Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago when my youngest daughter was faced with the reality of attending a different school, she looked forward to the new experience with the usual anxieties and concerns.
Before the long-awaited day arrived, a special evening was planned to help give her spiritual comfort and guidance. As she retired to her bed, seemingly all was well. But about an hour later she appeared at my study and said, “Dad, I don’t feel well.”
I went back and rested on the bed with her and gave what fatherly counsel I could to reassure her. Finally she fell asleep.
The next morning she appeared at breakfast and said, “Dad, I don’t think I had better go to school today.”
I said, “Why not?”
She said, “I think I am going to get sick.”
Somewhat reluctantly, she later agreed to have me drive her to school. As we got in front of the school building, tears started to come into her eyes. After we had gotten out of the car and walked about ten feet, she grabbed hold of my leg. She looked up at me and said, “Dad, if you really love me, don’t send me in there.”
I said, “Honey, this may be beyond your comprehension, but it’s because I do love you that I am taking you in there.”
Inside the building, she grabbed hold of my other leg and held on. Numerous students came and went, and suddenly the little miracle happened that changed everything: There came a delightful, wonderful friendshipper, a fellowshipper who knew how to lose herself in serving others, who would act upon the admonishment of the Savior to strengthen her friends. With the exuberance of youth, this little girl said, “Kellie, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“Which is your homeroom?”
Kellie told her.
“Tremendous, I had that homeroom last year. Come on, I’ll take you to it.”
And before Kellie knew it, she had let go of my leg and walked about ten paces away. Then she realized what she had done. She looked back and said, “Oh, Dad, you can go now; I don’t need you anymore.”
Thank God for the little people as well as the big people who know how to friendship and fellowship.

I saw again the power of keeping covenants through a chance conversation with a man I sat down next to on a trip. I had never met him before, but apparently he had seen me in the crowd because his first words after I introduced myself were, “I’ve been watching you.” He told me about his work. I told him about mine. He asked about my family, and then he told me something about his. He said that his wife was a member of the Church and that he was not.

After he came to trust me, he said something like this: “You know, there is something in your church you should fix. You need to tell your people when to quit.” He explained that he and his wife had been married for 25 years. She had been a member of the Church since childhood. In their years of marriage she had only once stepped into a building of the Church, and that was to tour a temple before its dedication, and then only because her parents had arranged it.

Then he told me why he thought we ought to make a change. He said that in those 25 years of married life, in which his wife showed no interest in the Church, visiting teachers and home teachers had never stopped coming to their home. He told of one evening when he went out to walk his dog alone only to find the home teacher happening by with his dog, eager to visit with him.

He told, with a touch of exasperation, of another night when he came home from a long business trip, put his car in the garage, and then came out to find his home teachers standing there, smiling. He said to me something like, “And there they were, right in my face with another plate of cookies.”

I think I understood his feelings. And then I tried, as best I could, to tell him how hard it would be to teach such teachers to quit. I told him that the love that he had felt from those many visitors and their constancy over the years in the face of little response came from a covenant they had made with God. I told him about the baptismal covenant as Alma described it in the Book of Mormon. I didn’t quote these words, but you will remember them as Alma asked those he had taught whether they wished to be baptized:

“And it came to pass that he said unto them: Behold, here are the waters of Mormon (for thus were they called) and now, as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light;

“Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, that ye may be redeemed of God, and be numbered with those of the first resurrection, that ye may have eternal life” (Mosiah 18:8–9).

Those home teachers and visiting teachers understood and believed that the covenant to be witnesses and to love were intertwined and that they reinforced each other. There is no other way to explain what had happened. My new friend recognized that the visitors had genuine concern for him and for his wife. And he knew their caring sprang from a belief that impelled them to come back. He seemed, at least to me, to understand that those visitors were driven from within by a covenant they would not break. As we parted I think he knew why he could expect that there would be more visits, more evidence of caring, and more patient waiting for the opportunity to bear testimony of the restored gospel. As we parted, I realized that I had learned something too. I will never again see home teaching or visiting teaching as only programs of the Church. Those faithful teachers saw what they were doing for what it really was. Such work is an opportunity, not a burden. Every member has made the covenant in the waters of baptism to be a witness for God. Every member has made a covenant to do works of kindness as the Savior would do. So any call to bear witness and to care for others is not a request for extra service; it is a blessing designed by a loving Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ. They have provided such calls as well as other settings, sometimes without a formal call, all for the same purpose. Each is a chance to prove what blessings flow from being a covenant people, and each is an opportunity for which you agreed to be accountable. Each is a sacred responsibility for others accepted in the waters of baptism but too often not met because it may not be recognized for what it is.

One day in May the citizens of that last great earthly kingdom got together to visit their inheritance from the Moslem kingdom of Granada. The young men and women of the Granada Branch went to the Alhambra. They passed through the Pomegranate Gate, the woods, the Gate of Justice, the Court of the Cisterns, the Wine Gate, the Esplanade, and into the Alcazares, the royal palace of the Caliphs of Granada.
They found chamber after chamber of exquisite beauty. The walls and ceilings were decorated in a lacy filigree of plaster, as lovely as ivory. The plaster writhes and vibrates with flowers, leaves, Arabic poetry, Koranic quotations, and interweaving arabesques of pure design. Many walls are also bright with mosaic tile.
They passed through the court of the Myrtals where a long pool reflects a fantasy of arches and pillars and the Court of the Lions where 124 slender pillars surround a fountain supported by 12 stone lions who spurt water from their mouths. Reflected in the fountain, ornate archwork bursts from the tops of the pillars.
The young men and women explored a fairyland of courts, chambers, and patios with such intriguing names as the Hall of Secrets, Hall of the Boat, Hall of Kings, Court of the Cypresses, and the Royal Baths, each a wonderland opening onto other wonderlands.
Decorated as they are in the perishable medium of plaster, these halls were clearly not built as a monument to the ages, but as the tribute to present beauty—beauty that has defied the ravages of time and lingered down the ages as fresh and sweet as when birds first sang outside the windows of Caliph and courtiers.
For a long while the young people wandered through the cool halls and passageways where pillars grow in forests of airy delight, full of sunlight and shadow. Intricately carved stalactites of wood and plaster hang from ceilings as if from some enchanted cavern. Subtle breezes and silvery echoes, the hush of leaves and rippling waves of light eddy about pools of shadow and silence. Through lacy windows in the outside walls could be seen sun-wrapped Granada and the gypsy caves of Sacromonte. From geometric portals cut in domes high overhead, sunlight speared down in shafts of glory.
It was hard to imagine a palace more delightful than this, and yet a splendid melancholy seemed to brood over the whole scene, a delicious yearning for magical times past. There was, as the poet Angel Ganivet once said, a “profound sadness that emanates from a deserted palace, forsaken by its inhabitants, imprisoned in the impalpable thread woven by the spirit of destruction, that invisible spider whose feet are dreams.”
After sharing their testimonies and finishing their visit to the palace complex, the group passed through the palace of Carlos V and then into the military fortifications known as the Alcasabar, which rear their battlements on the brow of the hill. They climbed to the top of the Watchtower, whose bell was rung of old at times of alarm or celebration. Ringed all about by the wild and ancient sky, they gazed southward at the mounting Sierra Nevadas and all around them at the rose and alabaster glory of Granada. Rinsed and burnished and transfigured by the high, fierce Andalusian sun, it seemed to be a glimpse of the afterlife Muhammad had promised the devout.
Next the young men and women passed into the Generalife—the exquisite series of gardens on the slope above the Alhambra, a world of green and shadow rich in roses, oleanders, rhododendrons, and lofty cypresses, and everywhere the song of water.
The waters speak, and they weep
Beneath the white oleanders;
Beneath the rose oleanders,
The waters weep and they sing
For the myrtle in bloom
Above the opaque waters.
Madness of singing and crying,
Of the souls, of the tears!
These lines by Juan Ramón Jimenez capture the beauty and mystery of these beautiful gardens. Among the white buildings, the dignified towers, the hedges, and the flowerbeds are some of the world’s most beautiful fountains. They are not spectacular or large. They are not adorned with beautiful statuary. But in them is perfected the charm of the simple elegance of water, delicate and refreshing and musical, made by a people with a desert heritage who knew how to value water as something precious in its own right.
The youths wandered through a storybook realm of flowers and hedges and pools and pavilions, where caliphs once strolled in the cool of the evening. Symphonies have been written about the Generalife, but none is more beautiful than the place itself. The sun-entangled trees brought to mind the words of Federico García Lorca:
How hard it is for the daylight
To take its leave of Granada!
It entangles itself in the cypress
Or hides beneath the water.
Earthly days pass even more swiftly than earthly kingdoms, and the young people finished their visit to the Alhambra and returned to their homes.

These promised blessings of the gospel and the priesthood were restored to the earth, and then, in 1842, the Prophet Joseph Smith administered the endowment to a limited number of men and women. Mercy Fielding Thompson was one of them. The Prophet said to her, “This [endowment] will bring you out of darkness into marvelous light.”

Even former enemies can become united in their discipleship of the Savior. In 2006, I attended the dedication of the Helsinki Finland Temple to honor my father and grandparents, who had been early converts to the Church in Finland. Finns, including my father, had dreamed of a temple in Finland for decades. At the time, the temple district would encompass Finland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Belarus, and Russia.

At the dedication, I learned something surprising. The first day of general operation had been set aside for Russian members to perform temple ordinances. It is difficult to explain just how astonishing this was. Russia and Finland had fought many wars over the centuries. My father distrusted and disliked not only Russia but all Russians. He had expressed such feelings passionately, and his feelings were typical of Finnish enmity toward Russia. He had memorized epic poems that chronicled 19th-century warfare between Finns and Russians. His experiences during World War II, when Finland and Russia were again antagonists, did nothing to change his opinions.

A year before the dedication of the Helsinki Finland Temple, the temple committee, consisting exclusively of Finnish members, met to discuss plans for the dedication. During the meeting, someone observed that Russian Saints would be traveling several days to attend the dedication and might hope to receive their temple blessings before returning home. The committee chairman, Brother Sven Eklund, suggested that the Finns could wait a little longer, that Russians could be the first members to perform temple ordinances in the temple. All committee members agreed. Faithful Latter-day Saint Finns delayed their temple blessings to accommodate Russian Saints.

The Area President who was present at that temple committee meeting, Elder Dennis B. Neuenschwander, later wrote: “I have never been prouder of the Finns than I was at this moment. Finland’s difficult history with its eastern neighbor … and their excitement of finally having [a temple] constructed on their own soil were put aside. Permitting the Russians to enter the temple first [was] a statement of love and sacrifice.”

When I reported this kindness to my father, his heart melted and he wept, a very rare occurrence for that stoic Finn. From that time until his death three years later, he never expressed another negative sentiment about Russia. Inspired by the example of his fellow Finns, my father chose to place his discipleship of Jesus Christ above all other considerations. The Finns were no less Finnish; the Russians were no less Russian; neither group abandoned their culture, history, or experiences to banish enmity. They did not need to. Instead, they chose to make their discipleship of Jesus Christ their primary consideration.

Gavin Riddle, a priest in the Griffith Ward, Chicago Heights Illinois Stake, was honored as the most valuable player in the Winter Classic, a school basketball tournament held annually.
As the co-captain of the team, Gavin scored 44 points and had 31 rebounds in the two-game tournament. He played tough defense, holding the men he guarded to a combined 9 points in two games.
Gavin, a five-foot, ten-inch guard/forward was a three-year starter with the team. He is the only LDS student in his school.

This new tractor was large and sturdy
but most of all it was red.
Things moved quicker painted red,
like fire engines, and there had been
two red candles on that cake
that had disappeared so fast.
Red. Big people spoke to him
but the tractor spoke louder,
of cold tile floors in need of plowing.
The wheels turned smoothly as the blades
dug up acres under the kitchen table
so he ignored the ache in his knees.
He wiped his forehead.
It would be a fine harvest!
He kept his eyes on the end of the row
while the wheels turned smoothly,
the engine hummed softly
and said red, red.

I was sixteen when the missionaries challenged me to study the Book of Mormon. As I read it, I felt it was a good book. So when the missionaries asked me to be baptized, I did so. I joined the Church not because I had gained a strong testimony, but because I had not had any bad or unpeaceful feelings while reading the Book of Mormon or attending Church. It seemed that I accepted the gospel naturally.

As a youth of 18, I went off almost directly from high school graduation to World War II, carrying with me a carbon copy of my patriarchal blessing, which got very smudged. I read it for consolation and reassurance as a young, frightened infantryman during the fighting on the Island of Okinawa. Just prior to that, high school, for me, had brought some crises in self-esteem. Raising pigs for a 4-H Club project did not, with some, enhance my place in the social pecking order; severe acne was no help either; and shortness of stature meant, among other things, not making the basketball team. All of these things had combined to produce personal disappointment just prior to my going off to war.
But as I left the home of loving and “goodly parents,” I knew who I was and there were some glimmerings of the future. I knew, too, that the Lord loved me. Otherwise, I was insecure and anxious.

… When I was nine years old, I lost my older brother during a devastating earthquake. Because it happened unexpectedly, it took me a while to grasp the reality of what had occurred. I was heartbroken by sorrow, and I would ask myself, “What happened to my brother? Where is he? Where did he go? Will I ever see him again?” …

About 40 years later, during Easter time, I was pondering about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and started thinking about my brother. …

That day I realized that the Spirit had given me comfort in a difficult time. I had received a witness that my brother’s spirit is not dead; he is alive. He is still progressing in his eternal existence. I now know that “[my] brother shall rise again” [John 11:23] at that magnificent moment when, because of Jesus Christ’s Resurrection, we will all be resurrected.

The Bird
There is a bird out on the lawn,
Drinking out of that silver pond.
I’ll watch the bird as he sings,
And sits so gently, flapping his wings.
And now he’s off and flies out of sight,
So he can play and eat before night.
And now he’s gone, the one that did sing.
But do not be sad, he’ll be back next spring.
Rebekah S., age 11, Illinois

Brandon already knew a little about the Church. “I had been to meetings with Teren and with his cousin before,” Brandon says, “but I wasn’t as consistent as I should have been. Then the Palmers invited me to their family home evenings.” One of the first lessons was about Joseph Smith’s efforts to find the true Church. “I liked how Joseph was looking for the right Church, wanting to gain peace and faith like I wanted to,” Brandon recalls. The Spirit bore witness that Joseph’s story was true, and Brandon accepted the commitment to study and pray. That was a turning point. The next day he sent a text message to Brother Palmer: “I asked God, and He told me this is true.”
The more he studied and prayed, the more he found answers. He started coming to seminary, going to church, and meeting with the missionaries. “The discussions were good,” he says. “The missionaries explained things. They made it easier to understand, and they taught me the commandments—the Word of Wisdom, tithing, all of the things that Heavenly Father wants us to do.”
But what impressed him the most was how he felt about showing his love for the Savior through service. “The gospel has brought me closer to Christ,” Brandon says. “I’ve learned a lot about how important it is to serve others, because when you do, you’re serving Him.”

While some Church units in areas heavily populated with Latter-day Saints cover only a few square kilometers, many Church units measure their area in hundreds of square kilometers. The North Slope Branch in the Fairbanks Alaska Stake covers more than 20,000 square kilometers. In addition, a night sky blankets the area 24 hours a day for several months of the year, and temperatures can dip to 46 degrees below zero (Celsius). “During the winter months we have problems with polar bears as well,” wryly observes Gaylin Fuller, who served as branch president for about five years.
“We may have the largest branch geographically in the Church,” he continues. “We have members near the Canadian border and others living near the Russian border. The only way to get to some of those areas is with a commercial airplane ticket.
“Needless to say, we do our visiting over the phone to those areas,” he says. “But we make sure we call our families monthly. If there are youth in the family, the Young Men and Young Women presidents call as well. Sometimes these families get several calls a month. We also send them conference materials and updates on Church policy and information.”
But whether the visits are made in person or by phone, members are contacted. “It’s extremely important; we all know that,” says President Fuller of the 10 companionships who shoulder the home teaching assignments in his branch.

Finally, the document concludes with this pledge. “For the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” (Italics added.)
How prophetic that pledge was to be!
Fifty-six men signed the document on August 2, 1776, or, in the case of some, shortly thereafter. They pledged their lives!—and at least nine of them died as a result of the war. If the Revolution had failed, if their fight had come to naught, they would have been hanged as traitors. They pledged their fortunes!—and at least fifteen fulfilled that pledge to support the war effort. They pledged their sacred honor!—best expressed by the noble statement of John Adams. He said: “All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it; and I leave off as I begun, that live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence, now, and INDEPENDENCE FOR EVER.” (Works of Daniel Webster, Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1877, 17th ed., 1:135.)

Seventeen-year-old Brandon Frampton shared an experience about simply saying thank you.
“At my high school, I usually eat in the cafeteria. Every day I get in line, buy my lunch, eat, and leave. One day I felt impressed to say thank you to the lady who was serving me my lunch. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but later I learned that because of my remark she had a much better day. I still always say thank you, and I have noticed others doing the same now. Everyone can make a difference.”

Five years later, Edward was still quite small, and often mistaken for a younger child. Although his body had not grown very much, his faith had grown enormously. Edward was not afraid to risk his life for the Church. And since this was a time of intense persecution, he often volunteered for dangerous assignments. One October night, he stood guard near the encampment at Far West, Missouri. His job was to watch for enemies and not allow them to enter the camp.
It was a beautiful, clear night full of stars. As dawn approached, the moon set and the sky became darker. Mist began to form. Then in the distance he heard horses slowly approaching. As the horses came closer, he heard faint, muffled voices. “Enemies trying to sneak into camp,” Edward thought. He reached for his rifle, cocked it, and held it steadily in the direction of the sound. It was so misty and dark that Edward knew the approaching strangers were not aware of him. When they were just a few feet away, Edward called out, “Who comes there?”
“Friends,” was the reply.
“Halt and give the secret password.”
“God and liberty.”
That was correct, and Edward let the strangers advance. As the first rays of sunlight appeared, Edward recognized the first rider. He was a church leader named Lyman Wight. He rode right up to Edward, the horse’s breath forming a cloud in the chilly air over Edward’s head. Brother Wight looked down from his horse at the short lad. He showed Edward that he was carrying both a gun and a sword. “So just what would you have done if I had been a real enemy?” he asked the youthful-looking guard.
Without flinching, Edward said that he would have defended his post.
A friendly chuckle came from behind Brother Wight. “That’s right, Bub!”
Bub! To Edward’s shock and embarrassment, the Prophet Joseph Smith was the second rider! Edward couldn’t believe that he had actually drawn a rifle upon the Prophet of God. But the Prophet’s steady gaze spoke of love, friendship, and appreciation. To Edward’s great relief he knew there were no hard feelings.
Edward later wrote about the incident in his journal and concluded that “the prophet always had a good word for all and was universally loved by the true in heart.”

There once was a little girl named Misha who “wore” freckles. She didn’t wear them because she liked them, but because they happened to come with the rest of her face.
She tried washing them off. She tried covering them with her mom’s skin-color makeup. She tried wearing big glasses, low hats, and high collars. But nothing would remove her freckles or even hide them.
Her mother said, “Don’t worry about them.” Her dad said, “I think they’re cute.” And her grandpa said, “Your freckles are my favorite thing about you.” Of course, he had freckles too.
None of Misha’s friends had freckles. Rhoda wore glasses and had big, beautiful, black eyes. Lauren wore ribbons in her curly, fuzzy hair and could stand on her hands for a twenty-five count. Jennifer wore striped shoelaces and was very short.
One afternoon the girls were sitting on the ground in Lauren’s backyard, playing archeologists. While they were looking for arrowheads and potsherds in the sand, Jennifer announced, “I have a new secret. Look.” She showed them a piece of paper.
“What is it?” Lauren asked as she stopped digging and looked up.
“A secret wishing spell. I copied it from a book about tricks and things.” All four girls leaned close together, squinting at the writing on the crumpled piece of paper.
Wishing Spell
Put your pajama top on backward.
Let a caterpillar walk up and down your leg until you get goose bumps.
Jump over a gray hair three times.
Put your pajama top on frontward.
Turn off the light.
If you do these things fast enough, you will hear the Wish Genie ring a bell. He will grant your wish.
“Aw, I don’t believe it,” scoffed Rhoda. “You can’t really think that thing is real.”
“All that stuff is just pretend,” chimed in Lauren.
“Let me see it,” said Misha. She tried to keep her voice from sounding excited.
Jennifer gave the paper to Misha. “What are you going to wish for?” she asked.
“I don’t want to tell you,” answered Misha, “but I’ll tell you if it works.” With the paper squeezed tightly in her hand, Misha ran home. What if it works? she couldn’t help thinking. What if a genie comes and zaps my freckles?
All afternoon Misha scrambled and searched through leaves and bushes. Finally, under a rock, she found a yellow caterpillar with black stripes. With a sigh of relief, she scooped it into a jar and put the jar under her bed.
Then she went looking for Grandpa and found him reading the newspaper. His hair was gray from ear to ear. “Grandpa, may I please have one of your gray hairs?”
He stopped reading and looked at her. “Do you mind if I ask you what for?” He was always polite.
“I’m sorry, but it’s a secret right now. Maybe I’ll tell you later.” He squeezed his eyes and twisted his mouth and pulled out a gray hair. “Thanks, Grandpa,” said Misha. She ran upstairs and put that under her bed too.
That evening, Misha felt nervous and excited. For once, she didn’t argue with her mother about bedtime. She ran upstairs, slipped inside her room, and closed the door.
She quickly changed into her pajamas, being careful to put the top on backwards. Then she placed the caterpillar and gray hair carefully in the middle of the floor. She went over the steps again to be sure she could remember: Get goose bumps from the caterpillar, jump over the gray hair three times, put her pajama top on frontward, turn off the light, and listen for the genie to ring the bell. She was ready.
Misha carefully put the caterpillar on her foot, and it began to crawl slowly up her leg—creepy-crawly, ickly-tickly. Goose bumps popped out all over her! She put the caterpillar back in the jar and jumped once, twice, three times over the gray hair. She quickly pulled the pajama top off and put it back on frontward. She flicked off the light switch, and flung herself into bed as the room went dark. Finished!
Silence. Silence and darkness. She strained her ears, listening for the ringing of a bell. The beating of her heart thudded in her ears. Her head began to hurt from listening so hard. But there was no ringing, no tinkling, no buzzing—no bell.
Gradually the thudding grew quieter as her heart slowed down. She could hear dishes rattling downstairs as her mother washed them. Daddy was listening to the news on the television. But in her room, all was quiet.
Her eyes were used to the dark now, and she could see the shape of her bed. The moon was just a sliver between her curtains. She looked around. There was no Wish Genie granting magic wishes, and there never would be. Not tonight, not ever.
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks as she slipped between the sheets on her bed. She put her head on the pillow and began to cry hard.
There was a tap-tap on the door, and then Grandpa’s voice. “Do you mind if I come in?” He was always polite.
As Grandpa sat on the bed, Misha sat up and put her arms around him and began to cry even harder. When she finally stopped, Grandpa turned on the night lamp. He was very quiet as she told him the whole story.
“Granddaughter,” he said slowly, “everyone in the whole world would like to change something about himself or herself. A magic make-over is not the way to be happy. Happiness comes from accepting yourself the way you are—the way God chose to make you—with the things you like—and with the things you don’t like so much.
“Think about your friends. Do you like them just because of the way they look?”
Misha thought about Rhoda with her glasses, and Jennifer with her short legs, and Lauren with her fuzzy hair. The way they looked really didn’t matter at all. She liked them just the way they were.
Grandpa said, “You know something else? Your freckles are part of what makes you the special, one-of-a-kind person you are. You wouldn’t be you without them. Besides”—he grinned—“I have a special reason for liking those pretty little freckles. They make me feel that you belong to me, and I love you very much.”
Misha felt better than she had in a long time. She hugged her grandpa tight. “I love you, too,” she said.
She snuggled back down between the sheets as Grandpa kissed her good night. She closed her eyes and smiled a great, big, freckle-dotted smile.

Through the years, I noticed Dad was in attendance at most Young Men and Young Women activities. At first I felt his presence cramped my style as parental purview was always present. It soon became very apparent that a bishop, absent his tie and coat, having fun, was far less intimidating than he appeared behind the pulpit on Sunday. Many become better acquainted with the bishop at social events and feel more inclined to share concerns and feelings. You can turn to your bishops when you are in need of help and can have great confidence in following his counsel. Is it any mystery that bishops who serve and sacrifice for youth are filled with great love for those who are the recipients of their service? The Lord, best of all, knows the dangers and pitfalls that find their way into lives of youth who do not have a spiritual anchor. Along with parents He has provided each of us with a spiritual guardian in the form of our bishop.

I have discovered a profound and noteworthy fact. When girls hit high school age, fathers often hit bottom on daughters’ priority lists. It’s not that we stop loving our fathers; it’s that we have more important male individuals on our minds. Unfortunately, dad is sometimes forgotten for a while.
I was no exception to this phenomenon. During my senior year of high school, I met, dated, and was totally devoted to Mr. Wonderful. We attended most of the dances and other major school events together. But the summer after we graduated, Mike hit me with speech number 36. You know, the one that goes something like “We should date other people more often, but we can still be friends.”
I suppose this was Mike’s way of cutting the ties that bind and branching out a bit. After all, Mr. Wonderful should not hide his light under a bushel. He simply must sacrifice and share his wonderfulness with others. I know I sound bitter, but you see, the decision to part was one-sided (his), and the breakup shattered my little world. I cried my eyes into red puffiness.
Now parents are very perceptive people. Somehow they saw right through my heroic effort to carry on. (Maybe my chin dragging on the ground gave me away.)
“Is there anything wrong, dear?”
“No,” was my typical teenage answer.
Teenagers usually say no. They could be wounded and near death, and when you ask if anything is wrong, they will say no. Persistently and patiently, my parents got to the root of the problem.
They were reassuring and loving as they expressed their regret. Looking back now, I realize they were probably very happy, but they had the good sense to act woeful. My mother said something about these things happening to almost everyone at some time in their lives. She also said I would live through it. Dad added the old favorite, “Time heals all wounds.”
Now I knew all of this. I had said the same thing to girlfriends going through this same tragedy. But none of that lessens the pain at the time.
I went to work the next day feeling tired and dejected, and I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care. And every time the telephone rang, I pounced on it, hoping it would be Mike.
Around two that afternoon, a man in a uniform came up to the desk where I was working.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Are you Carol?” he said as he thumped a bouquet of beautiful flowers on the desk.
Oh, Mike, you’ve come to your senses, I thought as I grabbed the enclosed card and ripped it open.
“Can I be your new friend? Love, Dad.”
I will never forget the effect those simple words had on me. Each time I read that card, I felt love. My heart was full with the knowledge that my father loved me. He laughed and cried, hurt and rejoiced right along with me. He was concerned and interested in my life. But I had been too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of my high school existence to include him, and that was my loss. My father climbed to the top of my priority list that day.

As he passed his little garden, now covered with the white of winter, he remembered the first time he had met the missionaries almost two years ago. It was in the summer of 1893. They had come by and talked with him as he stood bent over, pruning bushes.
“Those missionaries planted a sweet seed in my heart that day. It all seemed sensible,” he remembered. As he walked slowly along he remembered other things, too. “The next day the minister came, and I told him what the missionaries had told me. He tore every word to pieces, and he filled me with his talk again. The next time the elders came, I told them what the minister told me. They taught me the gospel again and planted the seed again. It soon became obvious that I had to know for myself.”