for its simplicity and for how similar it is to the things that people do here every day.

Ring! It was the final bell of the school day on Friday afternoon. I jumped from my desk and raced to the door. My friend Kent had invited me and two other boys to camp out that night by his house. I had been looking forward to it for two weeks.
When I got home from school, I gathered my sleeping bag, pillow, flashlight, comic books, and a bag of snacks. When I got to Kent’s house, he and his father were just spreading out the tent. We took turns hammering the stakes that kept the tent secure on the ground.
Then Kent’s dad barbecued hamburgers, and we all played hide-and-seek in the woods. As soon as the sun went down, we turned on our flashlights and went exploring.
After a while, Kent’s mother called us all back from the woods and told us it was time to settle in for the night. We ran into the tent, laid out our sleeping bags, and got comfortable. Soon we were sharing snacks and listening to some of Kent’s amazing adventure stories. Kent always made us the heroes in his stories. We could always fly, and we always saved the day.
As it got late, everyone was tired and began to fall asleep. I could hear the crickets chirping in the night air and a train passing in the distance. I began to think about Kent’s stories. I realized that even though Kent had told me a lot of great stories, there was one important story he didn’t know. It was the true story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I should share this special story with my friend.
“Kent, are you still awake?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
My heart started beating a little faster and I felt anxious, but I kept talking.
“I was just wondering. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Do you believe in the prophets in the Bible?”
“Yes,” Kent said as he sat up in his sleeping bag.
“Well, what if I told you that we have a living prophet on the earth today, just like in the Bible?”
“What do you mean—a prophet like Moses?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, that’s something new,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
My anxious feeling began to melt away, and excitement grew in its place. I told Kent about the Prophet Joseph Smith and how the gospel was restored to the earth. I told him about the living prophet and apostles on the earth today.
When I finished, I asked Kent what he thought about it.
He was quiet for a few moments. “I think that’s an amazing story that I really need to think about. Do you really believe it?”
“Yes, I really do.” I felt warmth inside my chest, and I knew I had said what Heavenly Father wanted me to say. I said a silent prayer that Kent would find out for himself that what I had said was true.
I later learned that Kent did pray to find his answer. He also shared what he had learned with his parents. Soon Kent’s family was studying the gospel and meeting with the missionaries. It wasn’t long until Kent’s whole family was baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Although many years have passed since then, Kent and I are still great friends. We both served missions, and we attended Brigham Young University together. I’m so glad that I took the time to share the gospel with my friend.

Following high school, Robert attended the University of Utah for two years. Unfortunately, his low self-esteem went with him. And there were other worries. World War II was looming on the horizon, and like most students, Robert enrolled in ROTC. If war was inevitable, as it appeared to be, he felt it was better to go in the army as an officer. But at the end of his sophomore year, he had to make a decision. Should he go on with ROTC or go on a mission and probably end up in the infantry when he came back? “I wrestled with that decision. Should I go on and get my commission or do as I ought to do and go on a mission and take my chances? Most of my friends chose to stay in college. Very few of them served missions.”
But Elder Backman was not like most of his friends. He chose to serve the Lord. “There are so many decisions you make as you go along and you really can’t say why, except that somebody was on your shoulder making suggestions. And I can say without any hesitation whatsoever that anything good that’s happened to me since, I can trace directly to that missionary experience. I feel so strongly about that that whenever I have a chance to talk to young people, I tell those boys that if they miss that chance to serve a mission, they’re cheating themselves out of the greatest experience of their lives. I feel that keenly about it. I’ve had a lot of schooling since then, but I don’t think I could have gone to any university in the world for any length of time and have the experience equal what that two-year period in my life did for me. I don’t know whether I did any good. I didn’t baptize a single soul on my mission, but I sure converted me.”

Two and one-half years passed, and before I knew it, I was home again. I remember hearing someone mention a name: Elisa Rogers, a young woman who was in charge of a university dance at the Hotel Utah. There was something special about that name. I decided I ought to meet her.
I remember the first time I saw her. As a favor for a friend of mine, I had gone to her home to pick up her sister. Elisa opened the door, and I stared. There she was, beautiful, 1.65 meters tall, blue eyes, blond hair.
She must have had a feeling also, because she said to me, “I know who you was.”
She quickly realized she had made a grammatical error. To fully appreciate that, you have to remember that she was an English major.
Even after all of these years, she has remembered the embarrassment of that moment. Of course, my retelling this story doesn’t make matters better, but I trust she will forgive me.

One of the stake presidents in Phoenix, Arizona, made the following report that really touched me:

I was humbled to learn that last quarter 100 percent of our single adults and single parents were visited. It is humbling, while also sad, to realize that in many homes the home teacher is considered the father by the children who reside there.

This past month I met two families in the stake who shared the same home teacher. They had just learned that their home teacher was moving because of a job transfer.

During the last sacrament meeting the home teacher attended prior to his move, several children from the homes he taught sang “Lord, I Would Follow Thee”(Hymns, 1985, no. 220). At the halfway mark in the third verse, the children began to cry and could not continue singing. As a quiet began to rush over the congregation, the words of the song began to be heard from the back of the chapel. It was the remainder of the family members singing from their hearts. As they sang, they stood—a single mother with her other children and another sister and her nonmember husband. It was one of the most moving things I have ever witnessed. As the music stopped, it was as if everyone could still hear a heavenly choir.

I later learned that this wonderful home teacher had, for years, visited each of his families once a week. Though he had never held a ward position viewed by others as significant, I had a witness that his work in his call as a home teacher had dwarfed any accomplishment of any leader in his ward or our stake. I came away from that meeting with a better understanding of the Lord’s feelings regarding the call of a home teacher than from any talk I have ever heard.

Andy’s bare feet kicked at his reflection in the water. He bit his tongue to keep himself from talking, but it didn’t stop his thoughts. Why can’t I go? I’m twelve now. I could help!
Slowly Andy put his moccasins on and sauntered up the footpath to the house. Disgustedly he kicked into the dirt. The flying pebbles sent the chickens squawking in every direction.
“Andy,” his mother asked, “are you still pouting about your father’s decision?”
“I’m not pouting.” Andy stuffed his hands deep in his overall pockets and leaned against the porch post. “I’m just wishing I could go on the hunt.”
“Maybe next time,” Mother said.
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I know, but the bobcat hunt is not just a game. You’ve heard of the damage that old cat’s done. If the cat wasn’t killing the sheep, the men wouldn’t go either. It’s dangerous! Now come on in, your father’s already washing for lunch.”
“Andy,” Father said as they finished eating, “I’m sorry you can’t go on the hunt. I hope you understand.”
Andy sat back down in his chair. His eyes were glued to his empty plate. “Is Billy going?” he asked.
“No. Mr. Longrun and I decided together that you are both too young. Maybe next time, Son.”
Andy went back out to the porch and sat on the step. At least Billy isn’t going either, Andy thought. But still I wish I could go. I’ve listened to all the men talking at the trading post and I know almost everything there is to know about that cat.
His thoughts were interrupted as a wagon pulled up in front of their house. Billy Longrun jumped out of the wagon and started toward him. He didn’t smile and Andy knew why. Without a word Billy sat down on the steps.
After a long silence Billy finally spoke. “My mother said you could come stay with me while my father is gone.”
Andy began to smile. He remembered what fun it was to stay in a Navajo hogan. If he couldn’t go hunting, this was the next best thing.
“I’m sure Mother will let me go,” he said.
“Let’s ask her now. I don’t want to watch them leave,” Billy said as he pushed his black hair out of his eyes.
Andy’s mother said that he could stay with Billy, and in a few minutes he had a small blanket roll of his belongings collected.
“I’m ready!” he shouted as he ran out the door. “I’ll race you to the black rock.”
Both boys ran as fast as they could to the rock then slowed to a walk, laughing between deep pants as they tried to catch their breath.
“I have an idea,” Andy said when he had his breath back. “While the men are on the hunt, let’s go trapping.”
“That’s a great idea,” Billy said. “Then when they get back we’ll have some pelts to show them.” His black eyes began to shine.
“That way staying home won’t be quite so bad,” Andy said.
Mrs. Longrun was sitting just outside the hogan weaving. Her long black hair was tied back with a piece of bright cloth and her arms and fingers were covered with beautiful turquoise and silver jewelry.
Billy sat down beside her. “Can we go trapping?” he asked.
“If you don’t go for long,” she answered.
“We’ll be back before the sun sets,” Billy promised.
Inside, the hogan was very warm. The fire in the coal stove was still smoldering. There was not a lot of furniture, but Andy recognized the bedrolls stacked against the wall. While he put his bedroll by the others, Billy gathered up the traps.
“Now be careful,” Mrs. Longrun called after them. “Don’t forget the time.”
Andy and Billy tramped through the bushes and grass into the hills, then they followed a large stream into the forest. It did not take long to find several good places to set the traps. Just as the boys started back, Andy suddenly grabbed Billy’s arm and said, “Hey, wait!”
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“What’s that between those two trees way over there?” Billy looked in the direction where Andy was pointing.
“I can’t tell.”
“Let’s go see. We have time,” his friend suggested.
Billy looked at the sun and then nodded in agreement. Quickly the boys made their way over to the trees.
As they came closer Billy grabbed Andy’s arm. “Stop! It’s a shindee hogan.”
Andy had heard his father talk about the Navajo customs, and he knew that when one of them died a new door was cut in the north wall of the hogan for everyone to leave and then the hogan was destroyed. But if for some reason the hogan was not destroyed, it was considered haunted. The haunted hogan was called a shindee and under no circumstances would any Indian go near it.
Slowly the boys found their way back to the stream and started for home. Billy’s mother had supper ready. “Tell your mother about the shindee hogan,” Andy whispered as he took a bite of fry bread. Mrs. Longrun stopped short.
“It was near the river in the forest,” said Billy. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“Was it near the high ledge?” Mrs. Longrun asked.
“Yes, and it was almost hidden by the trees,” Andy told her.
Mrs. Longrun began to smile. “It is not a shindee. It was Littlewolf’s hogan, but it was built in a very bad place. Instead of building on the warm mesa he built in the forest where the sun could give it no warmth. He had to move.”
Very early the next morning Andy and Billy were up and off to check their traps.
The first trap had been sprung, but nothing was in it. However, a skunk odor was so strong that it was almost impossible for the boys to get near enough to reset the trap.
“Wow, that animal left a strong message!” Andy said as they wiped their stinging eyes.
“Let’s get out of here!” Billy motioned for Andy to follow.
They hadn’t gone far when they heard a strange, weak bleating sound.
“Oh no!” Billy pointed to the left. “One of the lambs is caught in our trap.”
The lamb’s front leg was not seriously cut, however, and carefully Andy opened the trap while Billy tried to comfort the frightened animal.
“She’s just scared. She’ll be fine,” Andy said as he patted the lamb’s head.
“We’re not far from that abandoned hogan. Let’s take her there until we finish checking the traps,” Billy suggested.
The boys were almost to the hogan when they heard a noise. Carefully they crept behind a dirt bank so they could see what was causing it. Two bobcat cubs were playfully rolling in front of the hogan.
Quickly the boys ducked down! “The big cat must be near,” Andy whispered. “The man at the trading post said she’d never go far from her cubs.”
They looked again just as the mother cat appeared with her ears pricked, as if she sensed intruders. Then the lamb began to bleat. The hungry old cat tensed and held very still. Billy grabbed for the lamb’s mouth, but it was too late. The cat had heard.
“What will we do now?” Billy asked softly.
“Put the lamb down!” Andy cautioned.
“But we can’t let the cat get her,” Billy protested.
“We won’t,” said Andy. “We’ll just use her for a decoy. Hold the lamb down in that crevice where it will be hard for the cat to see her and I’ll circle around behind the hogan.”
Andy took the downwind side and quickly, but very quietly, circled behind the hogan to where the cubs were still playing. The big cat continued to search for the lamb.
Carefully Andy crawled up behind the cubs and then, when the old cat was out of view, he grabbed one of the cubs by the tail. The cub started squalling.
Andy leaped behind a rock just as the mother cat ran to see what was wrong. She pushed the cubs into the hogan and then came out again, her head erect and alert for intruders.
Andy’s heart was beating so hard that he was afraid the cat could hear it. But she soon disappeared into the hogan. Andy moved cautiously toward the opening of the hogan, slammed the door shut, and put all his weight against it.
“Hurry, Billy, and bring the biggest rocks you can carry,” Andy shouted.
The angry cat growled and pawed furiously at the other side of the door. Andy’s heart was racing faster than ever while he waited for Billy to bring rocks to barricade it. Afterward both boys quickly carried heavy rocks to make the barricade secure. Then they ran home, stopping only to pick up the lamb.
Breathlessly they told Mrs. Longrun what had happened. She listened quietly and then said, “The men were just here. They’ve been hunting the cat all night, but they could not find it. I’ll see if I can catch them and tell them where it is.” And she hurried from the hogan.
In a few minutes Billy’s mother returned. “I told them where to go,” she reported. “You boys did a very dangerous thing. You could have been slashed to ribbons.”
“But I know all about that cat,” Andy insisted. “And we’ve helped everyone by catching it! I’m just glad I listened to the men talking about her at the trading post.”
“Bobcats are smart,” Mrs. Longrun explained. “There is only one thing that really saved you from being attacked. The cat must have thought the intruder was a skunk because that is what you both smell like!”
“Is that why she didn’t come after us?” Andy asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Longrun answered. “And it’s lucky for you or you might have been in real trouble.”
“I’d be in trouble if I went home smelling like this,” Andy said. Then turning to Billy he added, “I’m glad for that stinky old skunk, but we better wash up good, so my mother will let me in the house tonight or I’ll have to start living in that shindee myself.”