Gospel Story Finder

Appreciating my ward sisters. For the first two years after my divorce, I was surrounded by supportive and loving friends in the Relief Society presidency. They cried with me, they laughed with me, and I felt close to them. Through my calling I became aware of some of the needs of my ward sisters, and giving service to them helped me keep my perspective and find healing within my own heart.
Other blessings came. My friends in the presidency, worried about my first Valentine’s Day without my husband, sent a beautifully wrapped gift, which was waiting for me when I arrived home from work. Another time they made me “queen for a day.” I was asked to attend an early-morning meeting. When I arrived, a sister was waiting to do my nails. A couple of friends came to do my hair. Then I was told we were going to lunch and out shopping. They purchased a new outfit for me, the first I’d had since the divorce. My heart overflowed, and I felt the Savior’s love through the actions of these sisters.

One afternoon in the fall of 1974, I received a letter, forwarded to me from my parents’ address. I recognized neither the name Lois Muntz nor the Michigan return address on the thick envelope. I began reading the first page, which alluded to the time when I had been a missionary in Libertyville, Illinois. The letter told of a family moving to several different states and being “found” by missionaries wherever they happened to settle and then told of their baptism in June 1974 and the subsequent death of the father not many months later. I was still puzzled as to the identity of the writer when I reached the end of the letter.
Suddenly, it all became clear to me. I could picture the exact circumstances of this long-since-forgotten acquaintance. My mind went back to July 1966 when Roger Allred and I were missionary companions in Libertyville. The name Muntz had appeared on a list of recent move-ins to the area. The list had been supplied to us as ministers by some local organization.
Soon after, we called at the address, a small brick home facing west. The young couple was refinishing their hardwood floor. They told us they were busy and asked us to come back. We’d heard the “busy-come-back” routine many times when people were trying to tell us in a nice way that they just weren’t interested. So we dutifully placed their name on our call-back list, then proceeded to forget about them.
One night weeks later, an appointment fell through. The family we’d lined up to teach a discussion to decided they weren’t interested and sent us away. My companion and I were downhearted, of course, and the rain only added to our misery. We returned dejectedly to our upstairs apartment in the home of an elderly lady and changed into dry clothes.
“What do we do now?” we asked each other. Elder Allred and I were both approaching the end of our missions and were especially anxious to be productive. Tracting in the rain wasn’t such a great idea, yet we couldn’t see wasting the entire evening just because one family didn’t want to hear the gospel. So we got down on our knees and asked our Father to help us do something worthwhile that night.
When we finished, we both had a distinct impression that we should visit the Muntz home. The only question was, who are the Muntzes? Then we had some faint recollection that their name had been on a new move-in list, which we no longer had. But I remembered the brick home on the east side of the street in the south part of town somewhere. So we left once more in the rain and drove around the south part of town until we found it.
We knocked on the door, and Lois Muntz invited us in. There were two small girls, one in diapers. The family welcomed us, and that night we taught them the first discussion and left a copy of the Book of Mormon. We also bore our testimonies. Naturally, we were very encouraged with their attitude and made an appointment for the following week.
When we returned to teach the second discussion, we never got in the house. They informed us that they had discussed our visit with family and friends and had been given some information about Mormons. (Actually, it was anti-Mormon literature.) To continue the lessons at that time would, for them, cause discord and confusion with their families, they said. We tried to answer some of their objections, but they asked us not to come back. We couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong when we knew the Lord had sent us there.
“Well, if you ever do join the Church, let me know,” I said as we left. I didn’t hear from the Muntz family again after that until the letter.
In it Sister Muntz told me how she and her husband had known the Church was true that very first night when Elder Allred and I had borne our testimonies, but, both having been raised strictly in another faith, neither dared tell the other. And as they were taught by missionaries in various states during the next several years, they strengthened their testimonies of the truth but would not be baptized because of their families’ objections. At last, nearly eight years after we had knocked on their door and introduced them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, they decided they must be baptized. This was accomplished in June 1974.
In September, Brother Muntz was killed by a drunken driver who hit his car head-on. Because they had not been members for one year yet, the family hadn’t been to the temple. But the work was done vicariously for Brother Muntz, and he, his wife, and three daughters were sealed in the Washington Temple in December 1975.
I am grateful that Elder Allred and I had the faith to ask the Lord what to do that night ten years ago and then do what He told us to do, despite the rain and cold. And I am grateful we had the courage to bear our testimonies, for it was not the lesson or the logic of our discussion that converted the Muntzes, but the humble testimonies of two young missionaries who had listened and obeyed the promptings of the Holy Ghost.
There are many experiences in missionary work; some are not fruitful at all. Some carry with them great rewards, though all are not immediate as this story testifies. It was nine and a half years before this family was finally sealed for time and eternity. This is the end of my telling but certainly not the end of this missionary story, for there will yet be much missionary work done by this family, both living and dead.

But I was yet to learn how significantly personal general conference could be. Our stake received tickets for the general Relief Society meeting in September 2008 at the Conference Center. I was excited to mingle with the sisters in our stake, anticipated the inspiring music and talks, and was especially humbled to think that we would hear a message from President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency. I hung on every word, vigorously took notes, and committed to put into practice what we were charged to do. I felt this was a wonderful prelude to the general sessions to follow the next weekend.
Then my world shattered. While at work the following Thursday, I received a telephone call from my doctor informing me that the tests I had had the previous week indicated cancer.
The next days were a blur of doubts, fear, anxiety, sadness, despair, and agony. So many emotions churned inside me that sleep did not come and my tears flowed constantly. I had never felt so afraid.
When Saturday morning came, I intended to listen to conference while doing other tasks. Staying busy, I hoped, would help focus my mind away from my trial. But I found myself putting down the laundry and letting the dishes sit in the sink as I was drawn to the television. My heart almost skipped a beat as Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles began the first session with this statement: “We can’t predict all the struggles and storms in life, not even the ones just around the next corner, but as persons of faith and hope, we know beyond the shadow of any doubt that the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and the best is yet to come.”1
Surely, I thought, the next topic would be on moral cleanliness or the Sabbath day. But each succeeding message was also one of hope in times of trial!
Sunday was a peaceful day as our family united in prayer and fasting on my behalf. I continued to hear words of hope just as I had the previous day, with a powerful concluding message in the afternoon from Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “I testify that the Atonement of Jesus Christ covers all of the trials and hardships that any of us will encounter in this life,” he said. “At times when we may feel to say, ‘Hope you know, I had a hard time,’ we can be assured that He is there and we are safe in His loving arms.”2
Perhaps it was the fasting or the prayers or simply my humble emotional state, but from beginning to end, I felt this was my own personal general conference with an audience of one.
The following days, weeks, and months brought many challenges as I faced tests, surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments. I wish I could say that I never felt despair during those 12 months. I did. But during those times, I also felt sustained by the prayers and fasting of ward and family members, priesthood blessings given by my father, and the faith of my mother. I read the Book of Mormon completely during the first few months of treatments, knowing that comfort can come through the word of God.
But on the darkest days, I always went to my well-worn copy of the November 2008 Ensign and reread those words that came from a loving Father through inspired servants and directly to my fearful heart. I was amazed at a phrase I hadn’t remembered President Thomas S. Monson saying in his opening address: “Our Heavenly Father is mindful of each one of us and our needs. May we be filled with His Spirit as we partake of the proceedings of this, the 178th Semiannual General Conference.”3
I had gained a testimony of that truth. Heavenly Father was mindful of me that weekend in October. He knew of my need of hope in His love and hope in His plan for me. He spoke and I listened.
Note: Sister Singleton finished her cancer treatment in June 2009, and the cancer has not returned.

He wept when I shared with him a letter I received from a child’s father. The letter began: “This past April, my wife and I were watching the Sunday afternoon session of conference. Our three-year-old son, Christopher, was standing on a chair at the kitchen counter playing with Play-Doh, listening to conference on the radio. As we entered the kitchen at the end of President Benson’s comments to the children, Christopher reported excitedly, ‘That man on the radio said that even when we make mistakes, our Heavenly Father still loves us.’ That simple statement has left a lasting and meaningful impression on our young son. I can still ask him today what President Benson said and receive the same enthusiastic reply. It is a comfort to him to know that he has a kind and loving Father in Heaven.”

—A pot-holdered-hand pulled a door down, an oven light went on, and a wonderful, sweet smell filled the room. Another concoction was complete to add to the menu of a tea the young women of the Ashington Branch, Sunderland England Stake, were preparing for senior citizens in their community.
Not only did the young women share food, but they also shared a program of songs, thoughts, and prayers. “We wanted to show them how much they are appreciated for all their hard work,” says Rachel Woodward.

Telicia, David’s 12-year-old sister, played a child in the multitude, but she’s also a gymnast, so she was worried about the time commitment. “I love gymnastics,” she says. “And I knew if I got a part, I wouldn’t be able to work out [in the gym] for a whole month.” But Telicia says she doesn’t feel bad about her choice to miss gymnastics because she gained a stronger testimony of the Savior and His sacrifice.
“I invited my gymnastics coach and several of my teammates to come to the Easter pageant,” she adds. “They’re not members, but they said they would come. I was so excited!”

A missionary district leader was wondering why Elder Parker, who was about to conclude his mission, was successful in spite of his inability to memorize the discussions. To understand, he teamed with Elder Parker to give a discussion. Elder Parker’s presentation was so disorganized that by the end of the formal lesson, the district leader was confused and surmised that the family being taught felt the same way.
It was then that “Elder Parker leaned forward and put his hand on the arm of the family’s father. He then looked him straight in the eyes, told him how much he loved him and his family, and bore one of the most humble and powerful testimonies that the district leader had ever heard. By the time he finished, every member of the family, including the father, and both elders had tears running down their cheeks. Next Elder Parker taught the father how to pray, and they all knelt down while the father prayed that they might receive testimonies of their own and thanked Heavenly Father for the great love that he felt. Two weeks later the whole family was baptized.”
Later, Elder Parker apologized to his district leader for not knowing the discussions. He said he struggled with memorization, even though he spent hours each day working on it. He said he knelt in prayer before teaching each family and asked Heavenly Father to bless him when he bore his testimony so that people would feel his love and the Spirit and know they were being taught the truth (see Allan K. Burgess and Max H. Molgard, “That Is the Worst Lesson I’ve Ever Heard!” in Sunshine for the Latter-day Saint Soul [1998], 181–83).

“Mom!” The high-pitched wail made me wince.
What now? I wondered. The children had gone to bed, and I was going about my evening activities. My husband was at a late meeting.
I went upstairs, bracing myself for what I thought was another argument between siblings, and found my youngest child, Michaella, with red-rimmed eyes. “My ear hurts, Mom.”
Oh, no, I thought. Why does this always happen at night? I couldn’t justify the expense of an emergency-room visit for an ear infection, so I used all the home remedies I knew and tucked her in. “Try to sleep now,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as her office opens in the morning.”
Downstairs again, I felt anxious and could not concentrate. I went to the kitchen and halfheartedly began to wipe the counters. Then with a sudden motion I threw down the cloth. I headed back upstairs to check on Michaella, moving softly in case she was asleep. I stopped halfway up. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, I could hear sobs.
I could not take it. I couldn’t just stand by, helpless, while my child suffered. I sank down on the stairs, tears running down my face. I prayed. I pleaded. I trembled as I told the Lord I would do everything I could to help my daughter and then I would leave the rest up to Him. After taking a few deep breaths, I climbed the rest of the stairs, sat on my daughter’s bed, and smoothed her damp hair.
“It hurts bad, Mom.” The usual dimple in her cheek wasn’t there. Her face was pale. Fatigue and pain had made dark smudges under her eyes.
I decided I would not wait until my husband returned; I would risk looking like an overanxious, overprotective, and overreacting mother. “I’m going to call our home teacher, OK?”
Michaella nodded.
I made the call, feeling somewhat awkward. When I asked our home teacher if he would give Michaella a blessing, his answer was, “Of course.” A short while later he arrived, smiling, as if driving out late at night was his favorite thing to do.
While he performed the blessing I felt hope lighten my heavy heart. I thanked him as he left, then put Michaella to bed again. She was asleep within minutes.
The next morning she seemed so much better, I was tempted to skip calling the pediatrician. But I had promised the Lord I would do everything I could.
Later that morning, I watched the doctor closely. She peered through her scope into Michaella’s ear and said, “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement.
“She slept straight through the night,” I said.
I took a mental photograph of the doctor’s astonished face.
I knew then that we had had our own little miracle. No seas were parted, no lepers cleansed, no dead raised. It had simply been a night of peace, without pain, for a little girl.
For me, it was enough.

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

Among the many wonderful things I would like to remind you about, I love and will conclude with a brief statement from a great book written long ago. It is about a slave who lived in Christ’s time and watched him on a certain special Sunday in the midst of a multitude.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that Demetrius could observe, there was a wave of excitement. It swept down over the sluggish swollen stream of zealots like a sharp breeze. Men all about him were breaking loose from their families, tossing their packs into the arms of their overburdened children, and racing forward toward some urgent attraction. Far up ahead the shouts were increasing in volume, spontaneously organizing into a concerted reiterated cry; a single, magic word that drove the multitude into a frenzy.

“Do you know what is going on?” said Demetrius. [He was talking to another slave.]

“They’re yelling something about a king. That’s all I can make of it.”

“You think they’ve got somebody up front who wants to be their king? Is that it?”

“Looks like it. They keep howling another word that I don’t know—Messiah. The man’s name, maybe.”

Standing on tiptoe for an instant in the swaying crowd, Demetrius caught a fleeting glimpse of the obvious center of interest, a brown-haired, bareheaded, well-favored Jew. A tight little circle had been left open for the slow advance of the shaggy white donkey on which he rode. . . . There had been no effort to bedeck the pretender with any royal regalia. He was clad in a simple brown mantle with no decorations of any kind, and the handful of men—his intimate friends, no doubt—who tried to shield him from the pressure of the throng, wore the commonest sort of country garb.

It was quite clear now to Demetrius that the incident was accidental. . . . Whoever had started this wild pandemonium, it was apparent that it lacked the hero’s approbation.

The face of the enigmatic Jew seemed weighted with an almost insupportable burden of anxiety. The eyes, narrowed as if in resigned acceptance of some inevitable catastrophe, stared straight ahead toward Jerusalem.

Gradually the brooding eyes moved over the crowd until they came to rest on the strained, bewildered face of Demetrius. Perhaps, he wondered, the man’s gaze halted there because he alone—in all this welter of hysteria—refrained from shouting. His silence singled him out. The eyes calmly appraised Demetrius. They neither widened nor smiled; but, in some indefinable manner, they held Demetrius in a grip so firm it was almost a physical compulsion. The message they communicated was something other than sympathy, something more vital than friendly concern; a sort of stabilizing power that swept away all such negations as slavery, poverty, or any other afflicting circumstance. Demetrius was suffused with the glow of this curious kinship. Blind with sudden tears, he elbowed through the throng and reached the roadside. The uncouth Athenian, bursting with curiosity, inopportunely accosted him.

“See him—close up?” he asked.

Demetrius nodded.

“Crazy?” persisted the Athenian.

“No.”

“King?”

“No,” muttered Demetrius, soberly—“not a king.”

“What is he, then?” demanded the Athenian.

“I don’t know,” mumbled Demetrius, in a puzzled voice, “but—he is something more important than a king.” [Lloyd C. Douglas, The Robe, chapter 4]

When Patrick was 19, he lost his father and brother-in-law in a tragic car accident in Saudi Arabia. “My world turned upside down with their loss,” he says. His father’s guiding hand, loving encouragement, and joyful view of the world were gone. Lost in grief and emptiness for a time, Patrick went home to England with his mother but eventually returned to work in Saudi Arabia.
“I had all sorts of valuable opportunities to learn and grow and see how businesses worked,” he says. He was especially grateful for “a wonderful boss who coached and guided me and became a dear friend. He was one of several father-type figures I’ve been blessed with since my father’s death.”

I remember being impressed one time with the need to teach obedience. I was on a new job working long hours, and I guess I was somewhat neglectful of my family. My son seemed to crave more time and attention. He was finding all sorts of ways to attract my attention. One day when I came home, his mother had him prepared to take me downstairs to see what mischief he had recently created. As we descended the stairs, he sheepishly opened the door to our food storage room. There I found he had been using his dart set to practice his marksmanship on our food storage. He caught my attention all right, and made me realize he was looking for the metes and bounds we expected of him in our family government. When they were outlined, and when I gave him the proper attention, then he was very obedient. How important it is that we teach obedience early in the lives of our children, especially to the commandments of the Lord!

I had a similar experience in a fifth-period class, later in the day. An afternoon class in a hot climate is not always the optimal setting for keeping students’ attention. As a matter of fact, this class was a particular challenge to me. As I considered my role in their temporal salvation (because they seemed so impossible to reach), I thought that the only way I could ever help save them would be to wait until they all died and then do work for the dead. That, however, was not a viable option. But I gave them the same challenge I had given the rest of the classes and continued to teach them.

At the end of the year a young man named Larry, who was in that fifth-period class, came to me and said, “You might want to look at this.”

Here is his first response:

I don’t really know there’s a God. I only go to church to make my mom and dad happy. I wish I had a testimony, but I don’t. Sometimes I feel like I have an important job on earth, but I don’t know what it is. I’m always wanting to do something wrong.

I am an eyewitness to the “always wanting to do something wrong” part.

Nine months later this young man wrote:

I know the Church is true. I have a testimony of it. I love my Big Brother and my Heavenly Father, and I know They live. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and I have a testimony of it.

I love this church with all my life. Some say they do not know if they would give their life for it, but I know—if need be, and my Father willed it—I would.

That is the power of the word in a young man’s life.

One returned missionary found himself stressed with a very heavy schedule. He was trying to find time for work, studies, family, and a Church calling. He asked the Lord for counsel: “How can I feel at peace with all that I need to do?” The answer was not what he expected; he received the impression that he should more carefully observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy. He decided to dedicate Sunday to God’s service—to lay aside his school courses on that day and study the gospel instead. This small adjustment brought the peace and balance that he was seeking.

The baby was crying, our three other young children needed to be put to bed, and I was exhausted.
As I tried to wrap my mind around the impossible task before me, all I could hear in my mind were the last words of my husband (who was currently serving as our bishop) as he walked out the door that evening: “I’ll be at the pool with the priests. Tim is teaching the boys how to scuba dive.”
“Really?” I thought to myself. “I’m here juggling four children, and you’re off learning to scuba dive? How is this fair?”
Later that evening when Bruce walked in the door, he met one tired wife.
“How did your evening go?” he asked.
In tears, I told him how hard it had been to put four children, including a fussy baby, to bed knowing that he was off learning how to scuba dive. I could understand him leaving if someone in the ward was facing a crisis, yes. But scuba diving? Not so much.
Bruce sat down beside me. “I’m sorry it was hard for you. I didn’t go for the scuba diving. I didn’t even know if I would get into the pool. I went for two young men.”
He told me he had felt strongly he should attend this event because two priests who hadn’t attended church or activities for a long time were going to be there. He shared that he had been able to talk to them that evening, strengthening his relationship with them and helping them integrate with the others.
My heart softened, and I was reminded that him being called to serve as a bishop while also being a husband and father required a sacrifice from both of us.

A student in one of my classes acted dumbfounded when I told the group that I expected everyone to contribute, and that part of their grade would be based upon their participation in class. “Do you mean,” she said, “that we have to say something every time we meet?” “Yes,” I said. “It is a good way for us to get to know you and to learn from you. But most importantly is that you will remember best what you contributed. When you walk out of the classroom, you will think something like ‘that was a great class today. I said ... such and such.” One reason that you remember your own comments so well is because they represent your personal preparation, but even more importantly because the spirit witnessed to you as you spoke that you were saying something of truth and significance.

Brother Lund also said, “If you are ever called upon to speak and you don’t know what to say and you haven’t had time to figure it out, just stand up and bear testimony of the divine mission of the Redeemer of the world and of his Prophet of this dispensation, and I promise you that the Lord will give you something to say.” A child in Primary can bear witness of those things. And that reminds me of an experience that I had.

I was secretary of the mission in Holland. Our headquarters at that time were in Rotterdam. President Grant was then president of the European Mission, and he came over to attend one of our mission conferences. We had rented a theatre, and we had over 1,500 people there. Men came with their stovepipe hats and their walking canes, and it was a great meeting. My mission president had promised me that if I would take down President Grant’s talk (I could write shorthand) they would not ask me to speak, so I sat down at the little table in front of the stand. Right in the middle of that meeting the mission president stood up and said, “Our next speaker will be Elder LeGrand Richards, the secretary of the mission.” And he had promised me that I would not have to speak! But there was one higher in authority than he was: President Grant had said that he wanted to hear from me.

As I walked up onto the stand, I remembered the words of Brother Anthon H. Lund: “If you are ever called upon to speak unexpectedly and you don’t know what to say, bear your testimony.” And as I stood there, brothers and sisters, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I felt as though I were lifted right off that floor—they could have moved the floor out from under my feet and I would have remained standing there, bearing witness of the truth. I did not know whether I had done any good or not, but a few weeks after that I attended a baptismal service in Rotterdam—and I am always one who goes around and shakes hands with everybody; I like to shake hands—and I shook hands with a man and his wife. He said, “You don’t know us, but we know you.”

I asked, “How do you know me?”

“We were in that conference when you bore your testimony, and that is what started us investigating the gospel.”

The mission president was there, an apostle presiding over the European Mission was there, and I was just a young man with broken language who had only been in the mission a few months; yet the testimony that I bore as Brother Lund advised was what touched their hearts. These are the things that make life worthwhile.

Seeing them seated behind me brings to mind a short story from Mt. Kisco, New York, reported in the Reader’s Digest.
“Once upon a time, there was a little red schoolhouse with one big room for 27 children. The teacher sat with an American flag on one side of her and a blackboard on the other. The children sat in rows facing her, the littlest ones in front. The youngest was seven, and she was very little. The biggest was 16, and he was six feet tall. The youngest was smart, and she could read with the other children. The biggest was dumb, but he was strong and could help the teacher carry in wood. In bad weather, he carried the littlest girl across the puddle in front of the schoolhouse. And sometimes she helped him with his reading.
“Then one day the state built a big highway, right past the schoolhouse door. And the State Education Department came by and said, ‘Great things are happening in education. There are special teachers for arithmetic, reading, art and music. If you combine with other schoolhouses, you could have a great big school where your children could have all the advantages. And big yellow buses could carry your children over the new highway right up to the school door.’ So the parents voted to consolidate, and the little red schoolhouse was abandoned.
“At first things went well in the big school. But after a while, the State Education Department said that it wasn’t providing the children with enough meaningful experiences. And some parents complained that the children were not learning to read and write and figure as well as they had in the little red schoolhouse. ‘We will try some new things,’ said the educators. So they tried the ungraded primer, where fast readers were not slowed down by slow readers, and where children who had trouble with numbers did not get moved on to the next grade before they could add 3 and 5. This helped, but not enough.
“‘We will try something more,’ the educators said. ‘We will tear down some walls at the new school, so the children will be working together in one big room. That way, there will be less peer-group competition.’
“Finally, an important educator came along, looked at the school and said, ‘This is good, but it is not good enough. It is too big, and the children are losing their identity. There are not enough interpersonal relationships in the infrastructure. What we really need is a one-room schoolhouse. And since red is a cheerful color, I think we ought to paint it red.’” (From Mt. Kisco, N.Y., Patent Trader, in Reader’s Digest, March 1973, p. 68. Used by permission.)

“The decision I made to go on a mission was the greatest one I made in my life,” says BYU’s star player, Mike Smith. “I made my decision to serve a mission many years ago. I made the decision before other pressures could influence me.”
And the pressure did come. Mike was considered to be one of the best players to come out of any California high school and many large universities wanted him. Mike chose BYU, and in his first year, he was a starting player 27 of 31 games. But id didn’t bother him at all to leave his sports career behind for a couple of years.
There were those who didn’t understand, however. One man in particular, a long-time fan of Mike’s from his hometown, couldn’t understand why Mike would run the risk of sacrificing his career to serve a mission. Mike wrote his non-Latter-day Saint friend a letter from the mission field in which he bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, the Book of Mormon, and the prophet of the Church. Mike also told him he felt it was a privilege rather than a sacrifice to serve. His friend was so affected by mike’s testimony that he took the letter to a local Catholic priest, who happened to be interested in Mike’s basketball career too. The priest, in turn, read the letter in mass every day for a week, saying it was an example of a youth who was doing all he could to serve the Lord.
“Nothing that happens on the basketball court can compare with experiences in the mission field,” Mike explains. “The feelings you experience on the basketball court are so limited, so temporary. You can make a game-winning shot and the fans love you, but the next play you might accidentally bounce the ball off your foot and that great feeling is gone. But the feelings that you have in the mission field, where the Spirit touches your heart, you’ll never forget.”

My childhood home was on Ninth East, here in Provo, directly across the street from the old Heritage Halls, so I considered the BYU campus to be my playground as a boy. I remember when many of these buildings, including the Harris Fine Arts Center, were under construction. I have memories of traipsing around the excavation site of this building when I was about five years old. While the memory of my adventure into the HFAC construction pit is somewhat vague, I have a clear recollection that I was with my older brother, Thales, who is eight and a half years older than I.
I have six siblings. Thales is the oldest, and I am the fifth of my parents’ seven children. Because there were three sisters born between Thales and me, my parents told me Thales was especially happy to have a younger brother, and his happiness at having a brother certainly showed during subsequent years. By the time I was about four, Thales often took me with him and his friends on their adventures. I always felt proud when I was with this group of older boys. Before I learned to ride a bike, Thales would wrap a towel around the crossbars of his Murray bike and set me on the towel. Then we would zoom around the streets of Provo. And, no, we weren’t wearing helmets. Lizard hunting in the foothills, hiking to the Y, purchasing penny candy at Rowley’s Market, and running through the buildings under construction at BYU are all wonderful memories—made especially sweet by the kindness and presence of my big brother.
One evening, when I was about eight or nine, I was asleep in the top bunk bed in the upstairs bedroom I shared with my brother. Perhaps while having a particularly vivid dream, I rolled over in my sleep, slipped off the edge of the bunk bed, and crashed to the floor. Thales was in a downstairs room immediately below my room, having arrived home from a date. He heard the crash, rushed upstairs, and found me winded and tearful on the floor. I do not remember what he said, but I remember him lifting me and gently putting me back into bed.