Gospel Story Finder

My ears burned bright red with embarrassment as my teenage son, Derek, and I finished singing “Be Still, My Soul”1 in sacrament meeting. I had not properly warmed up my voice before the meeting began, and as a result, when I tried to reach a high note, my voice cracked badly.
I slid back onto my bench, feeling uncomfortable despite supportive looks from my smiling wife, assuring me that I had not ruined the spirit of the meeting.
After the closing prayer I headed for my car to retrieve a lesson manual. A sister in our ward stood near the door, sobbing. A friend supported her with an arm around her shoulder. As I passed by, the weeping sister called my name and expressed her appreciation to me for choosing the hymn we sang and for performing it in a way that touched her deeply.
She explained that she had given birth to a stillborn baby several days earlier and had battled anger and despair ever since. As Derek and I sang the hymn, she had felt the Spirit wrap her aching soul in a peaceful, comforting warmth. It had filled her with the hope she needed to bear her cross of grief.
I awkwardly mumbled thanks and headed out the door, feeling blessed and humbled by her words. As I reached the car, I remembered a devotional address by Kim B. Clark, president of Brigham Young University–Idaho. He had said, “When we act in faith in [Jesus] to do His work, He goes with us” to serve others and “blesses us to say just what they need to hear.” He also taught that “what we actually say and actually do may feel a little awkward or not very polished. … But the Savior takes our words and our actions and He carries them through His spirit unto the hearts of the people. He takes our sincere but imperfect effort and turns it into something that is just right, indeed, into something that is perfect.”2
Tears of gratitude filled my eyes as I returned to the meetinghouse. The Lord had blessed an unpolished musical number and carried its message perfectly into the grieving heart of a young sister to comfort her sorrowing soul. In addition, the Lord used this touching experience to carry into my heart a much deeper understanding of a profound gospel principle.

A speaker was trying to demonstrate the evils of alcohol. On a table in front of him were two glasses full of clear liquid. He explained that one of the glasses was full of water and the other full of pure alcohol. He put a worm in the glass of water, and it swam happily. Then he put the same worm in the alcohol, and it died.
“What conclusion do you reach?” he asked.
A voice from the back of the room cried, “If you drink alcohol, you’ll never get worms.”
The conclusion to be drawn from this story, of course, is that you can hear or see—you can perceive—exactly what you want to perceive, according to your own prejudices.

When we first started having family home evening, I thought it was boring and tiring. My father is not a member of the Church. As the oldest child in our family, I would listen to what my mother taught us, but I did not fully participate. Then I attended some of my friends’ family home evenings, and I saw the way they interacted, talked, and played games together—even if their father was not a member.
I decided to put more zeal and determination into family home evening. Whenever I am assigned to teach, I make sure I study the lesson well and plan activities for us to do together. For the past few months, it has been a success. The Lord has been blessing our family, and we all look forward to another Monday for a beautiful and lovely family home evening.

I felt like a genius! This year I had a no-fail system for my New Year’s resolutions. In the past, after floundering around with about fifty resolutions, I’d give up the whole list as hopeless. But I had finally realized that the secret was to limit my efforts. This year I had only three resolutions.
I listed them on my pale blue stationery with the cuddly Teddy bears in the corner. Number one was “Bring up semester spelling grade from D to A. This would require serious studying.
My second resolution was “Learn to make fancy cakes.” I’ve always wished that I could make one of those cakes that you cut into pieces and reassemble into a creative shape like a clown or a cat. I was determined to learn to do this.
For my third resolution, I wrote, “Don’t make nasty remarks to Barbara.” Barbara is my younger sister, and I often wonder how she really feels about me, because she’s always pestering me, seemingly on purpose! Well, I’d make every effort to be nice, no matter how annoying she was.
I could hardly wait to start. It was nine o’clock on the night of December 31, and I was ready.
“What are you doing?” asked a shrill voice.
I hadn’t heard Barbara come up behind me. I hastily shoved my paper out of sight and whirled around. “Get out of my room!” I snapped. She ran out giggling, and I sighed. Oh, well—it wasn’t New Year’s yet.
The next morning I clenched my teeth as I crawled out of bed, to prevent thoughtless words from erupting at Barbara before I had a chance to stop them.
While I stood in the kitchen, waiting for my toast to pop, she came up behind me and tickled me in the ribs. I opened my mouth to yell, then exhaled slowly and turned around. When I saw her grinning, freckled face, I almost lost it but caught myself in time. I forced a smile and said through tight lips, “You got me that time!”
You should have seen the expression on her face. She looked stricken as she left the kitchen, head hanging, feet dragging. She had clearly been hoping for an explosion. I have to admit that I enjoyed a certain amount of glee at her disappointment.
She stayed out of my way for the rest of the morning. That made it easier for me to tackle my cake project.
Mom has a book about making fancy cakes. I leafed through it and finally chose a cake that looked like a fairy-tale house. It required two rectangular cakes.
I followed the directions on the cake-mix boxes to bake the cakes. When I took them out of the oven, one was higher than the other. I could only hope that everything would fit together.
A diagram in the book showed how to cut the two rectangles to make the pieces for the house. I followed the directions, but the house wouldn’t stand up—the front kept falling. Finally, by using gobs of frosting as glue, I had my house assembled.
I stood back to survey my creation. It looked like a cake that had been cut apart and sloppily reassembled. It didn’t look like a house. On second thought, maybe it did—a house that had suffered major damage in an earthquake.
Barbara bounced in. “What’s that mess supposed to be?” She poked a finger at my cake.
I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. “It does look like a mess, doesn’t it?” I managed to say half sincerely.
She looked at me as if I’d gone crazy, then avoided me the rest of the day.
I went to my room and pulled out all my spelling papers for the semester. I’m good at math, and after two hours of juggling test scores, I had to admit defeat. Even if I got perfect scores on all the remaining tests, it was a mathematical impossibility to raise my grade to an A this semester. The best I could hope for was a C.
I crawled into bed that night and thought about my resolutions. I had already struck out with my spelling A and my cake project, and I didn’t think I could go much longer without saying something very unpleasant to Barbara. It was still only January first, and I felt like a failure again.
Just as I was drifting off to sleep, Barbara popped into my room and said, “How come you’ve been acting so weird today?”
“Barbara!” I screamed. “You were supposed to be asleep hours ago! Go away and leave me alone!”
She looked both sad and relieved as she ran out of my room. I guess to her, things were back to normal.
I tossed and turned all night, dreaming about a spelling list of words related to baking. I couldn’t spell any of them. All through the dream, Barbara’s face grinned at me from the background. By morning I was exhausted.
I reconsidered my resolutions. Obviously even three were too many for me to handle. I decided to forget about the resolution to get an A in spelling for this semester. I would study hard and just do the best I could. I could still get a C.
I would postpone the cake project. During summer vacation I would enroll in a cake-decorating class.
As for my dealings with Barbara, I would never be perfect. I would just try to do better.
So much for my original three resolutions. But I decided to start today, January 2, with a new one. I would try to do one nice thing for Barbara every day. That was it—no more and no less. Maybe I could manage that much.
“Barbara,” I said when she got up, “how would you like for me to read to you?”
She looked astonished. Then she looked suspicious. Then she smiled.
We settled into the big chair in the family room with her favorite book. It was a good book. We both enjoyed it.

“It was the first time I’d performed in public in four years,” said Gretchen Williams, from Newport News, when talking about her performance the night before in the opening program. She danced a ballet solo while a friend sang a song. What most people didn’t know is the she’d given up her beloved ballet several years earlier because she was afflicted by painful arthritis.
When Gretchen arrived at the encampment, she discovered that the stage would be much smaller and shaped differently than the one she’d rehearsed on. It would have been easy to back out, using her physical pain or the unfamiliar stage as an excuse. After all, under the given circumstances, there was no way she could perform her best, and hundreds of people would be watching. But Gretchen wouldn’t think of pulling out.
She realized, as the program she performed in said, “Integrity is doing what you know you should do, even it it’s inconvenient or difficult.”
And with that she adds a deep, rich purple to the rainbow.

Once he took me camping, just the two of us. During the night there was this heavy thunder storm. It didn’t last long, but my sleeping bag got wet. His was dry because he’d remembered to put down a ground cloth. He told me to do it too when we set up camp, but I said it was too much bother. The reason I said that was because the sky was clear then.

Well, after the storm, and my sleeping bag was wet, he didn’t get mad and tell me it was my fault anyway for not putting down a ground cloth. Instead he got out of his sleeping bag and asked me to get in it instead. I asked him what he was going to do, and he said he thought he’d go build a fire and think.

I let him do it because I was too young to realize that it was only two thirty in the morning and nobody in their right mind goes out and sits by a fire for four hours in the middle of the night to think.

The second element is further demonstrated in this entertaining piece from the chronicler Francisco Davila’s writing in 1598:
“They say that anciently the world was to be destroyed, and it happened like this: as one Indian tied up his llama in a good pasture … the llama talked to him, saying: ‘Loco, what do you know, or what do you think? Understand that I am worried, and with good reason. You should know that in less than five days the sea is going to swell and burst open until only it covers the whole earth … you must take refuge on the summit of the mountain Vilcacoto.’ Carrying his belongings on his back, and taking his llama on a leash, the Indian arrived at the summit of the indicated mountain where he found many diverse animals and birds huddled together. … The waters rose until only the summit of this Vilcacoto was not covered. … Finally the waters rose so high that some of the frightened animals were almost in it. The fox, for instance, was close to the water, waving his tail in the waves, which is the reason why the fox’s tail is black at the tip. And at the end of five days, the waters began to recede and the sea returned to its former place, even lower than it had been before, and thus the entire earth was cleansed of people except the Indian referred to.”

I have been persuaded to tell a story that involves my experience. Perhaps the lesson I learned from it might be of some help to you.
In the fateful war year of 1942, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps with the rank of private. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, shivering and at the same time trying to stay awake, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable, long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions.
I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support a wife on a private’s pay. I felt I needed to become an officer. In a day or two following my all-night vigil, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, on the appointed day, I was summoned, along with some others, before the board of inquiry, whose job it was to look into my qualifications and aptitude. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had served a mission for the Church in South America. I was twenty-two years of age and in good physical health. Possessing only these few qualifications, I was grateful to be able to put on my application that I had been a missionary for the Church.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Practically all of the questions centered on my missionary service and my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these last questions was a hardened career soldier. He did not look like he had prayed very often. I pondered, Would I give him offense if I answered as I truly believed? Should I give a noncontroversial answer and simply say that prayer is a personal matter? I wanted to be an officer very much so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and kitchen duty, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided not to equivocate and responded that I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance, as some truly great generals had done. I added that officers at appropriate times should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, including prayer, if the occasion requires.
More interesting questions came from my examiners. “In times of war should not the moral code be relaxed?” one high-ranking officer asked. “Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home in normal situations?”
Here was a chance to equivocate, to make a good impression by being really broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught, had tried to live by, and had taught to others. I thought to myself, Here go my chances to become an officer. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could still be faithful to my beliefs and respond by saying that I had my own beliefs on the subject of morality but did not wish to impose my views on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. I knew perfectly well what the scriptures say about fornication and adultery.
I could not delay my answer any longer and responded to the question simply by saying, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
There were a few more questions testing, I think, whether or not I was trying to live and behave as we of our faith represent to the world. I left the hearing resigned to the fact that the officers who had asked these questions concerning our beliefs would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my complete astonishment the score opposite my name read “95 percent.” I was amazed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School and was promoted to the rank of corporal to get into the school. I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we “lived happily ever after.”

Mi Sook tossed her long black braid across her shoulder. Slipping out of her shoes, she yanked open the front door to her apartment. “Mama, I’m home!”
The stifling Korean summer heat followed her into the apartment. A battered fan purred in a corner. Grandmama sat in front of it, her eyes closed as she nodded in the heat.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Mi Sook’s mother said as she came from behind the paper screen that divided their one room from the nook that was the kitchen. “Grandmama isn’t feeling well in this heat, so you must help me with dinner. Please go to the roof and bring down some kimchi (spiced, pickled vegetables).”
Mi Sook sighed. It’s so hot on the roof! she thought, wiping her brow. But heat makes the kimchi ripe. She licked her lips, anxious for dinner.
The hall was deserted as she climbed the stairs to the roof. Waves of heat rippled the moist air. Mi Sook loved Seoul, especially the way it looked from the roof. Encircled by mountains, its buildings and markets created an ocean of color.
She found her family’s kimchi pot sweltering with others in a corner. Prying open the lid, she breathed in the tangy scent.
“Hello, Mi Sook. It looks like you’re getting ready for dinner.”
Mi Sook started, looking up. A pair of wide blue eyes smiled down at her. “Sister Miller! I didn’t see you there!”
Sister Miller stepped forward toward the kimchi pot. Her nose wrinkled as she bent down and took a sniff, then her blue eyes turned watery. Mi Sook smiled. She wasn’t sure the missionary liked what she smelled.
“It is hot on the roof!” Mi Sook scooped kimchi into the pot her mother had sent with her. “Why do you stand up here?”
“I’m waiting for a friend,” Sister Miller said, running a hand through her damp hair. Drops of sweat beaded her brow. “I have to wave at her when she gets off the bus so that she can see where we live. We’re teaching her about our church, and she’s coming to dinner and for family home evening tonight.”
Mi Sook watched the sun inch toward the western horizon. “Family home evening? What’s that?”
Sister Miller’s eyes brightened. “Family home evening is a wonderful thing, Mi Sook. Heavenly Father knows how important families are, so He has told us to put aside one night each week for our families to be together. It’s a time to learn about the gospel, play games, laugh, and even have refreshments!”
Mi Sook smiled. She didn’t know much about the gospel Sister Miller always talked about, or about the church she loved, but Mi Sook thought the idea of spending time like that with her family was great. “Family home evening sounds nice, Sister Miller.”
Sister Miller nodded. “It is, Mi Sook.” Then she grinned. “How would you like to join us tonight for family home evening?”
A city bus rattled to a stop below them. People poured out as Sister Miller craned her neck, then waved at a young woman who looked up from the crowd.
“I’ll ask my mother,” Mi Sook said as she headed toward the stairway with her kimchi. “I’d like to learn more about this family home evening!”
That night, Mi Sook could hardly finish her dinner. She gulped down her rice and kimchi, then hurried to help her mother clean up the dishes.
Grandmama smiled when Mother told her that Mi Sook was going to the missionaries’ apartment for a party. “How nice,” Grandmama whispered, nodding her head. “Those missionaries are happy girls.”
Mi Sook enjoyed family home evening that night. Sister Miller and Sister Chadwick sang songs, showing Mi Sook and their friend how to read the music in an English hymnbook. The missionaries told a flannel-board story about a young man named Joseph who became a prophet. Mi Sook was excited, she’d never heard such a story before.
Sister Miller told them how important families were. “Heavenly Father wants all families to be together forever,” she said. Then the sisters sang another song, one about families being together. Mi Sook didn’t understand all the English words, but her heart was happy.
“Here, Mi Sook,” Sister Chadwick said after the closing prayer, “have a brownie. I made them this afternoon with the chocolate my mother sent me from home!”
Mi Sook smiled as the dark, sugary brownie flooded her mouth. Its sweetness overwhelmed her. She couldn’t take another bite.
“It’s a little sweet isn’t it?” Sister Chadwick looked at her and laughed. “I guess you’re not used to sugar, as we are. Why don’t you wrap it up in this napkin and take the rest home.”
Mi Sook smiled. “I may not be used to your brownies,” she said, “but I like your family home evening very much. It makes me feel good inside. And happy, like you. Thank you for inviting me tonight.”
As Mi Sook walked toward the door, she noticed pictures of the missionaries’ families sitting on a small table. She looked at a picture of Sister Miller with her family. “Will my family be together forever?” Mi Sook asked.
“They certainly can be, Mi Sook,” Sister Miller replied, wrapping her arm around Mi Sook’s shoulder.
“And the story you told tonight, about the boy Joseph—that’s an important story isn’t it?”
Sister Miller nodded.
Mi Sook smiled as she opened the door and slipped into her shoes. “I thought so. And family home evening is important too. May I bring Mother and Grandmama to family home evening next week?”
“We’d love to have all of you come,” Sister Miller and Sister Chadwick both told her.
Mi Sook smiled as she walked down the hall. She was sure that Mother and Grandmama would enjoy family home evening and learning about being a forever family.

Let me contrast her painful despair with another family’s hope in Christ during a heartbreaking time.

Twenty-one years ago the newborn son of my nephew Ben Andersen and his wife, Robbie, was life-flighted from their Idaho farming community to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the hospital, and Ben explained the severe, life-threatening complications with their baby’s heart. We placed our hands on Trey’s tiny head. The Lord blessed him with continued life.

Trey had heart surgery the first week of his life, and more surgeries followed. As the years passed, it became apparent that Trey would need a heart transplant. Although his physical activities were limited, his faith expanded. He wrote, “I have never felt sorry for myself because I have always known the importance of having faith in Jesus Christ and a testimony of the plan of salvation.”

Trey kept on his phone this well-known quote from President Nelson: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”

Trey wrote: “I have always looked forward to serving a full-time mission, but … my doctors won’t let me serve a mission until at least a year after my transplant. … I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.”

Trey was excited at being accepted into the accounting major at BYU beginning this semester, but even more excited in late July when he received the very anticipated telephone call to come to the hospital for his heart transplant.

“One year,” Trey said, “and I will be on my mission.”

There were great expectations as he entered the operating room. However, during the surgery there were devastating complications, and Trey never regained consciousness.

His mother, Robbie, said: “Friday had been the most heartbreaking day … just trying to wrap our minds around it. … I had stayed up late just trying to process everything. … But Saturday, I woke up with a feeling of absolute joy. It wasn’t just peace; it wasn’t denial. I felt joy for my son, and I felt joy as his mother. … Ben had gotten up a lot earlier than me, and when we finally got a chance to talk, Ben had awakened with the exact same feeling.”

Ben explained: “Clarity came to my soul as God taught me through His Holy Spirit. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and was filled with indescribable peace and joy. How is this possible? … The passing of Trey is so very painful, and I miss him so much. But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. … I look forward to a joyful reunion.”

Trey had noted in his journal these words from President Nelson’s general conference talk: “It doesn’t seem possible to feel joy when your child suffers with an incurable illness or when you lose your job or when your spouse betrays you. Yet that is precisely the joy the Savior offers. His joy is constant, assuring us that our ‘afflictions shall be but a small moment’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:7] and be consecrated to our gain.”

When severe storms and typhoons devastated southern India in October 2009, young men and young adults from the Hyderabad and Bangalore India Districts sprang into action to help relieve the suffering of those affected by the floods.
According to President Prasada Gudey of the Hyderabad India District, “Our young men did a wonderful work in delivering food and water to those in need. The goods had been donated and had arrived in the province, but the government was not able to deliver them to the thousands of victims in more than 200 refugee camps. Our members stood out with their Mormon Helping Hands vests as they carried out their efficient work in getting the food and water to everyone.”

In the middle of my sophomore year, my high school drama department announced auditions for the annual Shakespearean play. “This is great!” I thought. I pictured myself in colorful Elizabethan costume, playing a rousing Shakespearean role. It was something I had wanted to do all year. So between American History and lunch I ran into the office and picked up a dittoed sheet of dialogue.
“What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head so soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.”
“That sure doesn’t sound like English to me,” I thought, reading through the rest of the tryout material. I couldn’t make sense of what was going on or of how I was supposed to say one word. I’d seen Shakespearean plays before and even movies. The lines had always sounded easy and natural.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked myself. The audition line I had joined after school was getting shorter. I stood in the C-wing stairwell and reread the pages: “What early tongue …” I was growing frantic.
Matt Ricks filed into the line behind me. “Hey, Brad, it’s good to see you trying out.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. Matt was the best actor in the school, and I was in awe.
“Oh boy,” I thought. “Now I’ll really look like a fool when he tries out after me. Well, I don’t have to look like a fool. I’m not going to walk out on that stage and make a total idiot of myself.” I turned away from the audition line and walked quickly to my hall locker. Luckily Matt was surrounded by his usual harem of admirers and didn’t notice me leave.
I argued with myself: “Don’t be dumb. We’ve gone through all this before. Of course you might not make this play, but then, you might! You have to try.” I climbed the main hall stairs to upper B-wing. “You can’t read Shakespearean English now, but you can learn.”
Then, somehow, all the ifs and theys got to me. “Even if I learned it, what would they say if I botched it?” I crumpled the dialogue sheet and shoved it in my back pocket. It was easy to imagine the hateful names they might call me; it was easy to feel the hurt when they would laugh at me or whisper cruel things if I failed. I envisioned myself onstage—“What early tongue so sweet saluteth me”—dodging all the pencils, spitwads, shoes, rocks, and desks that they would throw.
“I’m not trying out,” I decided firmly. By now I’d missed my bus and knew I would have to walk all the way home. I snatched up my books, kicked the locker door closed, and drooped back down the B-wing stairs. Why should I worry about what they would think? But I did.
When I ate only one taco for dinner instead of my usual three, dad realized something was on my mind.
“I’m not holding myself back,” I told him. “I want to try out and do what I know is best for me, but they won’t let me. They’re intimidating me right out of my best intentions.”
“Who are they?” dad asked.
“Well, you know, they.”
“Who?” he asked again.
“The kids at school,” I answered exasperatedly.
“Who?”
“You know,” I fumbled. “Friends, peer group, the kids trying out who are better than me.” Inside I was frantic. Not a single name came to my mind except Matt Ricks, and he was the only one I was sure wouldn’t laugh.
Then, with the infallible wisdom of most fathers, dad explained that as people mature it becomes less and less important what other people think or say. It took him until 7:00 to finally convince me that “mature people are self-confident enough to live in a way that will please their Heavenly Father. They do what is best, what they know is right, regardless of what they say. Some people never reach that point of maturity, while others reach it quite early in life.”
He reminded me of when our family would go to the park to play baseball. The older family members would leave Chris, my younger brother, and me to play at the small baseball diamond while they went around the wire fence to the grown-ups’ baseball field. “Do you remember how you two would play until you were bored, and then both of you would climb to the top of the dugout to watch the grown-ups play ball? That fence always seemed a tangible measure of age and ability. Now it can be a symbolic measure of maturity as you judge in which ballpark you’d like to play. You need to commit to your goals, never caring about what they may say. It is up to you to reach the fence as early in life as you can.”
Before bed that night I rescued the wrinkled tryout sheet and read it over again. “What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head.” Finally the words were beginning to make sense. I sat right in the middle of my bedroom floor laughing out loud. “Dad’s right.” I thought of where I was and imagined where I could be if I hadn’t talked myself out of so many opportunities, or let others do so, without even trying. Maybe I might not have made the team, or won the office, but maybe I might have. When I was younger I didn’t have the personal courage to try, so I shall never know. But that night dad taught me that one of the nicer things about trying is that you can never lose something you don’t have. You only take a chance on winning.
Dad told me, “Trying is like climbing a hill. If you stand with your feet firmly planted at the bottom and declare that there is no way you can climb that hill, you could stand there forever. If you dare to try, you have nowhere to go but up.”
Of course, it does matter what other people think and say since we all live together on this earth. Heavenly Father tells me I must consider others, that I am my brother’s keeper. Actually, other people are the incentives for most good things I do. Other people and their feelings toward me are often my reward. My happy balance will come as I learn to keep the opinions and actions of others in perspective. I must remember not to let others dictate my actions. In turn, I must not be the one whose remarks or actions could dominate someone else’s life. We must all play in the grown-up park by acting and not reacting.
“All right,” I told myself on the bedroom rug, “if they aren’t holding me back, then what other excuse do I have? The audition is up to me.” Despite the late hour, I practiced the passage again. As the Shakespearean sentences began to flow, my confidence returned. I berated myself for being so stupid as to have given other people that strong a vote in my election. Yes, they have a voice, and there will always be those who encourage and those who discourage, but I have free agency. I cast the deciding ballot, and I vote for what is best for me.
As I practiced, somehow Shakespeare, the man, became a reality to me. What if he had been afraid to try to write a play because of what people might think? What if he had never produced his plays because he feared being laughed at, or called names, or run out of town? I felt foolish. How infinitely poorer our world would be without William Shakespeare, or for that matter, without Thomas Edison, Abraham Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, and Thomas Jefferson. What if Joseph Smith had not prayed in the grove? Or then, what if he had never told anyone else about his marvelous vision of the Father and the Son because of what they might (and did) think?
I would never want the Lord to say of me, “But with some I am not well pleased, for they will not open their mouths, but they hide the talent which I have given unto them, because of the fear of man. Wo unto such, for mine anger is kindled against them.
“And it shall come to pass, if they are not more faithful unto me, it shall be taken away, even that which they have” (D&C 60:2–3).
“Tomorrow,” I vowed as I climbed into my waiting bed, “tomorrow I will really act—in more ways than one.”

Often I have felt the priesthood power, power outside myself, moving through me to the person being blessed. I remember blessing a young mother who came seeking renewed strength to endure a difficult pregnancy. She had great faith, and as I blessed her as her bishop, I felt power streaming down my arms and through my fingers into the crown of her head. I felt it course through her body, even to the tips of her toes. It was a powerful, cleansing, rejuvenating force, almost electric in its energy, yet calm and soft and assuring. After the blessing, she arose, and with tears in her eyes said, “I felt that all the way to the tips of my toes.”

One day, I was really excited about being with my friends at kindergarten. I wore my CTR ring and necklace to school.
A new girl in my class is really mean. At recess that day, all my friends were around her, so I went over to see what was going on. The new girl had made up a new club, and all of my friends had joined it. She asked if I wanted to join. I asked her what kind of a club it was and what I had to do to be a member.
She said, “In order to be in my club, first you have to raise your right hand and say, ‘There is no God’ and ‘Jesus does not live and has never lived.’”
It made my heart hurt! I looked down at the CTR ring on my finger. Then I looked at the mean girl and said, “You are very, very wrong. There is a God, and Jesus does live. If this is what I have to say, then I don’t want to be in your club.”
After I said that, she pushed me really hard, and all my friends laughed and made fun of me.
I told my mom about it that night and cried and cried. She told me she was proud of me and cried with me. She said, “Taylor, you know that you belong to something better than the best club in the whole wide world. You belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and it doesn’t have ten or twelve members. It has millions of members. And it is true. The gospel is true.” She told me that I had a lot of courage to stand up for God, Jesus Christ, and the gospel.
When I prayed that night, I asked Heavenly Father to help the mean girl know that He and Jesus live.
The next day at school, the girl went up to our teacher and asked her, “Do you believe there is a God? And do you believe that Jesus really lived?”
The teacher said, “Yes, I do believe in God. And yes, I do believe that Jesus lived.”
My friends came up to me later and said that they were sorry and that they didn’t want to be in that club anymore.
And the next day after that, the girl came to me at recess and asked, “Can you tell me a little bit about your church?”
I am really glad that I know that there is a God and that Jesus Christ lives and that I stood up for what I believe.

An apostle of the Lord made me a promise. “The Lord God will not leave you alone, nor will he be in debt. This you can count on.”
Those were the comforting words of Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve as he spoke at funeral services for my young husband. The “compensation” he spoke of was beyond my comprehension, and the thought remained in my memory for years. I could not see the end from the beginning.
That we are not alone, however, and that a loving Father in Heaven hears our prayers was more tangible. Our five children, ages four through sixteen, understood this. Their father, whose career had been in broadcasting, had often taught that their voices and thoughts are audible to the Lord, that they could reach the Lord through prayer if their lives were tuned in to the right frequency. Little David, the youngest, prayed at his grandmother’s knee on that first lonely night, “Please bless my daddy, so he will be well when I get there.”
We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Also, the Church in the Washington D.C. area was strong and growing fast. Members from adults to grade-school children felt a strong sense of identity with the Church. The opportunity to identify oneself as a Latter-day Saint promoted awareness of doctrine and practices and, through commitment to covenants, helped build strong testimonies of the gospel.
There was a feeling of missionary excitement. Our neighborhood is filled with beautiful churches of various Christian denominations. In the months and years after we returned to our home, school friends who were members of those churches invited our children to speak to their youth groups about Mormonism, and the interest and questions of the young people and their religious leaders challenged our children to expand their knowledge and test their faith. Many close friendships and several conversions resulted.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.
There was little time for grief that first year. The awesome responsibilities of my new role as sole parent were overwhelming. Ralph had been very much in charge, and I relied heavily on his judgment and leadership. Attempting to establish my authority was of prime importance. The children thought they were very funny when they made birthday and Mother’s Day cards depicting me in a general’s uniform. However, I knew my authority was finally recognized when I overheard one small child say to another, “What are Mother and Daddy going to do when they get together again, now that Mother’s the boss?”
But there was a special presence in our home. Father was considered to be out of reach but not out of touch. I realized this one day when teen-aged Alison said, “Mother, I can always get out of your range, but I can’t get out of Daddy’s.” This was a positive moment that reminded me of Elder Evans’ promise.
Our youngest child insists that he never felt fatherless. His departed father was always a real person to him, and he intuitively understood the eternal nature of the family unit long before he learned about the covenants and promises that can ensure its endurance. This awareness also translated into a desire on the part of our children to prove themselves so as not to disappoint the father they had come to idealize. As for me, I was determined to succeed in my stewardship. I could not fail my eternal partner or my Eternal Father. Our purpose bound us even closer together as a family as we shared our trials and successes.
Temple marriage was a subject of special interest. It was an anchor to which we could hold and a prize that all would one day attain. Our primary motivation was that we might all serve the Lord’s purposes so as to be reunited as a family once again.
A second major problem that had to be resolved soon after Ralph’s death was how to provide for my family. This is probably the most crucial and frightening reality that most newly-widowed mothers face. My options were whether to use our insufficient financial resources until they were gone, and then decide how to support the family, or to find employment in the near future and keep some funds in reserve. I chose the latter. Fortunately, it was possible for me to be away during the day because all the children were in school, and an older daughter was responsible until I arrived home. The children’s acceptance of this new situation and their faith in me was viewed as “God’s in his heaven and Mother will provide.”
I had limited qualifications, having married before completing college. But after a refresher course in business English and typing, I was ready to start at the bottom. I became a receptionist. It was a good beginning. Further training brought additional employment opportunities and added responsibilities. These experiences, along with subsequent years in the field of corporate communications at one of the government banking agencies, have broadened my interests, supplemented my education, developed my skills, strengthened my self-confidence, contributed to my financial independence, and provided for my future security. This is compensation I had never dreamed of.
When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

President Young had said, “If the people of the United States will let us alone for ten years we will ask no odds of them.”

Eight years to the day after the 1849 celebration, the Saints were in Big Cottonwood Canyon to celebrate another 24th of July. Four horsemen rode in to report that an army 2,500 soldiers strong was on the plains. The army of the United States, commanded by Colonel Albert Sidney Johnston, was ordered by President James Buchanan to crush a nonexistent Mormon rebellion.

The Saints broke camp and headed for home to prepare their defenses. Rather than flee, this time President Young declared, “We have transgressed no law, and we have no occasion to do so, neither do we intend to; but as for any nation’s coming to destroy this people, God Almighty being my helper, they cannot come here.”

Neither mobbings nor the army could turn the Saints aside from what they knew to be true. A settlement was negotiated, and the Utah War (later called Buchanan’s Blunder) was over.

When Cassie fell in love with Albert, she worried about falling into the same negative communication patterns she had seen in her first marriage. So they took a marriage class together, where they learned to:
Practice listening skills.
Honestly share feelings.
Cooperate, not compete.
Agree to disagree when needed.
Discuss money management.
“Building a successful marriage takes practice, but we love each other enough to make it work,” Cassie said.

After I quit drugs, I went way overboard with alcohol, and can honestly say I was a high school alcoholic. When I decided I wanted to quit, I couldn’t, on my own. I didn’t care enough about myself to do what I knew I needed to do.
Then I became close friends with a good, active LDS girl. She couldn’t understand what I was going through, but she did know I was honestly trying to get out of the hole I was in. It hurt her when I slipped back. I finally quit drinking because I knew it hurt her, and I knew I wouldn’t lie to her.
Keeping my morals straight was so hard under my weakened condition that I avoided any social contacts with girls except as good friends like this one.

It started with a phone call. Elmer wanted to ask Geraldine for a date to the prom, but she hadn’t been his first choice. So when Geraldine answered the phone, Elmer blurted out, “I couldn’t get anyone else to go with me; do you want to go?” This approach did nothing to make Geraldine feel special, so she answered, “Let me see. I’ll have to check the television schedule first.” Arriving at the dance, Elmer let the door swing shut in Geraldine’s face. She, in turn, left Elmer in an awkward situation when she huddled to talk with her girl friends and left him standing alone.
The situation may be a little farfetched, but the antics of Elmer and Geraldine doing all the wrong things on a date started a discussion on dating manners at a series of workshops held by the Ammon Stake in Idaho Falls, Idaho. The skit was a way of introducing a discussion on the subject, and the majority of the audience agreed that they are impressed by a polite girl or guy as a dating partner.

I really like participating in the Children and Youth program because I get to set my own goals to accomplish.
For one of my goals, I chose to find family names and perform baptisms for the dead for them. It took a lot of work to learn how to do family history, but I felt so happy every time I found a new name to take to the temple.
Once I got the hang of it, I just kept going and going because it was so fun. Soon I had too many names to do by myself. So a whole bunch of my cousins and I all went to the temple with the names I found, and together we did baptisms and confirmations for 172 people.
My parents are working on finishing the rest of the temple ordinances for those people, which is cool because I feel like my whole family is on a team! Our goal is to help as many of our ancestors as we can.
Doing family history has helped me become closer to both my living family and my ancestors. I’m happy that I completed my goal, and now I hope to make an even more challenging goal so I can keep accomplishing more.
Eldon M., 13, Ohio, USA