Gospel Story Finder

Sister Eileen Waite attended the same stake conference where Dave Orchard told of his conversion experience. Throughout the conference, all she could think of was her own family and particularly her sister, Michelle, who had long been away from the Church. Michelle was divorced and trying to raise four children. Eileen felt impressed to send her a copy of Elder M. Russell Ballard’s book Our Search for Happiness, together with her testimony, which she did. The very next week a friend told Eileen that she too had felt that she should contact Michelle. This friend also wrote Michelle a note, sharing her testimony and expressing her love. Isn’t it interesting how often the Spirit works on several people to help one in need?

Time passed. Michelle called Eileen and thanked her for the book. She said that she was beginning to recognize the spiritual void in her life. Eileen told her that she knew that the peace she was seeking could be found in the gospel. She told her that she loved her and wanted her to be happy. Michelle began to make changes in her life. Soon she met a wonderful man who was active in the Church. They married and a year later were sealed in the Ogden Utah Temple. Recently her 24-year-old son was baptized.

To the others in Michelle’s family and all others who do not yet know that this Church is true, I invite you to prayerfully consider whether the Church is true. Allow your family and friends and missionaries to help. When you know that it is true, and it is, come join with us by taking the same step in your life.

The end of this story has not yet been written, but blessings have been given to this wonderful woman and her family as those who love her acted on a prompting and in a natural and normal way shared their testimony and invited her to come back.

When I was seven years old, I saw a picture in a Bible of Jesus getting baptized. I thought it would be cool to get baptized too. One morning I told my mom, “Look at this picture of Jesus. He’s getting baptized. Why am I not baptized?” After that, we started looking around at churches to join.
That same year, I got sick with leukemia. Doctors found a lymphoma on my chest, and I had to stay in the hospital for three weeks. After that, I would go to the hospital for four days and then go home for 10 days. I did that six times. Going through chemotherapy was really bad, but it made the tumor shrink. Later I got fungal pneumonia and had to spend more time in the hospital.
When my mom was young, she was an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I got sick, she started reading the Book of Mormon again. My family took the missionary discussions later, and we all started going to church. My dad got baptized first. After he got the priesthood, he baptized my brothers and me. My sisters weren’t old enough yet. Getting baptized made me feel really good even though by then most of my hair had fallen out because of my chemotherapy.
During that time, I prayed a lot. When I prayed, I felt like it wasn’t the end of the world. I got lots of priesthood blessings. They were really good and helped me with my faith. Medicine helped me too.
For a while, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed or doing much, but I told my mom I knew that Heavenly Father was going to protect me. I just had a feeling I would get better. I saw that the doctors were super confident. That made me confident too.
My brothers and sisters helped me feel better when I would come home from the hospital. It was nice to play with them. They had faith that I would get better.
I was still sick when I started tae kwon do. It’s really fun, and it’s what I like to do. I couldn’t go to tae kwon do class during flu season because I had to watch my immune system. Tae kwon do helped me not think about being sick. I have my green belt now, and I want to get my black belt. That will take me a few more years.
In March 2019, I finished the chemotherapy and my last round of steroids. I feel really good about not having to do that anymore.
If someone is having a challenge or is really sick, I would say to read the Book of Mormon and have faith that Heavenly Father has a plan for us. That will help them. It’s pretty bad if someone is sick and doesn’t get better, but at least they will see Heavenly Father sometime soon. He knows what’s best for us.
The author lives in Alabama, USA.

The longer I stared at the phone, the more nervous I became. I kept going over and over in my mind what I would say. Then I worried that the girl I wanted to call might say no. Finally, I managed to punch in the phone number, hoping no one would answer. They didn’t. What a relief—except I had to start the whole process over again later!
On my second attempt, her mother answered and agreed to get her daughter. Now the sweat was really starting to build. I thought about hanging up, but then I was greeted by a friendly hello. I managed to stumble my way through asking her out. Instead of giving an immediate answer, she said she needed to check with her mom. To me that was code for, “Let me talk to my mom to see if she can help me get out of this one.” Instead she returned to the phone with a cheerful, “That would be great.” I tried not to act too surprised and ended the call. I sat in my chair emotionally drained yet feeling great. I did it; my first date was on its way!

Years ago when my second daughter, Nelah, was in kindergarten, she was given a stencil to work with at school. She used this stencil to make me a sign. She brought the sign home and proudly presented it to me. The sign says, "Kynda is lfbut."
I was initially confused. Was she trying to say that I had a fluffy bum? While I was racking my brain trying to figure out what Nelah could mean by this, she said, with a huge smile on her face, "See, Mom. It says 'Kynda is beautiful.'" Aaah, yes, I see it now. "Beautiful" is a difficult word to spell. My five-year-old Nelah had sounded it out and spelled the word phonetically for me. When she ran out of room at the end of the line, she finished the word in the empty space at the beginning of the line, hence "lfbut." During this interaction with Nelah, there was no part of me that was worried for Nelah's spelling ability. I wasn't thinking, "Oh no! Nelah spelled 'beautiful' wrong! Now she's not going to graduate from high school or go to college!" No! Although she did not spell "beautiful" correctly, she was completely developmentally appropriate for her age. She was exactly where she was supposed to be at that time! I knew that eventually Nelah would learn how to spell "beautiful" correctly--and she has. Heavenly Father feels the same way about us! When we make mistakes, I don't think he is saying, "Well, Kynda has really messed up now. I don't think she is going to be able to endure to the end and return back to me." No! I bet He is thinking that you and I are exactly where we need to be at this point in our development: we are learning, and we are on the path to perfection. True heroes take baby steps.

The stranger had a bushy beard as red as his hair. It was Christmas Eve when he knocked on the door, asking for food. We had not been outside all day. For weeks it had snowed almost every day, soft fluffy feathers that were fun to play in. Now the snow was up to the top of the fence and piled in high drifts, and the wind howled and sang around the corners of the house and under the eaves. Papa said it was a blizzard.
Mama had spent the day making the special food we had only at Christmas, and for days before that, she’d baked bread of all kinds, Christmas bread frosted with white icing, filled bird-shaped rolls, and cookies by the dozen. We had no gaily trimmed tree or other holiday decorations at our house, nor presents waiting to be opened. But the spirit of Christmas was in the air.
Besides Mama and Papa, there were four of us children. We were on our best behavior at this time of year. There was no arguing about toys or books or crayons—who could be grumpy or cross at Christmastime? All that day we watched Mama at the stove, our mouths watering as she fixed Christmas dinner. Christmas Eve was our big feast; there would be no cooking on Christmas Day. That was OK—the cupboard was filled with good things to eat already made.
Best of all was the candy. Instead of only one or two pieces, we could have almost as much as we wanted. There were hard candy that you could suck on for a long time, sweet raspberry-filled candy, candy canes, and homemade chocolate-covered nuts and raisins. In the evening we cracked nuts while sitting by the glowing red heater as the wind howled and slapped snow against the windows.
Grandma and Grandpa were across the ocean in Poland, so there was just the family at Christmas. When the knock sounded on the door as Mama was putting the food on the table, it was a big surprise. Who could be out in such weather on Christmas Eve?
The redheaded stranger stood at the door, and we hid behind Mama’s skirts. He had tattered clothes, and his hands and face were red with cold. Papa asked him to come in quickly and shut the door so as not to let in the cold. The stranger’s coat was covered with snow, and bits of snow clung to his beard.
It was easy to see that he was hungry. Papa told him that we were just getting ready to sit down to eat dinner and that he was welcome to join us. Mama pushed the chairs closer together to make room for him. The stranger’s eyes were watery, like he was crying.
Papa said the blessing, and Mama passed the bowls of soup. We were extra quiet during dinner. Only Papa and the stranger talked, but not very much. The redheaded stranger was busy eating and hardly looked up from his plate.
As I watched him, I wondered why he was out in a blizzard. Didn’t he have a family or a warm house? He didn’t live here, I knew. We lived in a very small town, and everybody knew everyone else, and this fellow was a stranger, for sure.
Papa said we were having a depression. We didn’t understand much about it except that many people had no food and no job. Men wandered from town to town, looking for work, and many passed by our house. We lived between the railroad tracks and the highway, and in the summer we saw them walking by on the road. Some came asking for food, and Mama always gave them something, even if it was only a piece of bread and jelly. She made the best bread in the world, and the jam was from the chokecherries we picked in the summer. They were bitter to eat, but Mama made jelly from the berries, and on pancakes it was better than syrup.
Although he scared me with his red hair and beard, I felt sorry for the stranger. So did we all. Just looking at him made me want to cry. Mama always said we mustn’t stare at people, and I tried not to. It was hard to do.
Our Christmas Eve dinner was splendid, the best food I could think of. After the soup came the boiled wheat—red Durham, grown on the prairie farms around us. It was my favorite part of the dinner, but we could have only one small bowlful. Papa said it would grow inside us if we ate too much. I was pretty sure he was teasing, but I didn’t ask for more, just in case.
Then we had fish—a whole one Mama had baked with stuffing inside. It took a long time to eat because we had to be very careful not to swallow any bones. Next we had stuffed cabbage rolls and small boiled dumplings filled with mashed potatoes. And we had pickles and beets, which had been preserved right from Mama’s garden. For dessert there was Christmas bread as sweet and light as cake.
After dinner, while the redheaded stranger talked with Papa by the stove, we children helped Mama clear the table. I asked Mama where the stranger would go. I knew that he couldn’t stay here overnight. We had a very small house, and when we slept, every corner of it was full. Mama looked at me sadly and said she didn’t know.
I finished helping with the dishes and was going over to sit close to Papa, when the redheaded stranger got up to leave. Papa gave him a pair of mittens for his hands. The stranger said, “Thank you. God bless you. God bless all of you.” I think his eyes showed even more than his words how he felt. Then he left.
I was glad to see that the storm had let up. Only a few snowflakes continued to gently fall. I tried to see where he went, but the windows were covered with frost and I couldn’t. “Where will he go?” I asked Papa.
“He has a cousin who lives on a farm on the far side of the next town. He hopes his cousin will let him stay and work on the farm until times are better.” I hoped so too.
The next day, Christmas Day, was Sunday. The storm was over, and the sun was shining so bright that it hurt your eyes. The snow sparkled like diamonds and crunched under our feet as we walked to church. Looking at the Baby Jesus in the manger in the foyer, I whispered, “Happy Birthday, Jesus.” Then I prayed, “Heavenly Father, thank Thee for a wonderful dinner last night. Please help the redheaded stranger find his cousin and have a good home there. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

Patrick Wong has already submitted more than 30 generations from his family line. Currently serving as an Area Authority, Elder Wong has frequent opportunities to share his testimony of the importance of temple work.
“I was baptized when I was 16,” he begins, “the first one in my family. Unlike many first-generation converts, however, most of my family joined, including my parents and a younger brother and sister. But despite their conversion, my parents were never sealed—my mother’s health prevented it.
“In 1988, while my wife and I were living in Australia, my father died. A year later my mother was gone. When I returned to Hong Kong for her funeral, we agreed that the work for our parents should be done. My younger brother volunteered to do it in the Taiwan temple.
“Two months later, my wife had a dream. She saw my mother, who seemed very unhappy. ‘Grandma, why are you so unhappy?’ she asked. ‘Patrick’s brother promised to take care of me, but he hasn’t.’ ‘Don’t worry, Grandma. Patrick will take care of you,’ my wife promised.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t understand what the dream meant when my wife told me about it,” Elder Wong says. “However, two weeks later she had another dream, a dream of my father. ‘Kathy, tell Patrick I need to get married as soon as possible.’ When Kathy told me about that dream I finally understood.
“I immediately called my brother and asked him if he’d been to the temple to do our parents’ work. He hadn’t. His wife had been ill and was having a difficult time recovering. ‘Go and do it, Patrick,’ he told me. So within days, we went to the temple in Sydney and had my parents sealed.
“I know this work is essential for our ancestors,” Elder Wong concludes emotionally. “My parents wanted their work done so badly. Other ancestors feel the same way. The Hong Kong Temple is part of Heavenly Father’s plan. It is a comfort to us, a symbol of the Lord’s confidence in the Chinese people here and all around the world, a symbol of the future of the Church.”

We had gone up the canyon to study, but the mountain air and warm sunshine made it too relaxing to concentrate. So I just lay there in a kind of sleepy intoxication while Sarah continued her story. I rolled over to let the sun warm my face when I noticed two young boys climbing the mountain beside us—a trek that was pretty rough going. As the boys pulled themselves up by grasping branches and roots as anchors, rocks and earth under them slid down into the water. Sometimes the roots they grabbed pulled right out of the dirt, and they would slide down the face until they found something to grab onto. The small avalanche they created continued without them into the water below.
Sarah had finished talking, and I looked over and saw the boys had finally made it to the top of the mountain. Self-satisfied, they happily scanned the world from their new vantage point and never noticed the scars they had left on the fragile mountainside.

As prophet, President David O. McKay traveled with his son Llewelyn to Europe. He dedicated temple sites and tried to greet as many Church members as possible.
Llewelyn: Father, you don’t have time to greet all these children. Aren’t you tired?
President McKay: Son, never hurt a child. I can take time to meet these youngsters—I wouldn’t disappoint them for anything.
Girl: President McKay, could you sign my autograph book?
President McKay: Do you think I can write plainly enough for you to read it?
Just then, someone tapped President McKay on the shoulder and whispered to him for a moment. When he turned back to sign the little girl’s book, she was gone.
President McKay: Llewelyn! Please find the little girl in the blue dress. I’m afraid she thinks I didn’t want to sign her book.
Others helped Llewelyn search, but the little girl was nowhere to be found. On their way to London, Llewelyn and President McKay traveled with a group of missionaries. President McKay told them about the little girl in the blue dress.
President McKay: I wish we could have found her.
Missionary: President McKay, we think we know who she is. We’ll talk to her branch president, and he’ll phone you this evening.
President McKay: Wonderful!
President McKay talked to the little girl’s branch president, apologized for what had happened, and arranged for the autograph book to be sent to his office in Salt Lake City. When it arrived, he eagerly signed it and mailed it back.

When I was 21 months old, I was diagnosed with bronchial asthma. Thankfully, my mom is a registered nurse and she takes good care of me. It gets really bad during the winter, and I missed a lot of school. When I entered the third grade, my mom prayed for me and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. On the last day of school, I was awarded a Perfect Attendance Award. Heavenly Father really answers prayers.

Several years after Brother Maeser’s death a proposal was made to construct a memorial building in his name, not downtown on University Avenue but high atop Temple Hill, where a new campus might be built consisting of as many as three or perhaps four buildings someday. The cost would be an astronomical $100,000, but the Maeser Building would be a symbol of the past, a statement of aspiring tradition, an anchor to the university’s future.

In spite of a staggering financial crisis clouding the very future of the university at the time, the faculty and student body took heart that in 1912 the Maeser Building was at least partially complete and the university would give diplomas to its first four-year graduating class. But even as graduation plans were being made, equally urgent plans were underway to sell the remainder of Temple Hill for the development of a new Provo suburb. The university simply had to have the money to survive. Eighteen members were graduating in this first four-year class, but even if the student body tripled in the years ahead, surely there would be more than enough room to accommodate them on the space now occupied by the Maeser, Brimhall, and Grant buildings on our present campus. Yes, the rest of the space on the hill should be sold. The graduation services would conclude with a sales pitch to the community leaders in attendance.

When Alfred Kelly was introduced that morning as the student graduation speaker, he rose and stood absolutely silent for several moments. Some in the audience thought he had lost the power of speech. Slowly he began to speak, explaining that he had been much concerned over his remarks, that he had written several versions and discarded every one of them.

Then, early one morning, he said, with a feeling of desperation regarding his approaching assignment, he walked north from his downtown apartment to where the partially completed Maeser Building stood (as Horace Cummings would later describe it) as an “air castle” come to earth on Temple Hill. He wanted to gain inspiration from this hope of a new campus, but he felt only grim disappointment. The sky was starting to glow from the morning light, but the darkly silhouetted Maeser Building seemed only a symbol of gloom.

Kelly then turned his eyes to view the valley below that was also still in shadow. The light from the rising sun was just beginning to illuminate the western hills back of Utah Lake with an unusual golden glow. As morning came, the light gradually worked down from the hilltops, moved across the valley floor, and slowly advanced to the spot where Kelly stood.

He said he partially closed his eyes as the light approached and was startled by what he could still see. He stood as if transfixed. In the advancing sunlight everything he saw took on the appearance of people, young people about his age moving toward Temple Hill. He saw hundreds of them, thousands of young people coming into view. He knew they were students, he said, because they carried books in their arms as they came.

Then Temple Hill was bathed in sunlight, and the whole of the present campus was illuminated not with one partially completed building, nor with homes in a modern subdivision, but rather what Kelly described to that graduating class as “temples of learning,” large buildings, beautiful buildings, hundreds of buildings covering the top of that hill and stretching clear to the mouth of Rock Canyon.

The students then entered these temples of learning with their books in hand. As they came out of them, Kelly said their countenances bore smiles of hope and of faith. He observed that they seemed cheerful and very confident. Their walk was light but firm as they again became a part of the sunlight as it moved to the top of Y Mountain, and then they gradually disappeared from view.

Kelly sat down to what was absolutely stone-deaf silence. Not a word was spoken. What about the sales pitch? No one moved or whispered. Then longtime BYU benefactor Jesse Knight jumped to his feet and shouted, “We won’t sell an acre. We won’t sell a single lot.” And he turned to President George Brimhall and pledged several thousand dollars to the future of the university. Soon others stood up and joined in, some offering only a widow’s mite, but all believing in the dream of a Provo schoolboy, all believing the destiny of a great university which that day had scarcely begun. (See B. F. Larsen, “Fifty Years Ago,” speech given at a BYU Alumni meeting, 25 May 1962, B.F. Larsen biographical file, BYU Archives, pp. 4–5.)

Fourth, we need to recognize our opportunities to teach and testify. People who have expressed adverse feelings about the Church have let us know that they are at least thinking about it. In Brazil, we taught our missionaries how to turn rejection into opportunity. Often, they would have two or three friendly discussions with a family, then one day the father would meet them at the door and say, “We’ve decided not to discuss religion with you anymore.”
We taught our elders to express what they felt in their hearts at hearing such disappointing news. They would say, “Oh, we are sorry that you have decided not to study with us anymore. We have enjoyed visiting with you, and you have been very friendly to us.” The father, of course, would say something nice in return.
Then the elders would say, “Could we have just a moment to step in and leave a greeting with your family? We won’t impose on you.”
Inside, the elders wouldn’t try to force another discussion, but they might say: “You have been very kind to us and we appreciate it. Before we leave, however, we need to tell you, because of our calling, what the gospel means to us.” Then they would explain why they believe the way they do.
“Do you remember when Joseph Smith knelt by his bedside and asked the Lord to tell him if he loved him or not and the angel appeared? The angel said, ‘Joseph, I have come to you from the presence of God and he has a mission for you to perform by which your name will be known for good or evil among all men.’ What did Joseph say to the angel?” (See JS—H 1:33.)
They would answer, “I guess he said he’d do what God wanted.”
“Yes, he did. He didn’t say, ‘Wait a minute, Mr. Angel. I didn’t want to go on a mission. I just wanted to know if the Lord loved me.’ You can’t do that to an angel, can you? So we have to tell you that someday you will stand before God and he will ask you why you didn’t listen to his message. We don’t know what you will say, but we think you should not refuse the gospel until after you have knelt down and asked the Lord what he wants you to do. Will you do that?”
Upon praying, many people joined the Church who had decided not to hear anymore about it.

Just the same, I was a father trying to raise daughters on my own. I sought to create one-on-one time with both of them to strengthen our relationships. Yet how could I help them prepare to be women? I soon found there were more resources than I imagined:
Family members. I thank the Lord for a sister-in-law and a daughter-in-law who lived nearby and came to my rescue. They attended maturation meetings with my daughters. They helped my daughters get ready for dances. Most of all, they listened. They shared my daughters’ hopes, fears, longings, and desires. They helped them transition from child to adolescent to adult with a different understanding of that process than I could provide, never having experienced it in the same way.
Neighbors. Good neighbors watched my daughter with their daughter after school until I got home from the office. Other neighbors took my children to school when I had early meetings. One neighbor with a lawn-care business had his crew mow my lawn regularly for free so I could spend more time with my family.
Ministering brothers and Church leaders. My ministering brothers coordinated with the ward council, and it seemed that everyone in the ward, especially Primary and Young Women leaders, went out of their way to help my girls. I learned that one of the great things about the Relief Society is that they offer, well, relief. Once, a group of them cleaned my whole house, top to bottom. And at Young Women activities, someone always made sure my daughters felt included.
Not everyone will experience this same level of support. But I’ve learned that until we let others know the gaps we see our children experience without a mother, those individuals may not understand how they can help.
Honoring Fathers
“Some men are single fathers, foster fathers, or stepfathers. Many of them strive mightily and do their very best in an often difficult role. We honor those who do all that can be done in love, patience, and self-sacrifice to meet individual and family needs.”
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “Fathers,” Liahona, May 2016, 95.
Elder Baxter said: “Single parents, I testify that as you do your very best in the most difficult of human challenges, heaven will smile upon you. Truly you are not alone. Let the redemptive, loving power of Jesus Christ brighten your life now and fill you with the hope of eternal promise. Take courage. Have faith and hope. Consider the present with fortitude and look to the future with confidence.”4
Like anyone going through challenges, single fathers may feel overwhelmed. I know I did at times. But I also know there’s a lot of hope and a lot of help for single fathers in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

One day when I was 17 years old, I was washing the family car in anticipation of going on a date that evening. My father came out of the house to observe what I was doing. He criticized me to the extent that I felt as if I was doing nothing right. Finally I said something like, “Dad, get off my case. Don’t you understand this is the first time I have ever been a teenager?” He looked at me and said, “Pal, don’t you know this is the first time I have ever been a father?” I grew wiser that day because I realized we all are learning together within a family. We cannot expect our parents to be perfect any more than we can expect ourselves to be perfect.

She came down the hallway of Glenwood High with all the grace of a fire engine rushing toward a burning building. She commanded attention in the brightest green dress Melanie Brannon had ever seen, topped by a pointy yellow collar that drooped like a wilting flower over her shoulders. She nodded and gabbed at every student in the hallway. Most of them just stared back.
Please, not the locker next to mine, Melanie silently pleaded as the stranger glided closer. She was a little taller than Melanie, very thin, her hair coal black, straight, and hanging to her waist. As she drew closer, Melanie noticed that her fingernails were painted in the same bright yellow as her collar.
It’s Halloween in September, Melanie thought, sticking her head inside her locker. It was the first day of Melanie’s senior year. She knew the next ten months were brimming with challenges: maintaining high grades, starting a job, applying for scholarships, and her new Church calling. Only two weeks before, Bishop Jackson asked her to serve as the Laurel class president. Her life was filled. There was no time for extras, including making friends with some day-glowing stranger.
“You must be a ‘B.R.’ too,” Melanie heard a fluttery voice behind her say.
“Excuse me?”
“A ‘B.R.’—your name must start with those letters. Aren’t the lockers assigned in alphabetical order? My last name is Brady. My first name is Arlene. I was named for my grandmother. She’s dead.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” Melanie stammered.
“For the best. Grandmother was old and not well,” Arlene said vacantly. Then, she suddenly shifted gears. “Like my outfit? You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to put it together.”
“How nice,” Melanie mumbled, taking a few slow steps away from her locker. A school bell clattered. “I’ve got to go. It’s bad luck to be late on the first day.”
“How true,” squeaked Arlene. “One should never invite bad luck.”
Melanie darted down the hall but was stopped in her tracks by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Brannon! New friend of yours?” It was Craig Miller, probably the last person she wanted to hear from at that instant. “She’s great. Maybe she could help you with your wardrobe.”
“Funny, Craig. She has the locker next to mine, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to Mrs. Foreman’s class.”
“Mrs. Foreman? A drill sergeant masquerading as an English teacher,” teased Craig.
“I asked for Mrs. Foreman. She does more to help her students get ready for college than any other teacher.”
“Can I call you tonight?”
“Sure. But I’m starting at Taco Tommy’s. I won’t get home until late.” Melanie disappeared into Mrs. Foreman’s English class just before the door was pulled shut.
Fourteen hours later, Melanie quietly unlocked the front door to her home. She slipped inside, glancing at a hallway mirror. She saw the reflection of a tired young woman who had arisen near sunrise, put in a hectic first day at school, and started a new job.
You smell like a taco, she thought.
“Melanie?”
She turned and saw her mother coming down the stairs. “I waited up for you, honey. Everyone else has gone to bed. How was the first day on the job?”
“It was good motivation for college. I’ve decided my future isn’t in fast foods.”
“You look tired. Remember, seminary starts tomorrow. When are you getting up?”
Melanie groaned. “About 5:30.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“Can’t. Mrs. Foreman gave us a short story to read.”
“Good night then. Oh, Craig called. You know, under that cool exterior, I think he has a crush on you.”
Melanie yawned. “Sorry I missed him.” She dragged herself up to her room and was soon reading at a small desk. But it was difficult to concentrate on the story by Chekhov.
Tacos. Beef tacos, chicken tacos. What was it Mrs. Foreman said about Russian authors? Unrecognized for what reason? Bet that’ll be on a test. And then there was that weird new girl, Arlene Brady. Yellow nail polish.
Melanie’s eyes dropped and she laid her head on her desk.
Beatrice Foreman gazed across her classroom like a hawk scouting for a mouse. She was in her 50s, an imposing woman with dark, penetrating eyes and a facial expression that stopped just short of a scowl. Her wrath was readily kindled by students who came to class unprepared.
“Mr. Crandall!”
The young man next to Melanie stood nervously.
“You read the assignment, I presume. Chekhov’s short story ‘The Kiss.’ Tell us about it.”
“Let’s see, there is a young soldier.”
“He receives a kiss from a young woman, but it was by mistake.”
“Not the first of Cupid’s arrows to miss its mark,” intoned Mrs. Foreman. “The symbolism. Explain the meaning, Mr. Crandall.”
“Uh … I think it stands for how we as human beings can take small, insignificant things, maybe even things that happen by accident, and take them to mean something bigger in life than they really are.”
“Better,” boomed Mrs. Foreman. “Continue, Mr. Crandall.”
“The kiss in the story, the soldier took it to mean a whole better life, a brighter future,” Dan said, with somewhat more confidence. “Someone cared for him, he thought. But he was wrong.”
“Your speech lacks precision, Daniel, but I believe you have picked up the essential grain of the story. Thank you.”
After class, Melanie and a friend, Gretchen Hunter, walked down a hallway.
They turned a corner. There was Arlene Brady. Melanie was caught off guard. “Hi, Arlene. How are you?”
Arlene stared at Melanie for a couple of seconds. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in days,” Arlene said. She hovered an instant, then swept down the hallway.
“Who was that?” asked Gretchen.
“Nobody,” grumbled Melanie. “Her locker’s next to mine.”
“Hey, Brannon!” Melanie cringed as she heard Craig Miller’s familiar greeting. “How about some ice cream tonight? Me and ice cream—an irresistible combination.”
“I really do like ice cream, Craig, but it’s a bad night. I have an interview with Bishop Jackson, plus a bunch of studying.”
“You’re just playing hard to get,” replied Craig. “But I know my charms will win you over in the end.”
The phone rang in the bishop’s office. Bishop Jackson reached for it and answered. While he was talking, Melanie glimpsed a name on a move-in list that was on his desk. She squinted and looked again. No mistake: Arlene Brady.
Arlene, the princess of weird, a Mormon! This is too much, Melanie thought as Bishop Jackson hung up.
“Bishop, you have a girl named Arlene Brady on the list there.”
He nodded. “I went to her apartment last week and talked with her father. The two of them are there by themselves. He’s not a member, and they move around quite often. He said Arlene doesn’t have many friends. I told him maybe we could help.”
“But she wears costumes to school,” Melanie said. “Yesterday she came in wearing an outfit that made her look like a diesel truck. I’m serious, Bishop. The exhaust pipes were silk-screened on her sleeves! She even had a little black spot underneath the engine. She told me it was an oil slick. The guys at school are calling her Oil Slick Brady.”
Bishop Jackson sat back in his chair. “Sounds like someone who needs attention. Melanie, I know this is a busy time for you. But I also feel it’s important for Arlene to have a friend. Will you give it a try?”
Melanie smiled weakly. “What’s her address?”
Melanie braced herself, standing in front of the apartment. She’d promised the bishop a visit, and that’s what Arlene Brady would get—one visit. Besides, Melanie had the perfect excuse. She needed to be to work in 15 minutes.
Arlene opened the door.
“Arlene? It’s me, Melanie Brannon, from school.”
“Come in.”
“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’m on my way to work.” Melanie entered. The apartment was sparsely furnished. It looked like the residence of a family used to moving quickly.
Melanie didn’t know quite what to say. Arlene was anything but mainstream Glenwood High, yet she seemed a little more normal than Melanie had anticipated. “Well, Arlene, why I came here tonight,” she started matter-of-factly. “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I think you are too. We have a Laurel class, a group of girls our age, and I thought you might like to do some things with us.”
Arlene tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. “Mormons. Yes, I remember being baptized with my mother a long time ago,” she said. “People from church come around to visit us, but we never stay in one place long enough to really get involved. My father changes jobs a lot. The longest we’ve stayed anywhere is two years. Sometimes it’s only a matter of weeks.”
“It must be hard to move that much,” Melanie said.
Arlene sighed. “This may sound crazy, but do you know what I fear the most? It’s not the new teachers or setting up housekeeping. It’s that every time I’m in a new place, I don’t know if I’ll make any friends. I like being an individual, but when you move around as much as I do, it’s hard for people to get to know you.”
Melanie looked closely at Arlene. Maybe that one statement accounted for much of her bizarre clothing and behavior. A plea for attention and a plea for friends. Arlene looked at a wall. “I’m telling you a lot and we hardly know each other. You must think I’m strange.”
“Maybe a little different, that’s all,” sputtered Melanie. Then, trying to change the subject, “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks,” Arlene said, a little more happily. “My father is on the road a lot. I try to have a clean apartment and something warm for him to eat when he gets home. He’s a good person. He doesn’t really understand me, but I know he loves me. That’s something I’ve learned from him—you can love someone without completely understanding them. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Melanie admitted.
“What about church? Want to join us?”
“Maybe. It depends on my dad’s schedule.”
Melanie glanced at her watch. It was almost six o’clock. “Wow! I have to run. I start work in exactly two minutes.”
Arlene smiled nervously. “Thanks for stopping by. Not many people do.”
“We’ll change that. Good night, Arlene.”
It was a busy night on the taco-building line. Nevertheless, Melanie couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the clean little apartment and the girl who lived there.
The next few weeks were a blur. Family, seminary, school, church, work, and studying crowded Melanie’s days. No matter how busy she was though, she took the time to talk with Arlene every day.
Arlene did attend a Church Halloween party, but it almost backfired. “A half-dozen people complimented her on the costume she was wearing,” Melanie confided to her mother after the party. “But it wasn’t a costume!”
Things finally clicked in November when Arlene agreed to attend the Laurel class.
She arrived at church wearing a long black dress, black gloves, her head crowned by a small black hat. “I thought I should wear something formal,” Arlene told Melanie. The Laurels were polite, but distant. Melanie realized that if Arlene were to become an active Church member, it would take more than the efforts of one person. It was well into the evening before she came up with a plan to help expand Arlene’s circle of acquaintances. Oddly, the key to the plan was none other than Craig Miller.
The opportunity to approach Craig came the very next morning on the front steps of school.
“Melanie,” he began earnestly. “I have to know. Is there any chance for us socially,” he cleared his throat, “like on a date?”
“Sure, Craig.”
He looked stunned. “There is?” he mumbled, slowly shaking his head. “Boy, that direct approach is powerful stuff.”
“I have Thursday night off. How about the symphony? But there’s one condition. I’d like to double.”
“Double? Sure.”
“With Arlene. Can you line her up?”
“Oil Slick? You want me to line up a friend with … with … that? Which of my friends am I willing to sacrifice?”
“How about Terry Packham?” persisted Melanie. “He’s a super guy, and he’s in a different school. He’s never heard of Oil Slick. She’ll be just plain Arlene to him. Terry’s more mature. He’ll do it.”
Craig cued on the word mature. He lowered his voice. “Oh yes, maturity. Still, there is the matter of Arlene’s somewhat unusual taste in apparel.”
“You won’t even recognize her,” promised Melanie.
“Then I’ll pick up the tickets and call Terry. Symphony. A very mature choice.”
“Craig—thanks. You’re the first guy I thought of. That’s a compliment.”
No sooner had Melanie disappeared than Craig pumped his fist into the air and bellowed “All right!”
Coaxing Arlene into the double date was trickier than Melanie expected.
“I’m not the dating type,” Arlene protested.
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied.
“I don’t have the right clothes to wear,” Arlene argued.
“I have some you can borrow,” answered Melanie.
“I’m too much of an individual to dress up like everyone else,” Arlene contended.
“Clothes don’t make you an individual. That comes from what you do with your life,” countered Melanie.
Arlene finally relented. “Okay, you win. You should sell life insurance. You’re the most tenacious person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” beamed Melanie.
Tuesday night, Melanie tiptoed into her house after stopping by Arlene’s apartment. She had spent two hours helping Arlene find just the right clothes to wear. They finally settled on a cream-colored skirt and powder-blue sweater with a lace collar. With her hair in a French braid, Arlene’s subtle beauty was unmistakable. She’d smiled often that night, and not once had her conversation drifted into the strange lingo that she spoke at school. “I’m making a difference,” Melanie thought as she settled into bed.
The morning of the symphony dawned gray and rainy. Melanie sat up in bed after her alarm sounded. Her throat was scratchy and she ached from her toes to her temples. “Of all the days—the flu,” she mumbled. “I’ll feel better later on.”
But that wasn’t the case. Once she arrived at school her condition took a turn for the worse and not because of the flu. As the morning classes wore on, there was no trace of Arlene.
Where was she?
During breaks Melanie searched the hallways. At lunch, she didn’t eat, but looked for her friend. The end of the school day came. No Arlene and no hope. Melanie’s throat crackled and her forehead burned. Where was Arlene? She drove home and plopped on her bed. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.
“Melanie,” a voice said softly. “You need to get up. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Melanie said, though she wasn’t really sure. “I need to get going.” She was soon in the apartment’s parking lot. Melanie trudged upstairs to Arlene’s apartment. The drapes were open a little. She peered in. There was nothing. No chairs, no table, no couch. Nothing.
Car doors shut and Melanie heard Terry talking to Craig. In the dim light she could see the surprised look on Craig’s face as he neared the apartment.
“Melanie?”
“Craig … I don’t know how to explain … Arlene is gone, moved, I think. I don’t know why,” Melanie said softly. “Maybe I was too pushy. I’m sorry, Terry.”
Craig squeezed her hand. “You don’t want to hear this, but you look awful. I’m worried about you. It’s okay. Go home and get some rest.”
“Your tickets will be wasted,” Melanie moaned.
“Hey, you don’t think a couple of guys like Terry and me can get another date on short notice?” Craig said. Then, turning to Terry, he said, “My mom’s not busy. How about yours?”
Craig and Terry escorted Melanie to her car. “Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.
“Count on it,” Craig said.
Melanie’s night was a long one. She’d drift off to sleep, then bolt awake, a sense of betrayal in her mind. Why hadn’t there been a call? A note? Melanie didn’t understand Arlene. She had looked so pretty two nights before. And Melanie had glimpsed a good, sensitive person beneath a carefully constructed facade.
When the alarm clock aroused Melanie, she felt tired, but the fever had subsided. She hurt, but it was no longer because of the flu. Bleary-eyed and with a heart that still stung, she prepared for school.
Mrs. Foreman adjusted her glasses and looked solemnly across the room. “I trust that you have all finished Macbeth. Let’s start with act 5.” She cleared her throat and read:
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Mrs. Foreman scanned the class for a victim. “Your thoughts, Miss Brannon.”
Melanie wearily rose.
“Macbeth has just learned of the queen’s death,” she began haltingly. “He may also be pondering his own uncertain fate. He concludes that life is without lasting meaning and filled with hollow relationships.”
Mrs. Foreman walked slowly towards Melanie. “Continue, Miss Brannon, with your own thoughts on the subject.”
Melanie exhaled slowly. “My own view—I think Macbeth is wrong.” She closed her eyes and remembered Arlene’s words about not understanding someone yet loving that person nonetheless. “The purpose of life is to find joy and that comes by caring for others and serving them, even if you don’t always know why. You have to do it unconditionally. Life is much more than an hour on stage, much, much more.”
“You’ve given thought to the subject? Are you sure of your statement? It’s so simple,” Mrs. Foreman challenged.
“Yes, I am sure, Mrs. Foreman.”
Mrs. Foreman whirled around and marched back to her desk. She stood imposingly, weighing Melanie’s words. Then her features seemed to soften. “I agree with you. Life must be filled with unconditional service to have great meaning. It’s a lesson that I can’t teach you from a textbook. You seem to have picked it up on your own, Melanie. Thank you.”
Saturday afternoon, Melanie was shredding lettuce on the taco line. Tommy came out of his office. “Call for you, Mel. Sounds long distance.”
Melanie rushed into Tommy’s office. “Hello!”
“It’s me!” came the familiar squeaky voice.
“Arlene! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m in New Mexico. Dad found a place he liked on his last trip, and you know how he is. Backed his truck up to our apartment and we loaded everything in. He found a job dispatching down here. He’s going to sell the truck. No more hauling. He says we can stay here a long time. I think this is home.”
“I’m so happy for you, Arlene.”
“I tried calling you before we left. The line was busy. Four times. Please don’t be unhappy with me. I feel bad about the symphony.”
“Don’t worry. The guys were great.”
“I’ll get the skirt and sweater back to you.”
“Forget it—they’re yours. You’ll need something to wear to church.”
“Melanie—I’ve thought about what you said. That you are a true individual by what you do with your life, not how you dress. I think I have the confidence now to change for the better.”
“Everyone has to choose their own path,” Melanie encouraged. “It sounds like you’re starting on a good one.”
“Please write. I’ll send you my address. Thanks, Melanie. You are a true friend.”
“And you, Arlene, are a true individual. Maybe we’ve both learned something from each other.”
Melanie hung up. She fairly floated back to the lettuce chopping board.
“Good news?” Tommy asked.
“The best,” Melanie said.

One day while my new companion, Sister Neumann, and I were teaching a sweet young woman, her boyfriend, Tom, came to see her. She had warned us that he did not want her to continue meeting with us. Tom saw our bicycles in front of the house and knew we were there that morning, so he decided to wait outside until we left. As he waited his curiosity grew stronger and stronger, and he thought of more and more questions to ask us. Eventually his interest overcame his reservations, and he came inside to put us to the test. After briefly explaining the basic principles of the gospel and outlining the Apostasy and the Restoration, we made an appointment to begin teaching him the next evening. He was baptized 10 weeks later. I was so full of joy I would have reenlisted for 10 years if I could have.

That experience made it somewhat easier for me to make a difficult decision just one year later. Again Christmastime had come. We were preparing for the oven a gigantic turkey and anticipating the savory feast that awaited. A neighborhood pal of mine asked a startling question: “What does turkey taste like?”
I responded, “Oh, about like chicken tastes.”
Again a question: “What does chicken taste like?”
It was then that I realized my friend had never eaten chicken or turkey. I asked what his family was going to have for their holiday dinner. There was no prompt response, just a downcast glance and the comment, “I dunno. There’s nothing in the house.”
I pondered a solution. There was none. I had no turkeys, no chickens, no money. Then I remembered I did have two pet rabbits. Immediately I placed them in a box and handed the box to my friend with the comment, “Here, take these two rabbits. They’re good to eat—just like chicken.”
He took the box, climbed the fence, and headed for home—a Christmas dinner safely assured. Tears came easily to me as I closed the door to the empty rabbit hutch. But I was not sad. A warmth, a feeling of indescribable joy, filled my heart. It was a memorable Christmas.

When Sadie was 13, she decided to work on Knowledge value experience 6 for Personal Progress. Sadie was going to memorize two hymns, learn the conducting patterns, and lead them in Young Women meetings.
One of the best places to practice was in the car. Sadie and her mother would put on some music and then figure out the patterns for different songs. It was a lot of fun, and Sadie loved it. “Mom and I would be in the car, and she would help me figure out how to lead. It was really hard, but I really liked it.”
Even the harder time signatures were fun for Sadie. “I ran into songs I couldn’t figure out. I could do the 4/4 time, but the 6/8 and 3/4 took a lot longer to figure out.”
Sadie led her hymns in Young Women and was able to complete her value experience, but conducting music for Sadie didn’t end there. She became a regular in Young Women.
Her Young Women leader mentioned to the ward chorister that if he ever needed a substitute in sacrament meeting, Sadie was capable of doing it. Soon Sadie was asked to lead. But that first time was hard. “I was really scared, and I just looked at my family the whole time. I was too afraid to look out at everybody else. The ward was nice about it. They were supportive of me learning.”
Then she was asked to substitute for a month or two. That’s when she gained confidence. She enjoyed going to the bishop and talking about the topics for sacrament meeting so she could select the right hymns.
When Sadie was 15, the bishop called her to be the ward choir director. “At first,” said Sadie, “I was really excited. Then I realized it was a big calling, and it would be a lot of work. But it’s been great. I’ve had a lot of support from people who sing in the choir and even from people that don’t sing. They will ask how they can help.”
Sadie has sung in choirs since she was seven, but she had never tried to direct one. Now she is clapping out the beats and teaching parts to the choir. “We’re not going to be the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but we really try to focus on the words and the spirit of the song. If we miss a few notes, that’s fine, but if we have the Spirit with us, it’s a lot nicer.”
Sadie would never have guessed that just completing a value experience in Personal Progress would possibly lead to her future educational plans. She loves being a choir director and would like to go into music education and perhaps become a school choir director. “I love music. Now that it’s a part of my life, it really seems like a gift that has been given to me.” Sadie was chosen as a drum major in her school band.
Looking back, Sadie is a little surprised by where she has come since learning how to lead music with her mother as they drove in the car—something they never would have done without being motivated to fulfill her Personal Progress.
“I knew I would gain great things from Personal Progress, but I didn’t know it would shape what I would do every day and a possible career in college. It’s amazing.”

To my brethren, the fathers in this Church, I say, I know you wish you were a more perfect father. I know I wish I were. Even so, despite our limitations, let us press on. Let us lay aside the exaggerated notions of individualism and autonomy in today’s culture and think first of the happiness and well-being of others. Surely, despite our inadequacies, our Heavenly Father will magnify us and cause our simple efforts to bear fruit. I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”

“Last summer I complained to a non–Latter-day Saint friend that I was exhausted, having no fun, living like an automaton. Nonsympathetically, she countered, ‘What do you think this is? A dress rehearsal? This is your life, Carol. Fix it.’ I expected a pat and a kind word. Instead, I got a splash of reality square in the face. She was, of course, quite right. I wasn’t giving my life value, so I didn’t feel it had value. I went home, reread the parables of the sower and of the talents, and regrouped” (A Singular Life, ed. Carol L. Clark and Blythe Darlyn Thatcher [1987], 35–36).

“How many of you would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked the congregation. Many members raised their hands—some high, some low. A few kept their hands in their laps.
“That’s fine,” the bishop nodded. “Larry,” he asked one of the ward members, “would you like to have a ‘perfect day’? Would you please come up here to the stand? George and Ruth? Paul? Matthew and Joan? John and Helen? Ben and Carol?”
He called their names slowly, pausing briefly between each one. Many hands fell back into their owners’ laps; only a few remained held high.
“Is there a widow who would like to live a ‘perfect day’?” the bishop asked. There was a moment of silence as he looked over the congregation. “Grace, how about you?”
When those whose names he had called had reached the stand, he turned to them. “Which day would you like to be your perfect day? Tuesday? … Thursday?”
The disbelief and the embarrassed smiles on their faces showed that none of them had really expected to have to make a real commitment. Some nodded their heads yes. Others stood motionless. After several seconds, someone suggested Thursday because it would give them more time to prepare.
Smiling, the bishop said, “That’s fine. Thursday you will have a ‘perfect day.’ And since we do not have any speakers planned for sacrament meeting next Sunday, we’d like you to report your ‘perfect day’ to us.”
He turned back to the congregation. “Is there anyone else who would like to have a ‘perfect day’?” James, a teachers quorum member with a happy smile, raised his hand. He was included.
The bishop then told the congregation, “Your responsibility as ward members is to pray that they accomplish their assignment.”
How does one live to make a day perfect? That question passed through the minds of those who had accepted the bishop’s challenge. Throughout the week, whenever ward members got together, the subject of the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge came up. We were eager to hear the reports.
Sunday finally came.
Grace, a widow with short brown hair and shining eyes, was first. Her day hadn’t gone exactly as planned, she told us. She awoke with a terrible head cold—the first time in more than three years she had been ill. In revising her plans for the day, she decided to put together a scrapbook about her mother’s life, something she had been thinking of doing for a long time. Grace asked her sister to help, and they worked together to reconstruct their mother’s life story in pictures and words. It took most of the day, but the end result was a cherished scrapbook.
Grace found that her activities on that day opened up a new avenue to her. Her patriarchal blessing had said that she would work on her family history. “Because I didn’t understand family history, I just couldn’t get really interested in it,” she confessed. “But after doing my mother’s book, I decided to do one about my husband who died recently.”
She has since compiled histories of her husband, her son, and her daughter. “By cleaning out all the boxes of treasures and mementos I had been storing for years, I’ve found enough information to do the temple work for many of my ancestors,” she says. “I can see my work is just beginning. And I’m happy to do it.”
James’s goal for the day was much different. He planned to be obedient to his parents—to immediately and cheerfully do what he was asked. “It seems as if your mother always wants you to do something when your friends come over to play or when you in the most exciting part of a book,” he said. “Sometimes I stopped and told myself to do it now. At the end of the day, I was able to do it as soon as she asked. It gave me a good feeling,” he concluded.
Paul, a fifteen-year-old with a delightful sense of humor, also took the bishop’s challenge seriously. Though scripture study was not a part of his daily routine, he decided to begin the day by reading the scriptures. “I didn’t know why it was so important to me to read the scriptures that day, but it was,” he explained. “Several times Wednesday night I woke up, feeling sure that I had overslept. Finally, when my alarm went off, I reached for my Book of Mormon.”
He read for about forty-five minutes. “Reading the scriptures seemed to set the tone for the entire day,” he said. “It’s not always easy to get along with school friends, teachers, and your family, and my ‘perfect day’ was not different. I made some mistakes, but I did a lot better than I do most days.
“It also helped me to be much more aware of my blessings, of the things I should be doing, and of my mistakes,” he added. “Often during the day I wondered what I could do to be better.”
That question—What can I do to be better?”—was asked by others who had accepted the bishop’s challenge. Many of them found the answer in serving others.
George found attempting to live a “perfect day” a great challenge. “Even though I didn’t have exactly the kind of day I would have liked to have,” he said, “it made an impact on my life. I’d never even thought of trying to live a ‘perfect day’ before.”
Ruth, George’s wife, experienced an improvement in their relationship as a result of her “perfect day.” “By trying to keep my day perfect,” she said, “I realized some of the habits I had gotten into. For instance, I would suddenly get angry at George for some silly, insignificant reason. Now I’m working on correcting that.”
Recognizing faults and taking steps to overcome them was something each of those who accepted the bishop’s challenge experienced. Larry said, “Like many returned missionaries, I had fallen down in my study habits. There always seemed to be so many other things to do. So when I received this assignment from the bishop, I decided that I needed to regain that closeness to the Lord I had felt on my mission.”
Things didn’t work out quite as Larry had planned; a painful tooth ache spoiled his “perfect day.” “Still,” he says, “I don’t feel my day was a failure. I tried hard to live perfectly—in spite of my circumstances.”
For John, “Every day is a perfect day for me because of my wife Helen. To share my life with her is one of my greatest blessings. For me, a ‘perfect day’ is being together with her. We enjoy each other’s company, and we’re the best of friends.
“We start the day together in prayer and scripture study, and although we go our separate ways to work, we are spiritually together throughout the day. We like to surprise each other by putting a note expressing our love for one another in our lunch sacks.
“After work, we get home, have our evening meal, share in the chores, and then visit with each other and discuss our day’s activity, and plan for the coming day. A special activity for us each week is attending the temple, and this past week we went on our ‘perfect day.’ It’s wonderful to kneel together at the altar, holdings hands, and reliving our marriage covenants as we perform sealing work for others.”
Temple work featured in the “perfect day” for Ben and Carol. When Ben retired a couple of years ago, he and Carol accepted callings as temple workers. “The bishop’s assigned ‘perfect day’ happened to be one of the two days in the week that we serve in the temple.
“I serve as a supervisor at the temple, and I was really touched when, in a prayer meeting, the brother offering the prayer asked that the Lord watch over me, as supervisor, and bless me with a special day. He didn’t know about our ‘perfect day’ assignment, but his prayer was very meaningful to me.
“What a special place to be for a ‘perfect day.’ We were there in the Lord’s house, doing the Lord’s work, side by side with wonderful brothers and sisters, helping others on the road to the celestial kingdom.”
Matthew told the congregation that in his family’s discussion of a “perfect day,” “we came to understand the need to perfect ourselves a little each and every day. For some months, my wife Joan has been very ill, and her illness has affected the entire family. We have come to rely upon the Lord more and to daily seek his guidance, and we have come to better recognize and understand the power of the priesthood. For our ‘perfect day,’ we agreed that we continually need to be supportive of each other, and to live worthy of the blessings we receive.”
After hearing the reports of those who had accepted the “perfect day” assignment, I asked the bishop why he had issued the challenge.
“I’ve always thought about living a ‘perfect day,’” he said. “But we have so many outside influences and pressures in a regular day that we can seldom focus on the spiritual and idealistic. And we often speak about the impossibility of living a ‘perfect day’ or a perfect life. But I had a strong feeling that the time was right for the ward members to try.
“I think we discovered that we can make things a little more perfect regardless of our circumstances. None of the ward members involved in this assignment had to make an investment in money, but they did have to make an investment in time, and give of themselves.
“Many of us in the ward, not just those who had committed themselves to the challenge, also tried to live a ‘perfect day.’ As a result, we became more aware of the challenges involved in perfecting ourselves and tried harder to live worthy to have the Lord’s Spirit be with us.”
Though the bishop’s “perfect day” challenge did not cause instant changes in our lives, it helped us along the road to perfection—something we all hope to achieve.