Gospel Story Finder

Elder Anderson and I scanned the rear of two apartment buildings for empty windows. Over the balconies clothes hung down from drying poles. The balcony railings were draped with futon, colorful floor mattresses and quilts. Some women beat them with bamboo. We felt beaten, too. Only 10:30 in the morning and already we were depressed.
“Well, today is the day,” my companion said.
“I’m sure we’ll find one.”
We were sure, but today was also Friday and new missionaries arrived tomorrow. There were so many that the mission had to open three new branches, one here in Yao-shi. We had to find an apartment for the new missionaries today.
Elder Anderson indicated a small fruit stand. “Elder Tice. I’ll treat you. You’re thinking too much.” He had silvery blue eyes and blond-brown freckles and hair, contrasting sharply with my darker skin and black hair.
“You’re right. Let’s precelebrate finding an apartment with apple pears, and after we find a place today, I’ll treat you at Mr. Donuts doughnut shop: Bavarian cream and raspberry.”
“Now you’re talking! Doughnuts are just the thing to make me forget the blisters on my feet!”
We chose the thin-skinned, light yellow nashi that crunched when bitten and ran with juice. Among the old wooden houses we found a small park. Eating on the streets was impolite, but a park was more acceptable.
Four preschoolers stopped playing and stared at the foreigners. Their mothers told them not to stare and tried to turn them. “I desu yo” (That’s okay), we assured them. Then, with powerful hands and wrists, Elder Anderson tore two nashi into halves and gave them to the startled children.
We introduced ourselves. “Tice Choro to moshimasu” (My name is Elder Tice).
“Anderson Choro desu” (I’m Elder Anderson).
I gave Elder Anderson my Sofuto Tacchi tissues to wipe his hands. A few women giggled. We handed them our name cards, wrote their addresses, then left after an episode of furious bowing.
Around the bend Elder Anderson said, “Every day from 8:30 in the morning to 9:00 at night! Who’d have thought it would take so long to find an apartment?”
“Two-and-a-half weeks. We’ll have the missionaries return to this neighborhood after they’re settled. Wish we could work here.”
“Yes. I love this city.”
Some hours later we reached the main road again where the houses were fewer and the road became a highway.
“Well, Elder Tice, we’re back. What do we do now?”
The signs across the street were slowly disappearing in the gloom of the evening. A few cars sped past.
“It doesn’t look like this road leads into town.” I paused. “It’s 7:00.” He nodded his head. “Two hours before our train.” He didn’t move, then nodded again. I had to do something.
A series of rice fields began where the houses ended. The stalks were large, and evening darkened the fields. A rich green luster lingered around the tassels. I suddenly smiled. “Have you ever eaten rice kernels off the stalk?”
“Aren’t they hard?”
“Oh yes. The best part is peeling them.” I picked six grains and gave him three. “I’ve only done this twice. I don’t want to eat up all their rice.”
My companion began to smile. “You’re probably the only person who eats raw rice in all Japan.”
“Try it. You can be the second.”
We scraped the tight green husks till the kernels showed. Elder Anderson put one in his mouth and bit down hard. It cracked. Finally he swallowed. “This is fun?” he asked.
“Of course it is,” I replied.
Around us the plants shone brightly under a streetlight. We watched for some time. “Shall we try another prayer?” I suggested.
“Yes, I think we should.”
I pointed to an alley a few buildings down. Except for one small grocer, all businesses along the thoroughfare were closed. “Let’s go there. It looks private enough.” We crossed the street and slipped into the alleyway. “Elder Anderson, would you offer the prayer?”
“Elder Tice, I’d be delighted.” We faced each other and bowed our heads.
“Our kind and gracious Heavenly Father, thou knowest we have need of thee. Thou hast sent us here where the gospel has not been taught before. Many times we have asked thee to help us find an apartment. We need thy help. The people of this city need thy help. In no other way can we find the apartment tonight. Please guide us. We ask thee for this aid in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
We felt buoyant. We put our right hands out palms downward, mine under Elder Anderson’s, then flung them upward with a hearty “Yoshi!” (All right!)
I said, “There’s a real estate agent several blocks away. We passed him earlier, but the office was closed.” We set off jogging.
The street was no longer empty. People were chatting in front of their homes, enjoying the cooling evening. We reached the real estate office, but it was still closed. I banged on the door. On one side a narrow passage ran between the building and adjacent wooden houses. About 30 feet away, a lanky, middle-aged man putted a golf ball into a cup. He missed one stroke and the ball rolled toward us.
I hustled over to pick it up, then handed him the ball. “Arigato” (Thanks), he said. He must have thought I was Japanese, for when I replied, “Do itashimashite” (You’re welcome), his eyes went wide. They went even wider when Elder Anderson came up.
“Hee. Gaijin desu ka?” the man asked. Gaijin was the popular abbreviation for gaikokujin, people from an outside country. We nodded.
We asked him if he knew who owned the real estate business.
“That’s my office,” he said, pointing an index finger at his nose. “Today is my day off.”
“We’re glad we found you,” Elder Anderson said.
The real estate agent stepped back in surprise. He dropped his golf ball.
“You speak Japanese too?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Hee. Both of you speak so well. Are you Americans?”
“We’re from California,” I replied.
“Ah, California. Warm sun and oranges. I will visit San Francisco some day.” He went around to the front and unlocked the door. “Please come in.” Then he pulled up some chairs, took a bottle of Karupisu, a sour milk drink, from the compact refrigerator, and turned three glasses on a towel right side up. He poured some concentrate into each glass and added cold water. “I’m sorry I don’t have any sake” (rice wine).
“That’s fine. We don’t drink sake or any alcohol,” I said.
“That’s good! Me—I drink too much and my face turns bright red.” He brought the glasses to us. “Such fine young men,” he commented. “Shall we introduce ourselves? Mochida Ryusuke desu” (I’m Ryusuke Mochida).
“Hajimemashite, Mochida-san. Tice Choro desu” (How do you do, Mr. Mochida I’m Elder Tice).
“Hajimemashite. Anderson Choro desu (How do you do. I’m Elder Anderson). We’re missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
We shook hands vigorously. “Perhaps you can help us,” I started. “We need an apartment for four male missionaries. At least two six-jo rooms, a 4.5-jo kitchen, a bath, and a flush toilet.” A jo was the size of one straw floor mat.
“Yoshi. Large apartments, but I have a few. Let me bring some blueprints. I have a new one with two eight-jo rooms—750,000 yen deposit and 35,000 yen monthly rent. Very good price.” He moved toward his desk.
“That’s the problem. We’re allowed a maximum of 500,000 yen deposit and 28,000 yen rent.”
He looked back at us. “Impossible. Not around Osaka. Even old places that size go to 600,000 yen.” He sat down at his desk and shook his head. “You can’t go any higher?”
“The mission home establishes a standard for all apartments we rent.”
“We’ve been looking in Yao-shi for more than two weeks,” Elder Anderson said. We looked at Mochida-san expectantly.
“Saa. Well, I can call a friend who has the largest agency in Yao. If he doesn’t have one, then there isn’t one.” He picked up the phone and dialed. “Moshi moshi (hello). Okusan desu ka? (Is this Mrs.?) Ryusuke desu. (I’m Ryusuke.) Ee. Imasu ka? Hai.” (Yes. Is he in? Yes.) He looked up. “He’s at home—” but was cut off. “Hai. Yes, it’s business. Ano, two Americans are here. They’re looking for an apartment: six-jo—two rooms, kitchen, bath, flush toilet. Yes, I do, but price is a problem. Deposit—500,000, rent—28,000 … You do—But they speak Japanese … Oh? … Well, you speak to them. Don’t worry.” He motioned for me to hurry. “He has a place, but he doesn’t want to rent it to you.” He handed me the receiver.
“Moshi moshi” (hello), was all I could think to say.
“Moshi moshi. You speak Japanese?” It was more a doubt than a question.
“Some. I’ve been in Japan one year and nine months.”
“You speak quite well. Did you study Japanese long in America?”
“No. Two months in Hawaii and the rest here.”
“Which school do you attend?”
“I don’t attend school. I’m a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ—”
“A Christian church, huh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Let me talk to Ryusuke-san now.”
I looked up, bewildered. “He wants to talk to you.”
Mochida-san took the receiver. “Moshi moshi. Ee. Why don’t you—It won’t hurt to see them … Have you ever met any? Well? … I’ll take them there. Just say hello.” He hung up and shrugged. “He’s really very friendly. Well, shall we go?”
The blue-tiled office was new, with the front nearly all glass. Mochida-san got out of his car, and we pulled ourselves from the cramped back seats. Our friend opened the door slightly. “Gomen kudasai. Mairimashita yo” (Excuse me).
“Dozo, dozo, ohairi kudasai” (Please come right in). A slender woman in a scarlet and blue cotton kimono appeared from a side curtain, carrying a tray of teacups and a teapot. She put the tray down and shuffled toward us, stopping before the genkan, or entryway. Mochida-san opened the door wide.
After she again invited us in, we stepped from the genkan up to the floor into slippers provided, leaving our shoes behind. A solidly built man about five feet, six inches tall hurried in through the back door. He scowled. Elder Anderson and I bowed and introduced ourselves.
Our host returned the bow quickly. “Seki Nijiro desu” (I’m Nijiro Seki). His wife smiled graciously, then bowed slowly. He looked at Elder Anderson. “Do you speak Japanese too?”
“Yes, I speak Japanese. I’ve been in Japan only one year so I don’t speak as well as Elder Tice.”
“You’re wearing suits. I wouldn’t have talked to you if you had come in with long hair and jeans.”
“We all wear suits and keep our hair short. It’s a mission rule,” Elder Anderson said.
“Well, sit down. We might as well talk.” He and his wife settled in the chairs; we and Mochida-san sat on the sofa.
I began. “Every day for two-and-a-half weeks we’ve been looking for an apartment. We need to find one by tomorrow. Do—”
“My apartment building is in a quiet neighborhood. It’s for newlyweds. They take care of their apartments. Four young students—”
“Missionaries,” I prompted.
“Ee to … missionaries … I can’t rent to single men. Their rooms get cluttered because their mothers aren’t around to clean after them. Newlyweds are more conscientious.”
“Our mission rules make us clean our apartments,” I said. “Every morning from 8:00 to 8:30. We also have inspections.”
“I see. But you’ll still have ashes and cigarette butts all over. Young men—”
“Oh, we don’t smoke.”
Seki-san sputtered. Mochida-san stared at me in amazement.
“That’s right,” Elder Anderson said. “In our church we have a commandment not to smoke. It’s very unhealthy.”
Both men nodded. Seki-san’s wife took advantage of the silence to pour some tea.
I stammered, “Excuse me, but is that ocha?” (tea).
“No. It’s mugicha.” Mugicha was made from barley kernels roasted black. It was often served in summer.
“Yokatta!” (Good!) we said in relief. I explained, “We don’t drink anything made from cha leaves. We don’t drink coffee either. It’s part of our health laws.”
The wife finished pouring. “That’s very strict. But don’t worry. This is mugicha.” She placed the teacups before us. The drink was so hot I couldn’t keep my fingers on the sides.
“Green tea is good for you.” Evidently Seki-san had recovered. “Still, young men are not responsible enough. No telling what time you’d get in. We can’t have you disturbing others at midnight. I’m sorry.”
Elder Anderson responded, “The mission has a nightly curfew at 9:30, and all missionaries are to be in bed at 10:30.”
“We have to be up by 6:30,” I volunteered.
“Maa (Oh!). Is that so?” Seki-san shifted about in his chair uncomfortably. “I simply cannot rent to you. All the other families would be newlyweds. You’d be coming and going all day. The radio would be on. You’d disturb others.” He stood up unexpectedly and raised his voice. “The husbands would be away and only the okusan (wives) would be home—it wouldn’t be seemly! I can’t allow immoral behavior! Okusan and unmarried men! And what about young women? Who’s to stop them? No telling what—”
“Now wait a minute!” I exclaimed. Elder Anderson leaped up. “We’re missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! Do you know what that means?”
Seki-san drew in his cheeks and his wife poured him some mugicha. He raised the teacup and slurped noisily before sitting down.
I leaned forward and looked at him intently. “When we enter the Church, we make some crucial promises to God. One of them we call the law of chastity. We stay chaste before marriage and remain faithful after marriage. Missionaries especially try to live all the commandments. We believe they’re from God. They bring us joy and make us honorable, respected people. We also promise not to date during the years we work as missionaries. In our mission no one but missionaries is allowed in our apartments.” I had spent most of my steam and was feeling guilty. I looked down. “Except of course for landlords … I’m very sorry we got upset.”
Seki-san waved his hand. “No, no. That’s all right. We shall be friends.”
Elder Anderson started speaking eagerly. “I think we’d make good renters. We have a Japanese and gospel study program every morning. We leave for the day at 10:30, coming back only at mealtimes. We aren’t supposed to listen to popular music, and since most of us don’t like classical music, it’s pretty quiet.” He grinned broadly. He had an infectious, good-natured smile.
“Saa, saa (Come now). Let’s have some sake.”
His wife started to stand, but Mochida-san, who had been quiet till now, broke in. “They don’t drink sake, either.”
“Well, biru then.” Beer is extremely popular in Japan.
“Oh, they don’t drink biru, either. No alcohol.” He was enjoying himself immensely. He patted us both on the back. “Fine fellows. Maybe I should stop drinking.”
“You? The day you stop drinking I stop drinking.” Seki-san laughed. “Well, I can always cut back.”
“You should. At least I don’t have to worry about cases of empty biru bottles stacked before the door.” He stopped and stood up. “Shall we look at the blueprints?”
“You mean?”—I had trouble believing what I heard. I blinked hard to hold back tears. “Thank you so much.” I took out a handkerchief and wiped my eyes.
“Ii to mo (That’s all right). I would be honored to rent to you. It would be a pleasure.”
Elder Anderson stood to shake hands with Seki-san. “We’re very grateful.” Then we started to cry. I finally lent my companion the handkerchief.
When we left half an hour later to catch our train, just before we climbed into Mochida-san’s car, Elder Anderson began to hum our favorite radio commercial—for “Mr. Doughnuts.”
[illustrations] Illustrated by Beth Whittaker

That’s not bad for a young woman who’s been a member of the Church for a little over one year.

“Before I met the missionaries, I had seen them but I didn’t know the nature of what they were preaching. Then one autumn day, two of them knocked at my door.

“We let them in and listened to them. After they left, I read the Book of Mormon and prayed. The more I read the happier and more interested I felt. I waited and waited. They hadn’t said when they might return.

“By the time they came back, I had many, many questions. I listened to everything they taught. From then on, I prayed daily, whenever and wherever it was necessary. I read the scriptures continually. Eventually I gained a strong belief in the Church and I was baptized on October 9. Afterward, I was able to learn more and more from teachers in Sunday School and Young Women and from the example of many members. I have become totally active in the Church.

“Since I joined, I haven’t had any pessimistic thoughts at all. Any unhappy feeling can’t last five minutes in me. Besides, by observing the commandments, I have avoided going astray or learning bad habits. My life has become more solid. I have gained more knowledge.

“My mother is a Buddhist, and it is hard for her to think of changing her traditions. But she does not object to my belief in the Church. I hope that by the time I become old enough to think about leaving on a full-time mission, she will have joined the Church. I don’t often get a chance to talk at length with my father, because he is a very busy man, a newspaper distribution manager. He is also remodeling our apartment, which takes up his time after work. But I hope that he also will someday find the gospel and that my younger brothers and sisters will, too.” (Mei Ling is the oldest of five children.)

Shortly after finishing my mission, I met a friend who had grown up in the same ward and attended the same schools I had. We had shared many experiences through the years. However, he chose not to answer the Lord’s call to serve a mission. At the time of our reunion he was on a 30-day leave from the army and was on his way to the combat zone of Vietnam.
He told me, “The dumbest three things I ever did in my life were quitting college, joining the army, and getting married (his wife had divorced him within the first year of their marriage). Not only that, but I did them all in the same week!”
“Why?” I asked.
“I was mad at my mother,” he answered. We looked at each other for a few moments and then began to laugh. “I sure fixed her, didn’t I?” he said. “I sure fixed her.”
Now that it was too late, he realized that his spiritual blind spot came in the form of anger. His eagerness to show his mother that he was in charge of his own life led him to pursue a course that he later regretted and that led him away from Church activity.

Alaina could hardly wait to try on the jeans she had bought at a garage sale. The fringed denim pants were exactly what the other girls in her sixth grade class were wearing.
Until she started middle school, she hadn’t minded wearing the second-hand clothes she and her mom found at garage sales. Then she started noticing that the other girls were dressing differently.
Her friends talked constantly about clothes—what was cool, what wasn’t. The jeans, Alaina decided, were definitely cool.
In her room, she pulled on the jeans, happy to find that they fit perfectly. Hearing a crinkling sound, she slipped her hand into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill.
She stared at it, hardly able to believe her eyes. Five dollars! That would pay for her school field trip to the planetarium next week.
The five-dollar bill was more than just money. It was a way to help her family. Ever since her dad had started his own consulting business last year, money had been tight in her family. They had been eating out of their food storage. A half-smile crossed her face. Alaina and her brothers frequently joked about all the ways her mom had found to serve cracked wheat.
The smile vanished as she recalled President Hinckley’s talk about the Six Bs. Be grateful. Be smart. Be clean. Be true. Be humble. Be prayerful.
Her family had talked about them in family home evening, and one of her friends had given a talk on them in Primary. If she kept the money, she wouldn’t be true—not to herself or to her beliefs. She would not be clean, either. Just the thought of keeping something that didn’t belong to her made her feel itchy. She knew she wouldn’t enjoy wearing the jeans if she kept the money.
Alaina thought of the other Bs. Stealing—and that’s what keeping the money would be—wasn’t being grateful, smart, humble, or prayerful. It went against everything she believed.
She found Mom in the kitchen, putting away the few groceries they’d bought. Mom turned and smiled. “Hey, those look great on you.”
When Alaina didn’t return the smile, Mom gestured to the chairs around the kitchen table. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down. “Don’t you like the jeans?”
Alaina unfolded the five dollar bill and placed it on the table. “I found this in one of the pockets.”
Mom nodded slowly. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Would you take me back to that garage sale? I want to give the money to the girl who sold me the jeans.”
Her mom leaned across the table to give Alaina a quick hug. “I sure will.”
At the garage sale, Alaina handed the money to the girl and explained how she’d found it in the jeans. The girl gave Alaina a puzzled look, then thanked her.
Alaina wore the pants the following Monday. Her friends complimented her on them, and she smiled. Looking good was nice. Feeling good was even better.
“Be true to your own convictions. You know what is right, and you know what is wrong. You know when you are doing the proper thing. … Be loyal. Be faithful. Be true.”President Gordon B. Hinckley(Ensign, January 2001, page 10.)

Two weeks ago Elder Dallin H. Oaks, Elder Robert K. Dellenbach, and I attended a regional conference in Holland. While meeting with the Saints, I recalled the miracle of the potatoes which took place in that nation in November of 1947.
In the first week of November 1947, ten huge trucks moved across Holland. They headed east and contained a costly cargo—seventy-five tons of potatoes, a gift from the Dutch Church members to the Saints in Germany.
Many months earlier, in the spring of 1947, the members within the Netherlands Mission were asked to begin a welfare project of their own, now that they had received much needed welfare supplies from the members in America. The proposal was welcomed with enthusiasm. The priesthood went to work, and within a short time every quorum had found a suitable piece of land for the project. The recommended crop: potatoes. At the various branches of the Church there was singing, speaking, and praying, at the end of which the potatoes were entrusted to the soil. Soon there came news of good prospects for the harvest, and cautious estimates were made as to how large the yield would be.
During the time the potatoes were growing, Walter Stover, president of the East German Mission, visited the Netherlands Mission in Holland. During his visit, with tears in his eyes, he told of the hunger of the Church members in Germany. They were in worse condition than the Saints in the Netherlands. Supplies had not yet reached the Saints in Germany as quickly as they had the Saints in Holland.
When Cornelius Zappey, the Netherlands Mission president, heard the condition of the German Saints, he couldn’t help but have compassion toward them, knowing how they had suffered. The thought came; the action followed: “Let’s give our potatoes to the members of the Church in Germany.” I’m sure he worried, for the German armies and the Dutch armies had been in conflict with each other. The Dutch had been starving. Would they respond? A Dutch widow who had received a sack of the potatoes heard that the bulk of the potatoes was to be given to the members in Germany, and she stepped forward and said, “My potatoes must be with them.” And this hungry widow returned her sack of potatoes.
What are the words of the Lord pertaining to such an act? “Verily I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury. … She of her want did cast in all that she had.”

The 3:30 school bell rang. Matt dashed for the door, grabbed his coat from the hook, and jumped down the steps ahead of the other students. Once outside, he rounded the corner of the building. Pressing his palms against the wall, he inhaled deeply as though trying to disappear into the red bricks. His eyes searched for a possible hiding place, but there was none—no trees or bushes or anything—only the flat cement playground.
His heart pounded as he remembered Joe’s words from recess: “You just wait till school’s out. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Matt blinked back his tears and watched the others trooping out, yelling and shouting. Then he noticed Joe scanning the school yard.
How can I get away from him? Matt wondered. Cautiously he inched along the wall behind a screen of students, hoping he could make it to the back door without Joe spotting him.
When Matt finally reached the back corner, he scooted around it and went inside. With a sigh of relief, he ran to the front of the building and slipped into his own classroom. He stood behind the big plant near the wide window and watched where his tormentor went.
Joe was still asking questions of the students and looking around. But Matt could tell that no one knew where he had gone.
Matt heard the door open. Mrs. Scott came into the room and exclaimed, “Why, Matt! I thought you were in a hurry to get out of here. I’ve never seen anyone leave so quickly.” Then she noticed his white face. “Matt, are you sick?”
A tear slid down the boy’s cheek, and he quickly brushed it away and shook his head. “Joe’s after me. He says he’s going to beat me up. He’s out there now looking for me.”
Mrs. Scott stood with her hand on Matt’s shoulder and watched from the window. “Too bad about Joe,” she said.
“Why too bad for him? I’m the one who gets sick every morning because I’m afraid he’ll get me. Look! He thinks I got away. Maybe he’ll go home now,” Matt said, momentarily relieved. “But it’ll be the same all over again tomorrow.”
“Joe hasn’t much of a home to go to,” Mrs. Scott commented. “His mother died last year, and his father is out of a job. He has an older sister—and that’s all he has. He’s unhappy and can’t seem to concentrate on his schoolwork.”
“He’s mean, and he doesn’t like me,” Matt insisted.
“That’s what’s so sad about Joe. He really wants friends but doesn’t know how to get them,” Mrs. Scott said. “Why don’t you sit down here and read a little while until we’re sure Joe has gone. Then you can walk home without any trouble.”
Mrs. Scott continued to watch Joe from the window while Matt opened the book he had started during reading time. It was about Abraham Lincoln. His pounding heart settled down and his chin rested in the palm of his hand as his eyes scanned the pages. Suddenly something caught his attention. He reread a line several times, then exclaimed, “Mrs. Scott, listen to this! ‘Abraham Lincoln always destroyed his enemies by making them his friends.’”
“Very interesting,” Mrs. Scott responded. “But why does that make you so happy?”
“Well, Joe’s my enemy. Abraham Lincoln would destroy him by making him a friend. You said Joe needs friends. I wonder …”
“Maybe it would work, Matt,” Mrs. Scott remarked thoughtfully. “Joe’s gone home now, though.”
“For now I’m sure glad he goes north and I go south,” Matt replied. “See you in the morning, Mrs. Scott.”
All the way home Matt thought about how he could make Joe his friend. As he opened the kitchen door, he smelled the aroma of hot sugar cookies. “Mmmmm—cookies!” he said as he greeted his mother.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked. “I knew you’d want to help make the cookies, but I couldn’t wait any longer … Matt, is there something wrong?”
Matt sighed and sank into a chair. “I have a problem,” he replied. Picking up a warm cookie, he nibbled it thoughtfully. Then he had an idea! “Mom, would you make more cookies tomorrow?”
“You weren’t thinking about eating all of these tonight, were you!” she exclaimed.
“No, but maybe they’ll work with somebody else.”
“Maybe what will work? I don’t understand you these days, Matt. You have a stomachache every morning and don’t want to go to school. Then you’re late coming home. Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
“Not yet, Mom. But you’ll understand tomorrow, if my plan works.”
The next morning Matt was nervous, but he didn’t have a stomachache.
“Have a good day,” his mother said as he started out the door.
“Maybe I’ll bring somebody home after school. Will you have the things ready to make cookies?” Matt asked.
“Yes, if you want me to, I will.”
Matt was at his desk early and was reading his Lincoln book when the other students entered the room. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe sauntering over to him. Matt’s stomach knotted as Joe leaned on his desk and hissed, “Where’d you disappear to yesterday?”
Matt swallowed hard and looked straight into Joe’s eyes. “Joe”—he swallowed harder—“my mom has something neat for us if you’ll come home with me today after school.”
Joe was taken completely by surprise. Then his face hardened as he leaned on Matt’s desk again with his fists clenched. “Sure. Big deal!”
Matt clenched his own fists under his desk and kept looking straight into Joe’s eyes. He forced himself to smile. “No kidding, Joe. You’ll like it!”
Joe’s face relaxed. “Your mom, huh? OK—I’m game!”
Matt stayed in at recess to help Mrs. Scott. He couldn’t take a chance on upsetting Joe on the playground and spoiling the whole thing.
After school Matt met Joe and asked, “Do you have to go home first and tell your mother you’ll be late?”
Now it was Joe who swallowed hard. “My mom’s not there. Nobody cares if I come straight home.”
“Oh,” Matt said, remembering too late what Mrs. Scott had told him about Joe’s family.
“I don’t have a mom anymore,” Joe went on. “What’s this neat thing supposed to be your mom has for us, anyway?”
Matt could tell that Joe’s wall of toughness was beginning to crumble. The two of them ran almost all the way to Matt’s house. His mother was smiling as they burst into the kitchen. “Well, I see you brought a friend.”
“This is my friend Joe, Mom. Oh, good, you have the things ready for the cookies.”
“Don’t forget to scrub your hands, boys,” Matt’s mother reminded them with a wink.
The boys helped Matt’s mother add all the ingredients for the soft dough, and then she rolled it out.
“Choose the cookie cutter you want, Joe,” Matt said.
Joe picked up a cookie cutter with the outline of a bat. Matt picked a ghost-shaped one.
Matt showed Joe how to cut out the cookies and put them carefully onto the cookie sheets with a spatula. Later they removed the baked ones just as carefully. They were really enjoying themselves by now. Occasionally they would eat some of the plain dough they pulled away from the cut cookies.
When all the cookies were baked, Matt’s mother made icing so they could decorate some of them.
“I’ve never done anything like this in my whole life!” Joe exclaimed. “Could I take a couple home to my sister?”
“Oh, you can take a box full,” Matt’s mother said with a smile of understanding. “Why don’t you two go out and play ball while the icing is setting?”
Later, as the boys packed the cookies in a flat box for Joe to take home, Matt thought happily to himself, Abraham Lincoln was right! You can destroy enemies by turning them into friends!

What’s wrong?
I heard Miguel and Julia talking about me.
They said I was annoying. And they don’t want to be my friend anymore.
I’m really sorry.
You know, they’re just missing out! I always have fun with you.
Seriously! You even make chores fun somehow. You have the best jokes! And the best ideas. And you’re nice to everyone.
OK, OK. You don’t have to say all that.
Hey, I’m just telling the truth.
Thanks, Paolo. You always know what to say. I feel a lot better.
Illustrations by Katie McDee

Kurt Reintjes has gone far in Scouting—clear to Japan and back, in fact. One of very few Mormons who attended the World Jamboree there, Kurt had a great time explaining the gospel to friends. He also enjoyed visiting a Japanese member family. “Even though I couldn’t understand what they were saying, when they prayed, I knew it was a prayer. It was wonderful.” Kurt brought back greetings from Kyoto’s leaders to the mayor of La Habra, California.

After dinner with his family, Hal read through the term paper once more, and after correcting two typing errors, placed it in a yellow plastic cover. “Twenty-seven pages,” he thought. “That’s the longest paper I hope I ever have to do. I sure hope Mr. Gillam is interested in the post-war politics of Yugoslavia.” Hal put the paper with his other schoolwork. “I’m glad I started on it when I did, or I’d have never had it ready to turn in tomorrow,” he thought. “That man really expects a lot of us seniors.” With his homework finished, Hal went downstairs and watched a TV show with his little brother before going to bed.
Three houses down the street, Paul, another member of Mr. Gillam’s current affairs class, had gulped down a few bites of mom’s homemade lasagna, one of his favorite meals, and said, “Sorry, mom, I’ve just got to get that paper started—and finished!” and hurried to his room. His study desk was covered with notecards, most of them obviously written in haste. “At least I got some research notes taken at the library last night, so I can type all night if I have to.” He moved some of the cards aside to slide his typewriter into place, put a piece of paper in the machine, and looked at the first stack of cards. “I’ll just have to skip the first-draft stage,” he sighed, “not to mention the second-draft stage. This paper has to be turned in tomorrow morning or else.” As he started to type the one and only draft of the paper that Mr. Gillam would use to decide half of his semester grade, he wondered, “When will I ever learn to start sooner?”
Now, which paper will impress Mr. Gillam more? Right the first time! Obviously Head-start Hal’s paper has a much better chance of being organized and well-written, more thoroughly researched and error-free than does Procrastinator Paul’s. (Hal has a better chance of being awake in class tomorrow, too.)
It’s really the lazy man’s way of getting a job done. Here’s how it works. Let’s say you have a task to do that appears difficult and not too much fun and that needs to be done in two months. For example, the term paper assigned to Hal and Paul mentioned earlier. Most of us, on receiving such an assignment, go through a thought process something like this: “Two months is a long time, so I won’t worry about it for a couple of weeks. (You know the old saying: Never put off till tomorrow what you can put off till next week.) But I’ll surely get started then, and I’ll get it done on time.” In fact, that’s just what Paul thought! But those two weeks were soon gone, and he said, “I just don’t have time right now, but I’ll get to it.” And suddenly the two months had passed, and it was only two more days until the paper was due, and Paul ran to the library … and you know the rest.
But what did Hal do differently? When he got the assignment, he thought like this: (A) “I’d better get started on this. I’ll choose my theme by tomorrow.” (B) “I’ll start my research next Monday by looking up my sources and researching one book per day. That way I can get the main research and note-taking done in just a few minutes a day in the library. By doing one book per school day for three weeks, I’ll have 15 sources.” (C) “Then I’ll start the writing and organizing of the paper.” (D) “Two days before the paper is due, I’ll type the final draft so that the night before it’s due, I can make any corrections needed.”
Is Hal really a better student than Paul is? No, they both seem concerned and conscientious, but Hal’s methods certainly are more effective. Let’s analyze those methods. Notice that Hal had a plan. Notice too that Hal did the main part of his work by sneaking up on it, by doing a little at a time, so that it didn’t seem like a big job. He managed his research in 20 minutes a day over 15 days. That’s 5 hours, but, since it was spread out, it didn’t seem hard. Paul did his research all at once, on the next-to-last night. And it was work.

When I think about everything that led me to that moment, I’m amazed. I felt the Savior’s love and direction when I felt prompted to get my patriarchal blessing, and I continue to feel it. There were certainly moments in between getting my patriarchal blessing and now when I wondered to myself, “What am I even doing?” I struggled to trust the timing of the Lord and to feel like I was good enough for whatever lay ahead.
During one of those times, a friend gave me this advice:
“When you’re not feeling good enough, there are really only two options.
“Option one: You tell yourself you can do it. You say, I’m going to be great, and it’s going to go well. But in that moment, you’re not letting Christ in. You’re convincing yourself that you can do it alone. But you’re never going to be able to do it alone.
“Hence option two: It is Christ who helps you through all things. It is Christ whose strength helps you live and stand and do. Especially in our brokenness. Because it’s in the brokenness that we turn to Christ and He in turn lifts you and carries you.”
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me,” said Paul to the Philippians (Philippians 4:13). This verse reminds me of what my friend taught me that day and helps me keep in mind my dependence on Christ and His Atonement.

Brigham Young began to develop rapidly toward his own foreordained role as a prophet the night in October 1832 when he first met Joseph and began to “subject [himself] to his counsel.” He and Heber C. Kimball were invited to stay for supper and for a regular, informal gathering of the Church leaders in Kirtland. There they “conversed together upon the things of the kingdom.” Brigham was asked to give the closing prayer, during which he was moved to speak in tongues. This was a spiritual gift the Prophet had not witnessed before; in fact, he had strongly warned against certain over-enthusiastic and unedifying cases of such expression at frontier camp meetings he had heard about, and the brethren thought he would condemn this manifestation. But when they asked him about it after Brigham left, he said, “No, it is of God, and the time will come when Brigham Young will preside over this Church.”8

When I was six, my dad took me and my older sister to play basketball. It was my first time playing at a real gym. The basketball felt heavy in my small hands and the hoop—even at its lowest setting—seemed overwhelmingly high.
“Don’t worry, just take a shot,” my dad said.
I turned to my dad. “But what if I miss?” I asked.
More than two decades later, I don’t remember if I made that shot or not. But I do remember the fear I felt: “What if I miss? What if my best efforts fall short? What should I do if I fail?”
That same fear of failure has plagued me throughout my life. For a long time, I was naturally skilled in enough activities to cover that fear. But it still manifested itself in small ways. I didn’t try a sport until I knew I was good at it. I avoided school subjects that did not correlate with my strengths. When I did try new activities that I was not immediately successful in, my solution was to quickly quit and move on to something I was more skilled in.
Then I went on my mission. For the first time, I was forced into an environment where my weaknesses were blaringly evident and I couldn’t easily back out. I had a hard time initiating conversations. I struggled teaching in a new language. I faced rejection multiple times a day. I was constantly failing—taking shots and missing—and there were days when I considered following my usual pattern for failure: giving up and going home.
During this time, I received much-needed inspiration and correction from the story of Oliver Cowdery trying to translate the plates. After a few weeks of scribing for Joseph Smith, Oliver began to wonder if he could also translate the plates.
Joseph asked the Lord and received an answer that Oliver would be allowed to translate. However, the Lord also gave Oliver a few cautions, two of which were to “be patient” and “fear not” (D&C 6:19, 34).
Translating was not as simple as Oliver imagined. When the words didn’t come easily, he became frustrated and soon gave up.
As I studied the story, I recognized that Oliver’s problem was similar to my own. He had expected to master translating quickly, and when it became evident that he would not be immediately successful—that he would fail many times as he worked to develop the gift—he went back to scribing, something he was comfortable with. The Lord’s cautions were accurate: Oliver was not patient with himself or with God, and he feared. So God took the opportunity away from him (see D&C 9:3).
I realized how often my fear of failure had stopped me. I had been so afraid of “missing shots” that I hadn’t even taken them or had given up after a few attempts. In trying to avoid failure, I had missed opportunities at future success. I hadn’t been patient with myself or God, and I had feared.
Oliver Cowdery’s story also gave me hope. Although the Lord told Oliver that he would not be able to translate then, He also promised, “Other records have I, that I will give unto you power that you may assist to translate” (D&C 9:2). Oliver’s opportunity to translate was not lost, just delayed. Likewise, opportunities I had missed were not lost. The Lord would provide more, if I was willing to be patient and not allow fear of failure prevent me from trying.
I resolved to work through my fear of failure. Even though I still felt anxious talking to strangers or teaching in a foreign language, I improved at both. These skills have helped me in my life, even after my mission.
There are still times that I hesitate to try something new or do something I’m not particularly good at. But I’ve learned to be more patient. I’ve learned to keep taking shots and not be afraid to miss.

First, some background. During the dedication of the Mexico City Temple, I had one of those singular experiences that readjusts the course of a life. It occurred during the eighth dedicatory session, where many of the men and women leaders of Mexico and Central America were present. When unexpectedly asked to speak, I attempted to convey the strong impressions that poured into my heart. I spoke of those beyond the veil who, in fulfillment of prophecy, had served, suffered, and given greatly to form the foundation which permitted the opening of a new era of the work.
I expressed a feeling to plead in behalf of former prophets who had prepared and protected the sacred records of the Book of Mormon. I sensed that they were saddened as they see us walk from place to place with an unopened Book of Mormon under our arm or see it kept in homes where it gathers dust and is not read, pondered, nor its contents applied.
The Book of Mormon was prepared by divine assignment for the blessing and enlightenment of all those who receive it.
As I spoke, I realized in my heart that all the efforts that I had expended for six years in trying to help those beloved leaders overcome the effects of false traditions and learn to apply the teachings of the Lord would have been better directed had I strongly encouraged them to ponder and apply the teachings of the Book of Mormon. The Book of Mormon contains messages that were divinely placed there to show how to correct the influence of false tradition and how to receive a fulness of life. It teaches how to resolve the problems and challenges that we face today that were foreseen by the Lord. In that book he has provided the way to correct the serious errors of life, but this guidance is of no value if it remains locked in a closed book.
I witnessed that it is not sufficient that we should treasure the Book of Mormon, nor that we testify that it is of God. We must know its truths, incorporate them into our lives, and share them with others. I felt an overwhelming love for the people and an urgent desire that all would comprehend the value of the Book of Mormon.
At the conclusion of the meeting, Ezra Taft Benson, then President of the Quorum of the Twelve, invited me to join him in a private room in the temple. He asked me to be seated, drew his chair close to mine, looked penetratingly into my eyes, and with an earnestness that I will never forget, witnessed of his profound conviction that every member of the Church must learn to use the Book of Mormon as the Lord intended.
As he spoke I knew that the Lord had inspired him to have those feelings. I had a witness borne to my heart that he was speaking the will of the Lord.
The influence of these two friends, President Benson and the Book of Mormon, has comforted and sustained me in times of intense need. I would share them with you in your hour of need.

Auditions for the school play are tomorrow! I’m so scared!!! What if I forget my lines? Mom said I could ask Dad for a blessing, and he blessed me to not feel too nervous. I feel a little better now. Dad told me that giving a blessing is an act of service for someone else, just like everything else we do with the priesthood. He said that when he needs a blessing, he asks our home teachers. I’d never thought about it that way.
I’m 12 now! My birthday was pretty crazy because it was also the last performance for the play. I only forgot one line! So today was Sunday, and I had my first meeting as part of the Beehive presidency. We talked about what we can do to help Sara feel comfortable at church. I had no idea. Then I remembered what the bishop said when he set me apart for my new calling. He said that God would help me know the needs of the girls in my class. When I remembered that, I had an idea of an activity that Sara might like.
Sara loved our activity on Wednesday and even came to church today! Travis and Luke are both passing the sacrament now. I think I understand what Dad meant about all of us having different jobs. We use priesthood power in different ways, but we all serve each other.
Hello, old journal! I’m 24 now and—wow—I’ve learned a lot! I understand way more about the priesthood now than I did when I was 12. If you’re looking for answers, don’t stop! Heavenly Father and Jesus love you and want to bless you.

Zebedee Coltrin shared the following sacred experience: “At one of these meetings after the organization of the school, (the school being organized on the 23rd of January, 1833), when we were all together, Joseph having given instructions, and while engaged in silent prayer, kneeling, with our hands uplifted each one praying in silence, no one whispered above his breath, a personage walked through the room from east to west, and Joseph asked if we saw him. I saw him and suppose the others did and Joseph answered that is Jesus, the Son of God, our elder brother. Afterward Joseph told us to resume our former position in prayer, which we did. Another person came through; he was surrounded as with a flame of fire. … The Prophet Joseph said this was the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. I saw Him” (minutes, Salt Lake City School of Prophets, 3 October 1883, pages 56–57).

Once in the long ago when all the animals lived in villages and talked together, a time came when no rain fell for many days, and the animals suffered greatly from thirst.
When the dry time was over, the lion called the animals together. “We must make a plan,” he said, “so we will never again have to suffer or die from thirst.”
“We could move to a different country,” suggested the ape.
“Too far! Too far!” complained the smaller ones. “We cannot travel that far with our short legs.”
Then the snake spoke. “We could try to sleep through the dryness and—”
“That would never suit us,” chimed in the other animals, plainly irritated.
So the jackal and the hyena talked together. “Let us dig a deep pool to hold water from the rainy times,” they said. “Then in the dry days we would have water to drink.”
“A good plan,” the lion agreed, nodding his head. “Let’s begin to dig at once. And since the hyena and the jackal thought of the plan, the hyena may dig first and the jackal will dig last.”
After the hyena dug his share, each of the other animals dug in turn. At last the big hole was almost finished. “Now it’s the jackal’s turn,” said the animals. But the jackal was nowhere to be seen. Since they couldn’t find him, the other animals quickly finished the digging.
The rains came and filled the big pool with sweet, clear water. “No one but those who have dug may drink from this pool,” declared the lion, and all of the other animals agreed.
All this while the jackal had been hiding near the pool, and he heard what the diggers said. So when the long dry season came again, the jackal wakened very early each morning and went to drink from the clear pool. And because no one ever saw him, he became even bolder and went into the water to swim. This made the water muddy. When the animals came to drink later in the morning, they were angry. “Who did this?” they demanded. “Who muddied the water?” But no one knew.
Then the tortoise responded, “If you’ll cover my shell with sticky beeswax, I’ll watch by the pool all night and catch the rascal who muddied our water.” So, with sticky wax smeared all over his dark shell, the tortoise settled at the edge of the pool to watch through the night.
In the morning the jackal came to drink. “Ah! A nice stepping stone,” he said, and he put his two front paws on the shell and bent his head to drink. But when he tried to leave he found that his paws were stuck fast in the wax on the tortoise’s shell. “Let me go!” he cried. “You can’t play tricks on me!”
The tortoise began to move.
“Let me go or I’ll kick your shell to pieces with my strong hind legs,” cried the jackal.
“Do as you please,” replied the tortoise.
The jackal kicked hard, and then both of his hind paws were also stuck fast to the tortoise’s shell. “If you don’t let me go I’ll bite you into little pieces,” cried the jackal.
“Try it!” the tortoise answered.
The jackal bit at the shell and his jaws, too, stuck fast in the wax. Then the tortoise slowly crawled along to the lion’s house with the jackal stuck fast to his shell.
When the animals learned who had muddied the water and who had been drinking without having done his share of the work on the pool, they were angry.
“Tomorrow he must die!” they shouted. The lion nodded. “But we will allow him to choose the way of his death.”
All night long the jackal tried to think of a way he could escape. When morning came he said, “I have seen a monkey kill a rat by swinging him by the tail and dashing him against a tree. I choose to be killed this way.”
“If that is your wish,” said the lion, “the hyena will swing you by the tail around and around and dash you against a tree!”
Now it happened that the wily jackal saved all the fat from the meat he had been given for his last meal, and with it he greased his tail to the very tip. So when the hyena grasped him by the tail and began to swing him around and around, he could not hold tightly. The jackal’s slippery tail went right through the hyena’s paws, and the jackal landed on the ground and went streaking away as fast as he could go.
The hyena and the other animals were so surprised that they didn’t have wits enough to spring after the jackal and give chase until after he had disappeared. The jackal never came back, and many years passed, with the pool always holding clear water for the animals to drink in dry times.
But the tortoise never forgot how the jackal had troubled the water. Even to this day it is said that tortoises can be found guarding the pools of Africa from intruders.

Even an unbelievable spring blizzard didn’t stop the modern-day pioneers of Kearns and Ogden (Utah) who found out firsthand what their ancestors went through.
No one expected as much snow as the two groups ran into in their April handcart and covered wagon treks. But it didn’t stop either group from experiencing doughy scones, burnt skirts, raw-potato stew, and square dancing in mud.
More than 100 Ogden High School Seminary students hiked down the top of North Ogden Pass into Liberty, Utah, where they set up their two-day camp. Wearing handmade pioneer clothing and carrying old rifles and muskets, the group pitched tents and cooked over open fires. The heavy snowfall dampened their surroundings but not their spirits as the group joined in for square dancing, skits, and storytelling, as well as watching tribal war dances performed by some Indian students in full native costume.
Splattered with mud, the group was unanimous in their praise for Mormon pioneers who withstood even greater sacrifices.
“Having to perform guard duty at night, eat pioneer food cooked on a fire. and everything else we did helped me appreciate the hardships of my pioneer ancestors,” said Steve Belnap.

Sheila sat on her front porch, waiting for the yellow bus to bring her younger brother, Danny, home from school. He liked her to be waiting for him, and he always greeted her with a sunny smile and an enthusiastic hug. Sheila’s friends Nancy and Paulette waited with her.
“I don’t know why you spend so much time with your little brother. Mine is just a pest,” Nancy complained.
“Mine too. But he thinks I’m the pest,” added Paulette.
Sheila knew that her friends didn’t understand her feelings for Danny—why they were best friends even though he had just turned eight and she was almost eleven.
“Well,” Sheila explained, “my brother is special.”
Sheila had been too young to remember when her mother and father first brought Danny home from the hospital. However, when she was older, they explained to her that Danny had a form of retardation called Down’s syndrome. They told her that that was why his eyes slanted slightly upward.
“But Danny still looks a lot like me,” she told them.
And she was right. But unlike her, Danny had difficulty learning, so he went to a special school.
When the bus came to a stop, Danny emerged, but without his usual smile. Instead, he walked slowly, his chin pressed unhappily to his chest.
“Danny, what’s wrong?” Sheila asked.
“They laugh at me,” he cried.
“Who? Who laughs at you?”
“The b-big b-b-boys,” he stammered.
Sheila knew immediately who the “big boys” were. A group of them lived nearby, and her friend Brad was one of them.
“Well, don’t pay any attention to them, Danny. They don’t know how special you are,” Sheila said comfortingly.
As they walked toward the house, something poking out of Danny’s book bag caught her eye. It was an announcement that Danny would be in the Special Olympics in six weeks. He would compete in the fifty-yard dash and the standing long jump. Her eyes sparkled at the prospect, and she grabbed her brother’s hand. “Danny, my boy, we have work to do!”
Upstairs in her closet, Sheila sorted through two cardboard boxes filled with old toys until she found what she was looking for—a cap gun and two boxes of caps. Out to the yard she and her brother flew.
Last year’s garden plot stretched before them. They raked and turned over the soil until it was fine and cushiony. Then she and Danny raided the sandbox with their shovels and spread a thick layer of sand over the soft earth. A length of duct tape marked the jumping line. Sheila and Danny slapped each other’s hands on a job well done. On the sidewalk, Danny crouched over one end of a measuring tape. Sheila, pulling the tape, measured off fifty yards and marked it with another piece of duct tape. “There!” Then she marked the sidewalk where Danny was with a third piece of tape.
After warm-ups, Danny waited poised at the starting line.
“On your mark, get set, …”
Bang! the cap gun exploded, and Danny took off for the tape at the other end.
“Good job!” Sheila told him.
After a few more sprint trials, Danny went over and stood with his toes against the silver tape bordering Sheila’s old garden.
“Jump to me,” she called.
Danny swung his arms back and forth, bent his knees, then leaped forward.
“Good, Dan!”
Over and over, he practiced running and jumping. Sheila kept a chart to show Danny’s progress. Sometimes their older brothers, Bob and Pat, and Mom and Dad would help. But sometimes they had unwelcome visitors—Brad and his friends. “How ya doin’, coach?” they’d call derisively to Sheila. “Trying for a world’s record?”
“Ignore them, Danny,” Sheila told him. “They’re not bad guys—they just don’t understand how special you are. Now forget them and jump to me.”
“I can’t,” Danny would whimper, then sit on the ground.
“You can’t quit just because of them. There will always be people like that around.”
“No!” Danny would refuse and fold his arms stubbornly across his chest.
“Then quit, but don’t expect me to stand around watching you feeling sorry for yourself,” Sheila told him, exasperated.
The four boys would snicker. “You lose, coach,” one would yell as they’d leave.
But Danny worked hard, and his chart reflected his improvement.
The day of the meet finally arrived. Bob and Pat had volunteered to help the officials take times and measurements at the meet. Sheila stayed with Danny while he waited for his events.
“Fifty-yard dash for boys eight to ten!” a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.
“That’s you, Dan!” Sheila said. “I’ll be rooting for you.” She squeezed his hand, then took her place behind the finish line.
“Runners, take your marks, get set, …”
Bang! went the starting gun. Danny ran his fastest. He looked for Sheila behind the finish line. One runner finished, then two, then three. Danny ran across the line and into Sheila’s arms.
“Good job, Danny. You’ll get a ribbon.”
Danny grinned.
After lunch a voice over the loudspeaker announced: “Standing long jump for boys eight to ten.”
As they hurried to the jumping pit, Sheila felt Danny tug on her arm. “Look.” Danny pointed to four familiar figures.
“Brad!” Sheila cried. “And his buddies. How could they!”
As the four approached, Sheila put her arm around Danny’s shoulder.
“C’mon, Danny, it’s time for your jump,” she coaxed, but he refused to budge.
“What’s the matter, coach—that kid giving you trouble?” Brad teased.
“Leave us alone, Brad. Please, Danny, come with me. The jumping is almost over.”
“I can’t,” Danny insisted.
Sheila looked sternly at her little brother. “Don’t quit on me now. I’ve told you that you’re special. You can do it. I’m going to walk over to that jumping pit. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you’re going to do.” She stood up and walked toward the pit.
“Last call for Danny Brooks,” she heard an official say.
“Sheila,” a little voice behind her called.
She turned to see Danny on the jumping line, and the four boys flanking the pit. Sheila stood at the far end. “To me, Dan—jump to me,” she called.
Danny kept his eyes on Sheila. His arms swung back and forth. His short legs bent, then sprung into the air.
“The winner!” someone yelled.
“You’ve won the gold medal, son,” the official with the tape measure said as he patted Danny’s shoulder.
“Not bad, kid,” Brad said and grinned. He turned to Sheila. “See you in school, coach.” And off he went with his buddies.
A woman placed the medal around Danny’s neck. Mom and Dad took pictures, and Bob and Pat patted him on the back. When Sheila bent down to hug her little brother, Danny took off his medal and put it around her neck. “Here, Sheila,” he said. “This is for you.”
“But why, Danny?” she asked.
“Because you’re my best friend,” he said. “And because you’re special.”

I was told once of a young man who for many years was more or less the brunt of every joke in his school. He had some disadvantages, and it was easy for his peers to tease him. Later in his life he moved away. He eventually joined the army and had some successful experiences there in getting an education and generally stepping away from his past. Above all, as many in the military do, he discovered the beauty and majesty of the Church and became active and happy in it.

Then, after several years, he returned to the town of his youth. Most of his generation had moved on but not all. Apparently, when he returned quite successful and quite reborn, the same old mind-set that had existed before was still there, waiting for his return. To the people in his hometown, he was still just old “so-and-so”—you remember the guy who had the problem, the idiosyncrasy, the quirky nature, and did such and such. And wasn’t it all just hilarious?

Little by little this man’s Pauline effort to leave that which was behind and grasp the prize that God had laid before him was gradually diminished until he died about the way he had lived in his youth. He came full circle: again inactive and unhappy and the brunt of a new generation of jokes. Yet he had had that one bright, beautiful midlife moment when he had been able to rise above his past and truly see who he was and what he could become. Too bad, too sad that he was again to be surrounded by a whole batch of Lot’s wives, those who thought his past was more interesting than his future. They managed to rip out of his grasp that for which Christ had grasped him. And he died sad, though through little fault of his own.

I understood this principle a little bit more after watching a session of general conference. I’d just gotten into a fight with my sister, and I was fuming in my room. At first, I didn’t really feel bad for what I’d done. I felt like she’d earned my anger and definitely did not deserve an apology. The conference messages touched me, though, and I felt the Spirit soften my heart. I realized that I needed to apologize. As I thought through my apology, I felt sick to my stomach. I started to doubt that my words would fix anything. I reasoned that she would still be hurt and she wouldn’t understand that I really was sorry. I felt hopeless knowing that I could’t completely heal the wound that I’d created. At a loss about what to do, I decided to get on my knees and pray. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father for forgiveness. I asked Him to bless me with the ability to let my sister know that I was truly sorry.
After my prayer, I asked my sister if I could talk to her for a minute. I told her I was sorry. She played with her hair and wouldn’t meet my eyes and then mumbled her own apology. “No,” I responded, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I felt my heart soften even more and tears filled my eyes. I gave her a hug and apologized for all the times I’d been mean to her and for not being a good big sister. My relationship with my sister was different after that day. It still is far from perfect, but a new understanding and love has grown between us.