Gospel Story Finder

Elder Hamilton: We ran into a dead end while searching the ancestry of my French great-great-grandfather, Adolph Cuny, for as long as we have been working on it—decades. We were not able to find his parents, no matter how hard we looked. But last year some wonderful French genealogists working with FamilySearch looked at our records and, using their skills and local knowledge, were able to find Adolph’s parents and even his grandparents.

Our family has now been able to do all of their ordinances in the temple, and we are now working on their extended families and descendants. A doorway was opened to so many people from this part of my family tree. This blessing was provided by FamilySearch and its network of dedicated and skilled researchers and consultants. This type of help is available to any FamilySearch patron—member of the Church or not.

When I served as a mission president in this wonderful Hawaii Honolulu mission, I noted a significant problem that was eroding the work and determination of missionaries. Many families of the missionaries came to Hawaii for vacation and they often wanted to stop by to visit "their" missionary. Sometimes it took a month to get the missionary's mind back on his missionary work with the intensity that he had had before the visit.
I wrote a letter to the parents of the missionaries in the mission. I asked the parents not to plan a trip to Hawaii while their son or daughter was serving a full time mission here; and if they must come for vacation, please do not plan to see the missionary.
One day I got a phone call from a truly excellent missionary. It was obvious he was much distressed. He told me that during breakfast, there was a knock on the door of his apartment and to his shock, standing on the porch was his mother and his father... and his sibling brothers and sisters... and his girlfriend. They wanted to take him and his companion for a brief sightseeing trip and lunch. The missionary said: "mom, you can't be here!" She said, "Oh, I know. The mission president wrote me a letter about that, but he really didn't mean it, did he?"
"God will justify in committing a little sin," right? Consider the risk that mother incurs as she puts her foot on that slippery path downward. What does she teach her son? Consider the risk that she would invite her son and his companion to join her on that slippery path.

When I was almost 16 years old, my inspired bishop asked me to teach our youth Sunday School class about gaining a testimony of the gospel through prayer. As I grew up, I had taken the time to study the Book of Mormon and always felt that the Church was true. I had always believed in the Savior Jesus Christ, but I had never taken to heart Moroni’s promise, found in Moroni 10:4–5, and prayed about the truthfulness of the gospel. I remember feeling that if I was going to teach about how to gain a testimony through prayer, I should pray for a testimony myself. My soul hungered—perhaps in a different way from Enos, but I still felt a spiritual need.
As I prepared the lesson, I knelt and prayed with all my heart. When I asked the Lord if the gospel is true, there came to my heart a very sweet feeling—that still, small voice confirming to me that it was true and that I should continue doing what I was doing.
The feeling was so strong that I could never disregard that answer and say I didn’t know. I felt so happy! The following Sunday, I stood in front of my classmates and testified that Heavenly Father would answer their prayers if they had faith.
Elder Soares as a young man
This testimony has stayed with me. It has helped me make decisions, especially in challenging moments. It has allowed me to testify to people, with conviction, that they can get answers from Heavenly Father if they pray in faith. This has been true for me as a teacher in that youth Sunday School class, as a missionary, and even today as an Apostle.

Let me share with you an example of the results of daily determination and performance.
In 1960 the Olympics were held in Melbourne, Australia. There on the winner’s platform in the spotlight one day stood a beautiful, tall, blonde American girl. She was being presented a gold medal, symbolic of first place in worldwide competition. As she stood there, some boys whistled and others were heard to say, “There’s a gal who has everything.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as she accepted the recognition. Many thought she was touched by the victory ceremony. The thing most of the audience did not know was the story of her determination, self-discipline, and daily action. At the age of five she had polio. When the disease left her body, she couldn’t use her arms or legs. Her parents took her daily to a swimming pool where they hoped the water would help hold her arms up as she tried to use them again. When she could lift her arm out of the water with her own power, she cried for joy. Then her goal was to swim the width of the pool, then the length, then several lengths. She kept on trying, swimming, enduring, day after day after day, until she won the gold medal for the butterfly stroke—one of the most difficult of all swimming strokes—in Melbourne, Australia.
What if Shelly Mann had not been encouraged to achieve at age five and to continue and overcome? What a tremendous asset were parents who assisted her in the importance of now and today in preparation for tomorrow.

A few years ago I was depressed because I felt like I had no one to talk to. My family was distant and I had no friends, so I couldn’t fathom the idea of living anymore.
I was living with my aunt and uncle, and the only thing they told me not to do was talk to the neighbor. They claimed he was strange, and they made up stories about him to scare me off.
However, one Saturday he and two teenage girls my age asked for my help with building a fence. I agreed and got to work.
After observing these girls, I realized they were nice, so I started talking with them, which led to a conversation about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I had so many questions, which they answered. I became intrigued. My neighbor invited me to go to church with him the next day to see how I liked it. I was at a low point in my life, so I figured I had nothing to lose.
Walking through those doors the following morning, I felt an instant inner peace that I didn’t understand, but I knew this church was where I had to be. I was introduced to the missionaries that morning, and I saw how they knew the Church to be true.
I began to listen to the various lessons from the missionaries. I couldn’t have asked Heavenly Father to send me those two loving, caring, and spiritual missionaries at a better time. Through their help I gained the knowledge they had about the gospel.
After listening to them share how their knowledge of Heavenly Father helped them through trials, I felt like I should pray to see if what they had said was true. After praying, I felt an intense feeling of happiness, peace, and calmness inside me. I knew that I had received my answer that night through the Holy Ghost.
Having this knowledge, my testimony has grown rapidly. Since joining the Church in 2013, I have definitely seen the blessings that the knowledge of our Heavenly Father has given me. I am thankful for those missionaries and for my neighbor inviting me to come unto Christ.

Today is Friday the 13th. I’ve never been superstitious before, but oh brother! You wouldn’t believe the events of the day. So much has happened that I thought I should keep my journal up-to-date for as long as I’m able—literally. Today I found out I have a rare form of cancer. I’m pretty scared. It’s hard thinking of the possibility of me dying.
As hard as it is for me, I think it is even harder for my parents, especially my father. They’re not members, and they don’t understand that dying isn’t all that bad. It’s hard for me to explain it to them. I’ve only been a member for a little over a year now, and there is so much I need to learn.
On the Sunday I went into the hospital, several members from my ward (Albany, Georgia), including Bishop Golden and his wife, came to my room and held a worship service. It was great. I love them all. Some of the members visit me almost every day. The Relief Society sisters even made me a get-well quilt. …
I found out that tomorrow I have to go to Emory Hospital in Atlanta. Tomorrow! They are going to do a bone marrow biopsy and a kidney test on me. I’m not too excited. Understandable! But, Emory is well known for its cancer research. The doctors there are among the best in the field, so I guess I should be glad I’m able to go there.
I don’t understand why this is happening to me. I live the Word of Wisdom. I’ve always tried to eat right. I exercise. I don’t blame anyone. I just don’t understand. …
I talked with Bishop Golden today. We talked about the plan of salvation. He told me I should trust in my Father in Heaven. Bishop Golden always knows what to say. He’s just about my best friend. Since I’ve been a member of the Church, I’ve been able to go to him at any time and feel welcome. “You’re better than you think you are,” he always tells me. It really helps, especially now. I can tell him anything. That’s such a relief. I have trouble letting my feelings show. I’m all smiles at church. They think I’m so strong. I wish they knew how scared I am. Sometimes I even try to kid myself about the whole thing. …

By the time he was 14 years old, an acquaintance of mine was more than six feet tall and very uncoordinated. He said, “One afternoon when I was in a 10th-grade seminary class, the Spirit really touched me. I came to know that the gospel literally was true. I made up my mind that day that I wanted to serve the Lord in any way I could.”
By his senior year, he was taller and much more coordinated. Many universities offered him scholarships to play basketball. After his first year playing at a university, he told his coach that he would like to be excused for two years to go on a mission. The coach said, “If you leave, you can be sure of one thing: you will never again wear one of our basketball uniforms!” Many thought that his “mission” ought to be playing basketball. Even some family members, including his parents, tried to convince him not to serve a mission. But he was totally committed. He was willing to give everything to the Lord—the scholarship, the applause of the fans, and the excitement of playing. He knew what the Lord was counting on him to do. He was called, and he served an honorable mission.
When he returned two years later, he was even taller and about 35 pounds heavier. His coach decided to repent. He was permitted to wear one of those basketball uniforms again, and in his senior year, his team not only won the conference championship but went on to the finals in national competition.

When Scouting becomes a family affair, good things happen. At a Court of Honor held recently in Hurricane, Utah, three brothers received their Eagle award—Deward, 18, Keith, 15, and Ronald Stout, 14. Their older brother, Dennis, is also an Eagle Scout. All are active in their priesthood quorums.
According to Scouting officials, the odds against four Eagles in one family are 52,000 to 1.
When the new Scouting program was introduced, Ronald was an 11-year-old Tenderfoot. He made up his mind then to become an Eagle. His enthusiasm was catching, and his brothers Deward and Keith began to work with him toward the same goal.
“We had a lot of fun earning those 24 merit badges,” says Ronald. “One thing I like about it is the happy memories we can look back on. Now my goal is to see how many more merit badges I can earn before I’m 18.”

READER 2: One 18-year-old boy stood on the deck of a troop ship out in the Pacific.
READER 1: He didn’t really want to be there.
READER 2: He really wanted to be on a baseball diamond. For almost all of his 18 years, he had wanted to be on a baseball diamond, and five major league scouts were considering him.
READER 1: Then Uncle Sam called. Suddenly he didn’t have a bat in his hand.
READER 4: He had a rifle, and he was on a troop ship.
READER 2: The water was almost like glass. The ship lay there still and calm.
READER 4: Three thousand men were crowded onto the bow of the ship singing “Abide with Me.”
READER 2: Then the chaplain started speaking:
READER 3: Now, men, I’m not going to kid you tonight. You’ve been training for what you’re going to do for the last year, and you know full well what’s before you. All our statistics tell us that a lot of you aren’t going to make it. About half of you will lay your lives down in this attack. What I’m saying, men, is that half of you will be standing before your Maker tomorrow morning before 8 o’clock. Are you ready?
READER 1: And the boy Paul, who wanted most of all to be a big league baseball star, suddenly wanted very much to know the answers to certain questions: Does God really live? Why am I out here? Does he care about me?
READER 2: The whistle went off at 5 o’clock in the morning, and he was assigned to the seventh wave.
READER 4: The first six waves didn’t even get ashore. They were completely blown out of the water.
READER 5: By then the tide was in, and I had to wade ashore in water clear up to my chest. I had to push through the dead bodies of my friends. I was asking a lot of questions. Why’s that wonderful 19-year-old kid lying face down in the water there? Why? Finally I was pulled ashore and I got about 10 feet on the beach where I dug a small—a mighty small—hole. There I took off my helmet and started to ask the Lord why? “Why, Lord? Why should I be out here? Do you live? Are you real? Is Jesus Christ really a Savior? Is Joseph Smith a prophet?” And then it came, that sweet, inner commitment and verification. It was Spirit touching spirit, saying in a solid voice: “It is so.” A testimony was born because I asked with real intent to know. I really wanted to know. “Are you there, Lord? Will you tell me?” And he did.
(Music: 20 second organ interlude “Abide with Me”)

Elder and Sister Rakotovao are a delightful and dedicated couple who are natives of Madagascar and who cannot stop smiling while serving the Lord as senior missionaries in the city of Ansirabe, Madagascar. When they joined the Church 17 years ago, they were already married and too old to serve as young missionaries. But they are now showing the Lord their gratitude by serving their third mission as a senior couple. In 2010 they sold their land and everything in their house so they could serve as senior missionaries in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. Of this experience they recently said, “Serving in the temple is serving others. While serving others we felt like we were serving our Lord God. It is this strong feeling in us that drives us to serve a mission again.” And so, after serving faithfully in the temple for two years, they returned home and began preparing for yet another mission. Earlier this year they once again left their home in Antananarivo to serve where needed under the direction of the mission president. They are grateful to be missionaries in the Lord’s Church and are an inspiration to all Latter-day Saints as they serve their third senior couple mission with great devotion and personal sacrifice.

As a sophomore in high school, I felt like I was starting to understand who I was and who I wanted to be. I felt pretty good about myself. I had friends and participated in several activities. Even in gym—a class I usually dreaded—we were playing volleyball, something I wasn’t half bad at.
One day we were playing an intense game of volleyball. My team was doing OK, but sometimes my teammates would run into each other because no one called for the ball. I tried to encourage them by saying, “Call it!”
One girl on my team got annoyed and told me to stop. I told her I was just trying to help the team, but she still wasn’t happy. And she started finding ways to make me miserable.
She spent the next several months openly criticizing me, saying mean things, and bumping into me in the hallway. My emerging self-esteem quickly took a tumble. And because this young woman didn’t hang out with a good crowd, I was scared of what she and her friends might do to me. I didn’t know what to do except to avoid her when possible.
One night I was in my room alone, crying and praying about what to do. I felt like I should read my scriptures. I opened up to Matthew 5:44: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” That night I prayed for the strength to be kind and that her heart would be softened.
After my prayer, I noticed the Valentine’s Day candies I’d purchased to give to my friends. I immediately knew what to do.
The next day, I went to class with my bag of valentines. I handed a few to my friends and then walked over to the young woman, placed one on her desk, said, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and walked away. My heart was racing as I sat down at my desk.
She never did say thank you, and we did not become best friends. But the teasing stopped. With the help of the scriptures, my prayer had been answered.
I know that as we strive to love, serve, and pray for our enemies, the Lord will bless us.

“I need you to watch your baby brother,” Mama said. “Your pa and I are going to help someone who is sick.”
I looked up from sweeping the floor of our small house and nodded. Mama was the Relief Society president, and she often went to visit sisters in our ward.
“Thank you, Arlyn,” Mama said, kissing the top of my head. “John’s asleep. And there’s bread dough rising on the counter. Please don’t touch it.”
I watched through the doorway as she and Pa rode the wagon down our dusty road. I felt proud that Mama trusted me.
As I swept the kitchen, I stopped to look at the bread dough. I could hardly wait for Mama to bake it tonight. Usually we ate the fresh bread with homemade jam. But we had run out of jam three months ago.
Jam! The thought made me hungry for something sweet. I glanced up at the sugar jar, high up on the shelf. I knew Mama was saving it to make more jam.
But the more I thought about the sugar, the hungrier I felt. Finally, I pulled a chair up to the counter and reached up. My fingers just barely touched the jar of sugar. I pulled it closer to the edge of the shelf. …
And then the jar slipped right off the shelf! I tried to catch it, but it fell with a loud plop right in the middle of the bread dough. Sugar spilled all over the bread and counter and onto the floor.
“Oh no!” I yelled. That woke my baby brother up. He started crying. I wanted to cry too. What would Mama say about this mess?
After I got John calmed down, I did my best to clean up the sugar. I pulled the jar out of the dough and washed it. I wiped the sugar off the counter and floor. But there was nothing I could do to get the sugar out of the dough.
I thought about putting the jar back on the shelf. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice it was empty. But I knew that wasn’t right. So I set the jar on the table and waited for Mama and Pa to come home.
When they got home, Mama noticed the sugar jar right away.
I took a deep breath. “I just wanted a taste of sugar. But I knocked the jar off the shelf. I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t get it out of the bread dough.” The words rushed out as I looked down at the floor.
Mama was quiet for a minute.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
Mama let out a sigh. “Well, I guess the bread will be extra sweet tonight,” she said. I looked up. She gave me a little smile. “Thank you for telling us what happened.”
As we ate the sugary bread that night, Mama and Pa and I talked about honesty.
“We all make lots of mistakes in life,” Pa said. “But when we are honest and try to repent, Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy. We will always be blessed for being honest—even if it seems harder at first.”
I was still sad that I had spilled the sugar. I knew we probably wouldn’t have as much jam this year because of my mistake. But I was glad I had told the truth. That was a sweet feeling no amount of sugar could give.

My paternal grandfather, Von Grundvig, had a great influence on my life. When he was thirteen months old, his sweet grandparents began raising him because both of his parents had tragically passed away. His father had died in a snow avalanche, and his mother had died when her car unexpectedly rolled through a fence and off a cliff. Von grew up in a rural southern Utah community located about sixteen miles from Price. At age seventeen, during World War II, he chose to join the United States Navy.

During his military service, he regularly sent money home to help support his grandmother. As you might imagine, this selfless act was gratefully received. But the story does not end there. His grandmother decided not to use the money for herself. Instead she saved the money under a mattress for when Von returned from the war. Later, after Von had returned home, his grandmother, obviously eager and excited to give him the money, found it was missing. Someone had stolen the money.

While I love a good happily-ever-after, this story does not end with recovering the money. Nor does it end with bitterness and regret. This story ends with a quiet, humble, obedient man who loved God and who showed his love by forgiving and moving on. I can remember my grandfather saying that he hoped someone was able to use the money for a good purpose.

Last summer we took our family to the San Diego Zoo, the largest zoo in the world. Our twelve-year-old son, Craig, had never been there, and he was delighted with the variety of birds and reptiles and other animals. But the part of the zoo that especially interested Craig was the area where the lions and the tigers were kept.
It was a sunny day, and the big cats were all fast asleep. My son thought that they should be up growling and stalking around. All the people there seemed to think so too. They were clapping their hands, shouting, and whistling. But their noise didn’t wake up the animals at all. So my son nudged me in the ribs and said, “Dad, give them your whistle.” I have a very, very shrill whistle, and, to please my son, I whistled as loudly as I could. But the lions still didn’t move.
Then I said, “Craig, listen to this.” I imitated the quiet growl of a tiger. Grrrrr!
Those lions perked up their ears and started moving about. The yelling and whistling hadn’t even disturbed them, but the quiet growl of the tiger reached through all the noise of the crowd. I put my arm on Craig’s shoulder and said, “Now you can see why Heavenly Father speaks to us in a still, small voice in such a noisy world.” We’ve referred back to that experience at the zoo a number of times.

A selfless husband or wife exercises great caution in avoiding any feelings of entitlement or resentment, both of which "demand much and give little." I remember a period of time during my husband's medical residency when I was feeling bitter about my situation. I felt entitled to a better lifestyle, one with an actual income and days off, and I resented the long hours he was away from our young family and that everyone in our neighborhood and ward thought I was a single mother. Gratefully, I recognized that these feelings were beginning to corrode our marriage, so I took my selfish attitude to the Lord and asked for His help. I received a strong and specific impression that I should offer more thoughtful prayers of gratitude for my husband. I began adding new comments to my standard prayers, especially family prayers with the children. I included things like, "We are thankful for all of Daddy's hard work to support us," and "Thank thee for Daddy's training and opportunity to help other people." The change was remarkable! My heart softened and our marriage was strengthened.

In stark contrast, I share the example of another young man. Through the years I have watched how his parents have taught him from infancy to unwaveringly live the commandments of God. By example and precept, they nurtured him and their other children in truth. They encouraged the development of discipline and sacrifice to obtain worthy goals. This young man chose swimming as an activity that could instill in his character these qualities. The early-morning practice sessions required discipline and sacrifice. Over time he excelled in that sport.
Then came the challenges—for example, a championship swim meet on Sunday. Would he participate? To help his team win the championship, would he rationalize an exception to his rule of not swimming on Sunday? No, he would not yield, even under intense peer pressure. He was peppered with derisive comments, even physically abused. But he would not yield. The rejection of friends, the loneliness, and the pressure brought times of sadness and tears. But he would not yield. He was learning firsthand what each of us must come to know, the reality of Paul’s counsel to Timothy: “All that will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution” (2 Tim. 3:12). I have observed how over the years this consistent pattern of righteous living—woven from hundreds of correct decisions, some in the face of great challenge—has developed a character of strength and capacity. Now, as a missionary, he is respected by his peers for his capacity to work, his knowledge of truth, his unwavering devotion, and his determination to share the gospel. One who earlier was rejected by his peers now has become a leader of his peers.

I want to tell you one more story about the military. I was on a train coming from La Grande, Oregon, to Salt Lake City, Utah. There were a number of officers just returning from the South Pacific, and something was said about Salt Lake City. One of those officers, a doctor, came out with a statement about Salt Lake and the Mormons that was the filthiest thing I have ever heard. Of course I did not want to take that, so when he got through, I returned to him and said, “Doctor, it may interest you to know that my home is in Salt Lake City, that I am a member of the Mormon Church, and that I know that you don’t know what you are talking about. I have here in my briefcase a magazine article from the Surgeon General’s Office. It tells about the immoral conditions of the men—married and unmarried—in the armed forces. I wouldn’t want to give you those statistics because I am ashamed of them.”
I continued, “I have another article here that is a letter from a hospital superintendent in Salt Lake indicating that they have given the Wassermann test, which is the test for impure blood, to 7,000 Mormon boys. There were only three who had any trace of impure blood. Doctor, I challenge you to duplicate that record anywhere in this world, outside of a Mormon community. You can’t do it, and you know you can’t.”
“Well,” he said, “I will have to say this: over in the Pacific everybody lets their hair down.” That was his way of saying, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” (See 1 Cor. 15:32.) “But,” he admitted, “there was one Mormon girl there from Salt Lake that no man could touch. She said, ‘I left my home clean, and I am going to return the way I left.’”
I do not know who that girl was, but in my heart I have asked God to bless her over and over again—and every other girl like her in all Israel.

Michael Duffy related: “I didn’t catch their names or pay much attention to what they were saying, except they were from the Mormon Church. Somehow they had found out I was a Mormon and asked if I wanted home teachers. I hadn’t been to Church for sixteen years!
“I don’t know exactly why I said yes. It seemed that many events had fallen into place to convince me that there was a missing link in my life. Previously, we had lived next door to a Mormon family. We did not go to Church, but I was reminded that our two sons had never been blessed and had never attended Church.
“My wife was not a Mormon, not even a Christian. Yet she agreed that something was missing.
“Home teachers soon contacted us and began regular visits. This started a process that would take many months, and change my family forever.
“I began attending priesthood meeting—infrequently at first, then regularly. I was finally able to overcome my Word of Wisdom problem. Our oldest son, now five, started attending Sunday School. We even began paying a little tithing. My wife supported me, but was not interested in the Church.
“Then one day two missionaries knocked at our door. After many months, having just been ordained an elder, I baptized and confirmed my wife a member of the Church. We were later sealed as a family in the Washington Temple.”
He continued, “As I look back on the many circumstances that took place, I fondly remember the love, prayers, and fellowship of the bishopric, elders quorum presidency, and others.
“We were truly blessed to be living in a ward that actively worked with less active members, that the elders quorum president (the position I now hold),” he said, “placed special emphasis on reactivation, and even a member of the stake presidency took a personal interest in us.”

I couldn’t concentrate. The city library buzzed like a beehive under attack. In my irritation, I momentarily forgot just why I was studying here rather than taking advantage of the mature silence and concentration of the university library. Then my reason walked by.
She was the assistant librarian and was easily the most beautiful girl ever to walk the earth. Her name tag told me she was Miss Burton, but that was all I knew about her. She was the motive that had driven me here for the last three nights just hoping for a chance to learn her first name. So far I hadn’t even gotten a “Sh-h-h, you’re in the library” out of her, much less a “hello.”
But I kept coming back, hoping that this night would be better than the last. With zero enthusiasm, I turned to my books, but it was impossible to study. I pushed American History to the side, folded my arms, and gazed at Miss Burton busily working at her desk. Occasionally she would cast a furtive glance in my direction. When she did, I would grin broadly and wink at her. She’d quickly duck her head to hide her crimson cheeks, but at least she knew I existed.
I admired her beauty and grace, but I was equally impressed by her modesty. Instead of wearing washed-out denim jeans and a sleazy blouse, so typical of my friends, Miss Burton was wearing a dress. One that actually came down to her knees! Her make-up was not heavy; in fact, unless you looked closely, you couldn’t even tell that she wore it. Her long hair adorned her head and shoulders like a veil. Her clothes, her actions, her very appearance declared that she was a lady!
It was weird that I should be so attracted to her. I could have passed for her exact opposite. My hair and beard were both shoulder length; I wore an old pair of faded jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and well-traveled sandals; I looked like the king of rebellion—she was the epitome of virtue and conformity.
I had chosen my way of life; she had chosen hers. Our differences stood as an impregnable barrier between us. To penetrate that barrier, I knew I would have to cut my hair and conform to the norms of society. No, I would not put on a suit and tie again, not even for her!
The pencil snapped in my hand. Why was I so uptight over a prudish librarian? Because something in her eyes, in her smile, in her very essence affected me deeply; in spite of myself, I felt I was beginning to care about Miss Burton, and I still didn’t even know her first name!
I wondered if she could ever adopt my life-style. As she stood replacing books on a nearby shelf, I tried to imagine her with kinky, frizzed hair, but it was futile. The Mona Lisa would adjust to that more readily than Miss Burton!
She finished replacing the books and turned to walk toward the desk. Her eyes caught mine; slowly, a smile crept to her lips. As she walked by me, I pushed back my chair and unfolded all 6 feet 4 inches of me. I stood at attention, tipped a make-believe hat, and whispered loudly, “Howdy-do, ma’am!” It was a whisper, but my voice rasped loudly enough to echo through the library, causing her face to turn a glowing crimson. A ripple of laughter flowed through the library, and I sat down with a wide grin on my face.
Shortly after Miss Burton had returned to her desk and the color in her cheeks had returned to normal, a freckle-faced girl, probably about 13 years old, approached her. The girl obviously had not asked the usual “where do I find” question, because Miss Burton looked deep into her eyes and placed her slender hand over the girl’s chubby one. I caught the word rebellion as they spoke with each other.
Quietly, I moved to a table closer to the desk; I was interested in what Miss Burton had to say on the subject. Holding an open magazine as a guise, I leaned back in the plastic chair as far as I dared. I strained my ears to catch every word.
The girl spoke: “I need books on rebellion so I’ll know how to act when I go to high school next year.”
I started to laugh, but Miss Burton’s serious tone told me that she did not think it was funny.
“And you think you’ll stand out in the crowd if you don’t rebel, is that right?”
“Sure! Everybody rebels! Like my sister: she’s at a sit-in tonight at the university because the president won’t make it legal to smoke pot on campus. And my brother. Mom and dad are always yelling at him to cut his hair, and he won’t do it even though it’s almost as long as his.” I could feel her pointing in my direction.
She continued: “My dad is on a strike, and Mom’s always away fighting for women’s lib. That’s rebelling, too, isn’t it?”
Lines of concern wrinkled Miss Burton’s smooth forehead. She seemed deep in thought. At length she spoke:
“When we rebel, we’re being selfish. We want things done our way, and if others object, we rebel. It’s like throwing a temper tantrum. We refuse to listen to the other side of the argument because it might prove that we are wrong.
“It takes courage to do what’s right, especially when it’s easier to do what’s wrong. Remember this: cowards rebel; brave men and women obey the laws and do what they know is right. When something is wrong, though, they have the courage to speak out against the wrong doing.”
I was incensed! I felt personally attacked by the girl I was beginning to care for. With effort, though, I managed to reign in my emotions. Maybe she hadn’t said what I thought. I’d keep listening, and maybe she would clarify or retract her statement that cowards rebel.
The little girl was puzzled. “But were George Washington and Thomas Jefferson cowards? They rebelled against England, didn’t they?”
“No, honey, they weren’t cowards, and they didn’t rebel against England. You see, Great Britain was being unfair to the new colonists. She taxed them heavily, but then she wouldn’t give them a voice in government. Had she been fair to them, there never would have been a Revolutionary War.”
This is madness! I tried to stand up. I had forgotten I was leaning back and fell crashing to the floor—pulling my books down with me. Before I realized what had happened, Miss Burton and half of the library’s occupants were surrounding me.
“Are—are you hurt?” she stammered, quickly surveying the disaster area.
“Nah, just a little shocked,” I muttered.
As I untangled my legs from the wreckage, Miss Burton ushered the crowd away. Much to my surprise, she remained.
“Did I say something that surprised you?” she asked.
“You sure did!” I blurted, a little too brusquely. I quickly scanned her face to see if I’d offended her. More gently, I added, “Miss Burton, you’ve got some pretty far out ideas about rebellion!”
She nodded. Her silence urged me on.
“I don’t understand how you can say that rebels are cowards! And then you say that the forefathers of this country didn’t rebel against England! You—a librarian!” I consciously restrained myself from saying any more.
“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you …” Her voice trailed off. Walking toward us was a gaunt-looking man who could have been Ichabod Crane’s twin.
“It’s the head librarian!” she whispered. She mouthed the word later, squeezed my arm, and quickly returned to her duties at the main desk.
Sitting down again was a painful experience, but the thought of talking to Miss Burton after the library closed served as a local anesthetic to my bruises. I mulled her words over in my mind: “Cowards rebel; brave men and women obey laws …”
She’s wrong! I argued. Just like all the others. It takes courage to be different and to rebel against the mores of society! A coward wouldn’t dare be a “longhair” and storm administration buildings! It takes fortitude to stand up for what you believe in!
An unbeckoned thought crept into my mind and whispered, “But, Dan, what do you believe in?”
“Freedom!” I retorted.
Again it whispered, “Freedom from rules, obligations, and ties that bind?”
I fell silent. I was unable to answer these queries from within. I knew that I had not displayed courage by rebelling; rather, I had taken the easy way out. Home and religion had been too restricting. I wanted to have fun, my way, with no strings attached.
I remembered how upset Dad had been. Mom cried. I hated myself for hurting them, but still their disappointment was easier to bear than the scoffs from my friends. I grew further and further from my family. I acted like I didn’t care, but it really had torn me up, deep inside.
“Cowards rebel! Could she be right?” I asked aloud. I smiled and breathed deeply. I felt as though a heavy yoke were being lifted off my weary shoulders. For the first time in years I felt really free.
I sensed the presence of someone near and turned around. Miss Burton smiled radiantly.
“It sounds like you’ve been having an interesting conversation with yourself,” she said.
“I have, but I’d rather have one with you!”
She smiled again.
“Could I give you a ride home?” I asked.
“I live just a few blocks from here, so I usually walk.” Pause. “But if you’d like to walk me home …”
I responded instantly to her cue, and soon we were outside enjoying the crisp autumn twilight. We walked in silence for a minute or so.
“Miss Burton,” I said at length, “do you have a first name?”
She laughed. “Why, yes, I believe I do. Before I started to work at the library, people used to call me Rebecca.”
“Becky Burton” I blurted. “That’s cute!”
“Rebecca—not Becky.” We fell silent. Then, as if to pick up the strands of the conversation again, she added, “Rebecca was the wife of Isaac in the Bible. Remember?”
I nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Dan,” I replied.
“Daniel was a biblical name, too,” she offered. “Have you ever read the Bible?’”
“Parts of it a long time ago.” I had not really planned to discuss the Bible tonight.
“You know, Dan, if the library were to catch on fire, I think I’d rescue that book before all the others!” Her eyes were shining. Religion must be an important part of her life.
Sensing that I didn’t share her enthusiasm, she stammered, a little embarrassed. “I—I guess I really shouldn’t be talking about the Bible right now.” Then, almost childlike, she asked, “Are you a Christian?”
Her question knocked on the door of my past—a door that I had carefully hidden away deep in a crevice of my mind. Memory and a deep feeling I hadn’t realized was there answered …
“Am I a Christian, Rebecca?” I asked, as I came back to the present. “Let’s say I used to be.” She sensed my need for silence.
We walked along the dark, tree-lined street; only the crunching sound of autumn leaves under our feet interrupted the silence. I felt so alone in the cold, dark world. More than anything else I wanted Rebecca’s friendship. She seemed so sure of herself, so at peace with herself. I wanted to draw from her strength, to learn from her wisdom. I looked down at my feet, afraid of her warm eyes.
“Rebecca,” I whispered softly. “What is it that makes you so special?”
I could have guessed that she would say it was her belief in Deity; she impressed me as a deeply religious girl. I wondered, though, which religion was to receive the credit for making her so sensitive, tender, and caring.
I pressed further. “What is your religion, Rebecca? Are you Catholic, Protestant, or something else?”
Her lips held just a hint of a smile. “I guess I fall into the ‘something else’ category, Dan. I’m searching for truth wherever I can find it. I discover it in some unusual places. But I can’t help but wonder one thing. Is there one religion that contains all of the truth?”
Her question pricked me deeply. Her eyes were searching mine, imploring. I looked away—my past blazed before me. Silently, I bowed my head and prayed. I hadn’t done that in years! After a long moment, I returned her gaze.
“Rebecca,” I slowly began, “what do you know about the Mormon church?”

My friend Kimber came to school on crutches. I asked her what had happened. She said that she was playing soccer and when she tried to kick the ball she kicked a big fat root in the ground instead. I felt bad for her, so I helped her the whole day. I said a prayer that her foot would get better. As I left school, I felt that I had done a good thing. The next day she said that her foot was better. I gave her a big smile. I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.