Gospel Story Finder

Scott (name has been changed) had every excuse to stop coming to church. His mom never went. When his alcoholic dad wasn’t in prison, he wasn’t around, so he wasn’t going to take Scott to church. His two younger sisters went to Young Women sometimes but weren’t really interested.
The only reason Scott had been going in the first place was because his family was living with his grandma, who would wake him up for priesthood every Sunday. But when he turned 16, Scott’s grandma died, and his family moved away from the only bishop Scott had really connected with.
It would have been easy for him to just not show up anymore.
But Scott didn’t stop going to church.
“I felt good at church,” Scott says. “I felt the Spirit there. I knew that’s where I was supposed to be, so I kept going.”
He didn’t realize it at the time, but when Scott decided to keep going to church, even though it seemed he had every reason not to, he changed my life and affected hundreds of others.
Scott went on a mission, even though there was no way he or his family could pay for it. By then his dad had left the family. But, supported by ward members, Scott served a faithful mission. He taught hundreds and baptized dozens.
After returning home, he married in the temple. He served as elders quorum president, Young Men president, and bishop, blessing the lives of hundreds of ward members and their families.
He and his wife had their own family, where his influence was perhaps more strongly felt. It was there that his four children gained their own testimonies of the gospel. In large part because of his faithfulness, the three oldest have served missions—together having taught more than 1,000 people and baptizing more than 100. Scott’s youngest son is now serving a mission.
Forty years after Scott made the decision to be faithful, people are still being affected by his decision. I know. He’s my dad.
Scott’s decision was like a rock tossed into still water—the ripples continue to move outward through generations, touching not only the lives of those around him but the lives of their children and their children’s children.
Those ripples are now moving into the third generation as I look into the eyes of my two-year-old son, who, because of my temple marriage, can be part of our family forever.
I have wondered what would have happened if my dad had simply chosen not to go to church anymore. Would I have come to know the Savior? Would I have served a mission? Would I have married in the temple? Would my son be facing a future without the blessings of the gospel? Those are questions I’m glad I don’t have to answer.

Some time ago I received a touching letter from Randy Spaulding, who lived in northern Utah. The letter explained the composition of his family and then the gradual onset of an illness that took his father from a healthy, strong individual to a weak and crippled middle-aged man. The father’s physical condition deteriorated until he could not work, could not walk, became confined to a wheelchair, and was almost helpless.
Randy told how the family and ward members have taken over the care of the farm and have provided much help to the family. Father can no longer speak; Mother is his constant provider of care—yet neither of them has uttered or written those words, “Why us?”
Let me return to Randy Spaulding’s actual words. He wrote: “One morning as I was thinking about the mundane things of life and hurrying out the door to begin the day, I happened to notice my father sitting in the corner of the room reading his scriptures. I stopped and went over to speak to him. I noticed the difficult circumstances he was under. With his right hand, he was trying to hold up his head enough to see me and read the Book of Mormon. I learned that at one of the most trying times, he still had enough faith to read about a God of love, a God of miracles who heals and makes us whole, and a God of life—eternal life. My father still believes. Oh, how I long to take him back in time to the Pool of Bethesda and to ask our Master if He would please have mercy on us, so that my father, also, could take up his bed and walk.”
His letter continued: “That day I returned to my bedroom and thanked my Heavenly Father for a father and mother second to none.”

Since then, I have turned so often to the Book of Mormon for guidance, encouragement, and increased faith that I sometimes wonder if my great love for this book might have been passed down to me from my great-grandmother. The Book of Mormon was brought into the home of Susan Kent, my great-grandmother, when she was sixteen years old, almost a century and a half ago. After studying the Book of Mormon, Susan gained a testimony of it that was so strong that she was willing to make a great sacrifice for it.
The young man Susan was engaged to at the time would have nothing to do with anyone who would join the Mormons. But Susan did not count the cost. She chose peace for her conscience. However, her heart was so grieved that she could not eat for several days. She lapsed into a coma so deep that she seemed to be dead. Preparations were being made for her funeral when she awoke asking, “How long have I slept?” She slowly regained her health. With her sister and her parents, she joined the Church. I will be eternally thankful to my great-grandmother, Susan Kent, for her testimony of the Book of Mormon and what it meant in her life and now in mine.

Of all the experiences I enjoyed as a mission president, one of the most exciting was the glorious sight of seeing the missionaries baptize converts to the Church. To see those handsome young men lead the baptismal candidates into the water to perform that sacred ordinance always brought a lump to my throat and sent a thrill up my spine. The elders felt the same way about that privilege. One of my fine missionaries had been a very adventurous lad. He loved to rappel cliffs, hang glide, and parachute jump. He even joined an Army reserve unit which gave him regular opportunities to jump. When I asked him how he felt when he stood in the baptismal font with a convert, he replied: “It’s as exciting as jumping out of an airplane.”

“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

“What’s up, Coach?” DeLyle said.
“Come in,” Coach Gardener said. “Sit down.”
DeLyle Condie walked into his coach’s office and pulled up a chair. He held his red basketball jersey in his hands. It was almost time for practice.
“I hear you’re going on a mission,” Coach said. “Let me show you something.” He turned on the projector.
DeLyle blinked in surprise. Coach often showed films of other teams playing. But these were pictures of palm trees and beaches.
“This is Hawaii,” Coach said. “The team’s going there next year. You’re going to miss it.”
“I know. But I’ve already decided,” DeLyle said. “A mission is the right thing to do.”
“Suit yourself,” Coach said. “But if you go, I don’t think you’ll ever play basketball again.”
DeLyle looked at his jersey. “I love basketball,” he said, “but some things are more important.”
“Good luck, then.” Coach sighed. “Now get to practice. You’re not a missionary yet!”
A few months later, Elder DeLyle Condie got on a ship in San Francisco, California, USA. It was 1955, and missionaries often traveled by boat back then. Three weeks later the ship arrived in Sydney, Australia. There, Elder Condie took an overnight train to Melbourne. Two elders were waiting for him.
“Wow! You’re a tall one!” Elder Johnson said. “You’d have been a great Mormon Yankee!”
“What’s that?” Elder Condie asked.
“More like what was that,” Elder Johnson said. “Missionary teams used to play in local basketball leagues. It was a way to help people get to know about the Church. One of the teams was called the Yankees. But we don’t do it anymore.”
“That’s OK,” Elder Condie said. “That’s not why I came on a mission.”
“Well, let’s get to the office,” Elder Johnson said. “It’s time to meet President Bingham, our mission president.”
President Bingham assigned Elder Condie to Tasmania, an island near Australia’s southern coast. There weren’t many Latter-day Saints there. In fact, in all of Australia, there were only about 1,200 Church members.
Elder Condie soon met lots of friendly Australians. But most weren’t interested in discussing the gospel. What they did want to talk about was the Olympics.
“Why are so many people interested in the Olympics?” Elder Condie asked.
His companion grinned. “The games are coming to Melbourne next year,” he said. “It’s a chance to put Australia on the map. Besides, lots of people are sports crazy already. I think that’s why the Mormon Yankees were so popular. I wonder if they’ll ever do that again.”
At the same time, 200 miles away in Melbourne, two men were discussing exactly that.
The coach of the Australian Olympic basketball team sat across the desk from President Bingham. “We need your help,” he said. “I know you used to have teams called Mormon Yankees. Some of your missionaries were pretty good. With the Olympics coming, it’s a long shot that Australia will win any games. We need to practice against players with talent and experience. Some friendly practice games will help people know more about your church, and they will help us get ready for the Olympics. Can you put a Mormon Yankees team together one more time?”
After the meeting, President Bingham found one of his assistants. “Bring Elder Condie back to Melbourne,” he said. “Missionaries will still be missionaries. But we’re going to help Australia prepare for the Olympics. And I’ll need Elder Condie to help choose a team.”

Early in 1846, Elder Pratt announced that he would be going to Anaa, an atoll 780 kilometers (490 miles) northwest of Tubuai, to assist Elder Grouard, who was enjoying incredible success there. Telii and Nabota insisted on accompanying him. When they arrived in Anaa, they found more than 600 converts in five branches. As Elder Pratt fell into administrative duties in the branches, Telii and Nabota traveled with him, preaching the gospel, visiting the people to attend to their needs, and bringing the sick to Elder Pratt to be blessed.8

Teacher council meetings are helping Sandra Cattell (center) improve her teaching abilities.
I’m fairly old, so when I was called to teach the Young Women, I thought, “My goodness! I wonder why they’ve called me?”
I put a lot of effort into preparing lessons appropriate for the young women’s needs, and I hoped they would be willing to share what they have learned and what they have done with it during the week. But my questions were often met with silence.
In one of our ward’s first teacher council meetings, one of the teachers said she too was finding it difficult to get the youth to communicate during the lessons. Another teacher in the meeting said, “Well, you can allow silence, you see.” Sometimes people need a little time to think about a question before answering.
That comment in teacher council meeting made a difference not only in the way I teach but for my students as well. I thought a lot about it. In my next Young Women lesson, I asked the class what gospel principle they had applied during the week. As usual, there was silence. But instead of immediately jumping in to fill the silence, I remembered our teacher council discussion and quietly said, “There’s no rush.”
The moment I said that, the conversation started to flow. The young women started to open up, and they shared some tender experiences. I immediately wanted to thank the teacher who had made that simple comment in teacher council meeting about silence. I was amazed how practicing that one principle had such a big difference so quickly.
But I didn’t realize until later what a difference that and other principles I’ve been learning are making. After church the mother of one of the young women told me that her daughter had said she knows that I’ve been called of God.
I can’t tell you how special hearing that comment was to me. There I was thinking, “What have I got to teach these young women?” But I must be teaching them something. I’m called for a purpose, and teacher council meetings are helping me fulfill that purpose.

When we had moved to Iowa eight years earlier, my parents were determined to follow the counsel of President Spencer W. Kimball to store food and grow a garden.
One of the first things we did was to build three food-storage can racks. Once they were finished, it was obvious something was needed to fill them. I felt like the prime minister in “The Emperor’s New Clothes” when I would pass the shelves in the kitchen on my way downstairs to my bedroom. “This,” I would apologetically say to my friends, “is our food storage.” I could see them thinking that they weren’t going to dine with us if there was a disaster. Dead flies and spider webs inside a bunch of empty jars didn’t look very appetizing.
My parents thought the problem would be solved when our neighbor came over with his tractor and plowed our side yard. After hauling away the sod, we planted a garden. There was a magnificent crop of weeds the first year. Some of them grew to be over eight feet tall. About the only plants tenacious enough to survive in the clay were pumpkins and zucchini. This did not discourage my parents in their never-ending quest to find things for us to do, however. We got to haul, shovel, and rake mountains of manure, compost, and sawdust. The ground finally softened so that it could be worked, and vegetable seeds began to stay long enough to sprout.
Since then we have expanded every year and now grow a large garden and own a 40-tree orchard of apples, peaches, plums, and pears plus several hazelnut bushes, an ever-expanding raspberry patch, and grapes. All need to be weeded. In drought years, they also need to be watered. Luckily we have a pond and an irrigation pump, but it still requires a lot of work to move the pipes and lug buckets full of water to the faraway trees.

For family home evening our family decided to spread hay on our garden. It’s not in our yard, so we had to drive there. Some of us didn’t want to go because it looked like it was about to rain. Then we remembered that President Spencer W. Kimball had said to plant a garden. When we got there the storm hit, so we left. Arriving home we discovered that a big branch from our neighbor’s tree had fallen onto our driveway! If we had not left, our car would have been crushed! We are glad to be blessed when we follow the prophet.

Melinda Bassett won the final round of a spelling bee sponsored by the European Congress of American Parents, Teachers, and Students in Berchtesgaden, Germany. She defeated her last opponent by spelling rallentando correctly.
Melinda, 12, plays the violin and coronet. She has five brothers and sisters, and her parents are stationed in the Air Force at RAF Lakenheath in England. They belong to the Cambridge Ward, Ipswich England Stake.

At times the performance of duty, the response to a divine call, or the reaction to a spiritual prompting is not overwhelming. On occasion, however, the duty to respond is downright overpowering. I experienced such a situation prior to the general conference of April 1966. That’s 35 years ago, but I remember it vividly.
I had received my assignment to speak at one of the conference sessions and had prepared and committed to memory a message entitled “Meeting Your Goliath.” This was based on the account of the famous battle waged by David and Goliath of olden times.
Then I received a telephone call from President David O. McKay. The conversation went about like this: “Brother Monson, this is President McKay calling. How are you?”
I took a deep breath and answered, “Oh, I’m fine, President, and looking forward to conference.”
“That’s why I’m calling, Brother Monson. The Saturday morning session will be rebroadcast on Sunday as our Easter message to the world. I will be speaking to an Easter theme and would like you to join me and speak during that important session to that type of theme.”
“Of course, President. I will be happy to do so.”
That’s when the extent of this brief conversation really dawned on me. All of a sudden “Meeting Your Goliath” didn’t quite measure up to an Easter message. I knew I must begin to prepare all over again. There was so little time. Indeed, my “Goliath” stood before me.
That night I cleared the kitchen table and placed my typewriter on the tabletop along with a ream of bond paper, with a trusty wastepaper basket by my side to hold all the false starts that accompany such an assignment of preparation. I began at about 7:00 p.m. and had not written a satisfactory line by 1:00 a.m. The wastebasket was filled, but my mind certainly was not. What was I to do? The clock was running—indeed, it was racing. I paused to pray.
Soon thereafter there came to my mind the sadness of my neighbors Mark and Wilma Shumway in the recent loss of their youngest child. I thought to myself, “Perhaps I could speak directly to them and peripherally to all others, for who hasn’t lost a dear one and had occasion to grieve?” My fingers raced over the typewriter keyboard but could barely keep up with my thoughts.
As the first dim light of morning peered through our kitchen window, I had finished the message. The task remained to learn it and then deliver it to the world. Rarely have I struggled so hard to fill a prophetic assignment. However, Heavenly Father had heard my prayer. I shall never forget the experience.

I remember when I was assigned to give my first talk in church. I was given the liberty to choose my subject. I’ve always liked birds, so I thought of the Seagull Monument. In preparation, I went to Temple Square and looked at the monument. First I was attracted to all the coins in the water surrounding the monument. I wondered how they would be retrieved and who would retrieve them. I shall not confess any thought of taking them. Then I looked upward at the seagulls atop that monument. I tried in my boyish mind to imagine what it would be like to be a pioneer watching the first year’s growth of precious grain being devoured by crickets and then seeing those seagulls, with their lofty wings, descending upon the fields and eating the crickets. I loved the account. I sat down with a pencil in hand and wrote out a two-and-one-half-minute talk. I’ve never forgotten the seagulls. I’ve never forgotten the crickets. I’ve never forgotten my knees knocking together as I gave that talk. I’ve never forgotten the experience of letting some of my innermost feelings be expressed verbally at the pulpit. I would urge that we give the Aaronic Priesthood an opportunity to think, to reason, and to serve.

Old Bob came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his eighties when the house in which he was living was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front porch swing. With a plaintive voice, he said to grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have no money.” I wondered how grandfather would answer. Slowly grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it that old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob. Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move in your things. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay and nobody will ever put you out again.”
Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood ten feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has influenced my life.

For a few brief seconds after he woke up, Steve Caldwell felt fine. He’d been dreaming that he was hairy beyond belief, a recurring dream since his mission and the loss of some of his hair.
Then the memory of the date he’d had the night before thudded into his memory like a lead ball. He sat up on the edge of his bed and gloomily looked out at the snow swirling past his window.
“Big snowstorm today,” his roommate announced. “The interstate’s already closed.”
“Do you know how many girls at BYU have told me that they like me only as a friend?” Steve asked. But his roommate breezed out of the room, leaving the question hanging in the air.
Steve sat and brooded.
An hour later, however, a sudden great idea flashed into his mind, causing him to hurriedly get dressed.
“Where are you going in this weather?” his roommate asked as Steve bundled up in his parka.
“If they can send a man to the moon, the least they can do is give me hair!” With that, he was out the door.
His car wouldn’t start, but undaunted, he trudged through knee-high drifts.
The first thing he noticed about the usually busy BYU health center was that there were no cars in the parking lot. In fact, there was no parking lot, only a field of snow. He climbed over a drift near the front door and walked in.
“I’m sorry,” the girl at the reception desk told him, “but the doctors aren’t in yet because of the storm. You’ll have to wait.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. I’m only the receptionist.”
“Do any of the doctors do hair transplants?”
“I don’t know. I’m just the receptionist.”
“I see.”
He walked into the waiting room. It was empty except for a girl reading a magazine while breathing noisily through her mouth.
He sat down on a chair opposite the girl and alternated between reading a magazine about tooth decay and watching her struggle for breath.
She looked up from her magazine suddenly to catch him staring at her.
“You’ve got a bad cold,” he said.
She burst out crying.
“Nothing to cry about. Everybody gets ‘em.”
“It’s not that!” she sobbed, fumbling for a tissue in her purse. “I was going with a guy, and last night he broke up with me. I cried all night.”
“Really? The same thing happened to me last night.”
She stared at him, and then asked, “You cried all night?”
“No. My girl broke up with me, too.”
“It’s rotten, isn’t it? Had you been going together very long?”
“Two weeks,” Steve admitted.
“That’s not very long.”
“It was to her. Last night she told me she could never get serious with a guy who had less hair than her grandfather.”
“How cruel.”
“Thank you. What’s your name?”
“Susan Benson.”
“I’m Steve Caldwell.” He stood up, walked over to her, put out his hand, had second thoughts, and withdrew it. “Okay if I don’t shake your hand? You can’t be too careful these days.”
She looked at him strangely.
“Germwise, I mean,” he clarified.
He returned to his chair. “Well, there are always other fish in the sea, hey?”
“Not for me,” she cried. “I need tall fish.”
He lowered his eyes to the magazine and tried to figure out what she meant.
“I’m taller than your average coed,” she explained.
“You don’t look so tall to me.”
“That’s because I’m sitting down.”
“Oh sure. Well, even so, you’re no King Kong.”
Her lips began to curl downward, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing. Hoping to smooth things over, he added, “I mean from here you don’t look that abnormal to me.”
She started to cry again. He felt terrible.
“I’m not that tall,” she finally said, “but guys don’t date a girl unless they’re at least two inches taller.”
“I’ve never heard that.”
“Have you ever dated anybody taller than you?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve got enough problems.”
She began crying again, and he read the same paragraph about gum diseases for the seventh time.
Finally unable to stand her crying, he put down his magazine. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out. I’m sure you’re a very nice person.”
She blew her nose and looked up at him. “Do you really think so?”
“Sure. And you shouldn’t worry. There are plenty of tall guys on campus. I mean, just look at the basketball team.”
“There are 47 guys in school who are at least two inches taller than me. Twenty-six of them are already married. Nine are waiting to go on missions. Eight of them are either engaged or going steady with someone else. I broke up with one last night.”
He added the numbers up in his head. “That still leaves three.”
“One is my cousin.”
“Two.”
“One is 42 years old.”
“One.”
“One eats only yogurt and sesame seeds and always carries an orange in his left hand.”
“Zero. I see what you mean. You’re really in a pickle.”
She cried while he read. A few minutes later, he tried again. “I never knew there was so much tooth decay.”
“Where I grew up, we had fluoride naturally in the water.”
“I bet you don’t have very many cavities, do you?”
She started to answer but stopped to touch her cheekbone. “My sinuses are killing me. It feels like my whole head’s been pumped with Jello.”
“I’ll see what’s keeping the doctors.”
On his way to the reception desk, he stopped at a window and surveyed the raging blizzard. It was impossible to see 20 feet beyond the building.
“Nurse?” he asked the girl at the desk, who was listening to her small portable radio.
“I’m not a nurse. I’m just a receptionist.”
“Right. Where are the doctors?”
“I don’t know. The storm may have blocked the streets.”
“Say, have you got anything for that girl? She’s got a sinus problem.”
“This isn’t a drugstore, you know. I’m not a pharmacist.”
“Miss Williams, is that your name?” he said reading the name tag on her uniform. “Don’t doctors get little samples of medicine?”
He walked to a cabinet and opened it. “Do you have a first name?”
“Of course I do.”
He looked at all the packets of medicine.
“You’re not trained to look in the cabinet,” she said.
“Miss Williams, do you have any idea the suffering that poor girl is going through in there? Don’t you have any empathy?”
“If we have any, it’ll be there.”
He finally found a sinus pill. He read the directions out loud: “‘Drowsiness may occur. Use caution in driving or operating machinery.’”
He took a glass of water and the pill back to Susan. She took it and thanked him.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“I came to get a hair transplant.”
“Do they do that now?”
“Look,” he answered, feeling himself tense up, “they sent a man to the moon. They ought to be able to grow hair on my head.”
“It’s not that bad, really. What are you, 26?”
Steve bit his lip. “I’m 22.”
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s not the hair that bothers me. It’s what people say. They’re so cruel.”
“I know about cruel,” she agreed. “I was five ten in the eighth grade.”
“If you’re tall, you should play basketball.”
“I do.”
“I mean for BYU.”
“I do.”
“Oh. You really are an athlete. I always used to dream about being an athlete. Tell me, do guys ever wait outside the gym and ask you for your autograph?”
“No.”
“That was the only reason I wanted to be an athlete—to sign autographs for girls.”
Susan yawned. “Wow, that pill really made me sleepy.”
A few minutes later, she was asleep in her chair.
Steve finally gave up on his magazine and turned on the TV in the waiting room, but after four commercials, the screen went blank, and he turned it off.
A little later, Miss Williams came into the waiting room. “May I have your attention?” she asked formally as if there were a hundred people in the room. “Dr. Rawlins has asked that I close the health center and send all of you home.”
“Okay.”
“But just after I talked with him, I heard on the radio that they advise everybody to stay where they are.”
“Do we go or stay?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Miss Williams confessed. “What do you think we should do?”
He looked out again at the raging blizzard and said, “We’d better stay.”
“Okay, we stay.” Suddenly she noticed Susan with her head tilted back against the back of the chair, breathing through her open mouth. “Is anything wrong with her?”
“No, she’s just tired. Did you know that where she came from they had natural fluoride in the water? I bet she doesn’t have many fillings in her teeth.”
“Really?” Miss Williams asked.
“I’ve been reading about tooth decay. I wonder if she’d mind if we looked into her mouth,” he said.
They both leaned over and peered into Susan’s open mouth.
“Isn’t that amazing?” he whispered.
“It’s breathtaking,” Miss Williams agreed.
“I’ve never seen teeth with absolutely no fillings,” he continued. “I wish I had my camera.”
“Really.”
“She has a nice face, too, don’t you think?”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I guess we both need someone right now.”
“We don’t get many romances here.”
“Oh, it’d never work out. She’s taller than me, and I don’t have all my hair. People’d always be making fun of us.”
“Do you really care about people who do that?”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, looking at Susan’s upper molars. “Oh, look! I see a filling way in the back. You have to get down and tilt your head over like this.
Miss Williams also looked. “Where?”
“Way back, where my finger’s pointing.”
Just then Susan woke up, saw them peering into her mouth, and screamed.
Steve grabbed his ears and moaned.
“Why were you looking into my mouth?” Susan demanded.
“We were looking at your teeth,” he confessed.
“Why?”
“The TV wasn’t working,” he answered lamely.
“You scared me to death. I thought at first you both were vampires.”
Miss Williams went back to the reception desk. Steve sat down and picked up his magazine.
“I’m sorry, Susan. I had no right. The least I could have done was ask your permission. You can look at my teeth if you’d like.”
“No thanks.”
“You have amazing teeth. You can truly be proud.”
“I brush regularly and watch my snacks.”
He looked up from his magazine. “I bet you’ll teach that to your children, too, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You’ll be a wonderful mother. If you have boys, you can teach them basketball.”
“Girls, too.”
“Oh, sure, it wouldn’t matter, would it?”
“And you could show them how to be interested and concerned about other people …” Suddenly she stopped and blushed. “I didn’t mean to imply that we’d get married.”
“It’s all right.”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I think you’re a nice guy, but it was dumb of me to imply that we’d be married in the temple and have a wonderful family.”
“No, really, it’s fine.” He put down his magazine, walked over and sat down beside her. “Susan, I’ve never said this before to any girl, but I think you’re nice.”
“Thanks. That’s good to hear, especially after last night.”
“You know,” he said, holding her hand, “you remind me of a greyhound.”
“I do?” she asked with raised eyebrows.
“Oh, not the bus,” he said quickly. “I mean the dog … that is … I mean … you look like you probably run gracefully.”
“People say that on a fast break heading for the basket, I remind them of a gazelle.”
“One thing’s for sure. Next home game you have, I’m going.”
She looked down at his hand clasping hers. “Is that a very good idea?” she asked quietly.
He looked at her strangely.
“Germwise, I mean,” she added.
“I can take it.”
They sat in silence together for several seconds before she whispered softly, “Steve, could you let go of my hand? I have to take care of my nose.”
While she did that, he stood up and walked to the window. Moving aside the drapes, he saw a seven-foot snow drift.
“Susan, you’ve got to see this drift.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, remaining in the chair.
“No, come here and see it.”
“I’m afraid,” she confessed.
“Snow can’t hurt you.”
“I’m afraid of standing up.”
He turned to face her and asked gently, “You are?”
“When I stand up, you’ll see how tall I am, and I’m afraid that’ll change our friendship.”
“But we can’t go through life together with you in that chair.”
“All right,” she sighed, “but turn around while I stand up and walk to you.”
He turned around.
“I’m walking toward you now, but don’t turn around until I say. Steve, I don’t think of you as a person who’s shorter than me.”
He could tell that she was just in back of him.
“All right, you can turn around now.”
He turned around, looked at her, and whispered, “Good grief!”
She ran from the room. A second later, he ran after her. He heard a door slam, but by the time he reached the hallway, he couldn’t tell which room Susan had entered.
“Where is she?” he asked Miss Williams.
“Second door to the right.”
He ran to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.
“Susan!” he yelled. “Listen to me! I’m sorry!”
From inside the room, he could hear her crying.
Miss Williams appeared beside him. “I’m sure the medical staff would frown on this kind of activity going on in the medical center.”
“Susan, it doesn’t matter! Susan! Come out so we can talk!”
“No,” a muffled voice answered.
“Susan, if you don’t come out, I’m going to do something drastic!”
Just then the electrical power throughout the building went out as the blizzard raged on.
Susan opened the door a few seconds later. “How’d you do that?”
“It was the storm. The power just went out.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Williams moaned. “What are we going to do now? We’ll freeze to death.”
“We’ll survive! Don’t worry. First thing, get some doctor’s smocks for us to put on to keep us warm.”
A few minutes later, each wearing a doctor’s white smock, they sat down behind the reception desk. Steve took charge. “Now we’re going to tell stories and play games and have a nice LDS get-together until the storm lets up. It’ll be just like a long ward activity.”
“How long?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can we play Simon Says?” Miss Williams asked eagerly.
“Later. First I want to tell you about my mission.”
“Then can we play Simon Says?”
Suddenly they heard yelling outside. The door opened and a student staggered in, his clothes caked with snow. He wearily stumbled to the reception desk, saw Steve, and cried out, “Doctor, you’ve got to help me!”
“Well, actually …” Steve began.
“I’ve been so depressed lately. This morning I even thought about committing suicide. You’ve got to help me, or I don’t know what I’ll do!”
Steve glanced down at the name tag reading Dr. Rawlins on the smock he was wearing, and then up at the student. “What would happen if you couldn’t see a doctor today?”
“Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
“I see,” Steve said. “All right, I’ll see you. What’s your name?”
“Frank Henderson.”
“Before we start an examination, we need you to fill out a form. Miss Williams, get a form.”
“What form?”
“Any form!” Steve whispered. “Have him fill it out in a room down the hall.”
As Miss Williams escorted Frank down the hall, Steve called out, “Frank, take all the time you want to fill out the form.”
After depositing Frank in a room down the hall, Miss Williams ran back to the reception desk, nearly hysterical. “What are we going to do?”
“Don’t ask me! I’m not a doctor!” Steve said.
“We could phone a doctor and ask him what to do,” Susan offered.
Miss Williams dialed the number and summarized the situation concisely: “Dr. Rawlins, there’s a student here who says he’s terribly depressed! What do we do?” A long pause followed. “I see.” Another long pause. “Yes, doctor.” A few seconds later. “Oh, rats!”
“Oh, rats?” Steve asked.
“The phone just went dead.”
“Well, what did he say before the phone went dead?” Steve asked.
“He said for us not to let him leave the building. Dr. Rawlins will try and find some way to get here.”
Just then, Frank returned with the completed form, which he handed to Steve. “Now what? I’ve had plenty of counseling before, but none of it’s done any good. What do you people do?”
Steve felt all three of them staring at him. He cleared his throat. “Of course it varies with the individual case. There are a number of different treatments possible.”
“Believe me, I’ve had ’em all. What will you do for my case?”
Steve picked up the form and pretended to be examining it. Finally, he cleared his throat and announced as officially as he could, “We could play Simon Says.”
“Oh, good!” Miss Williams said.
“Wait a minute!” Frank said suspiciously. “I’ve never heard of that therapy before.”
“It’s new,” Susan said. “You could say we are the pioneers in Simon Therapy.”
“Okay, everybody line up against the wall,” ‘Steve said. “I’ll be Simon.”
“Really, you should be Dr. Simon,” Frank suggested as they lined up.
“Simon will do. By the way, Frank, why were you so depressed this morning?”
“Because I’m a failure.”
“I see. Well, let’s begin. Susan, Simon says, take two regular steps forward.”
Susan took two steps forward.
“Frank, Simon says, take two regular steps forward.”
Frank wiped his brow, put his fingers over his mouth, and stared at the floor. “No, I can’t do it. You’re trying to trick me.”
“No, I’m not. Go ahead, you can do it.”
Frank took two steps forward. “Look, I did it!”
“Good. Okay, Miss Williams, Simon says, take two tiny steps forward.”
She did so.
“Frank, Simon says, take two giant steps forward.”
“How big is a giant step?” Frank asked apprehensively.
“It’ll vary with the individual.”
Frank nervously ran his fingers through his hair. “No, I don’t trust giant steps. Go on to someone else.”
“All right then. Frank, just take two regular steps forward.”
Frank took the two steps.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Miss Williams yelled. “He walked, and you didn’t say Simon says!”
“Miss Williams!” Steve warned.
“Those are the rules! He has to go back and start all over again.”
“I knew you were out to get me!” Frank yelled.
“Nobody’s out to get you!” Steve yelled back.
Frank slumped to the floor in utter defeat. “I’ve failed again! Everybody is ahead of me, in every class, in every job, in everything!”
“For crying out loud! Frank, get up! Don’t you know that you’ve got to have failures in order to succeed! There’s nothing wrong with having to start all over again. It’s a part of life. You only fail if you quit. And doing yourself in would be the ultimate in being a quitter.”
Frank stared at the floor for several seconds and then said quietly, “But I’ll never be a nuclear physicist.”
“So what?” Steve said. “Neither will I.”
“But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do all my life, ever since I started to watch science fiction movies about the brilliant scientist who saves the galaxy from destruction.”
“What’s the problem?” Susan asked.
“Calculus. I can’t pass first semester calculus.”
“Calculus? What’s that?” Susan asked.
“If I knew what it was, I could probably pass it.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Miss Williams said, “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, again.”
“I have. This is my fourth time to take it. I flunked the first three times.”
“Oh.”
“It isn’t fair,” Frank complained. “Life isn’t fair. I want to be a nuclear physicist, but I can’t do math.”
“I know what you mean,” Steve agreed. “I want to have lots of hair, but look at me now.”
“And I want to be average in height, and look at me,” Susan added.
“I want to be a nurse, and I’m only a receptionist,” Miss Williams said.
They all went into the waiting room and sat down and brooded.
“So, what do we do?” Frank asked. “Give up?”
“The things that are important to you aren’t important to me,” Susan said. “I mean I don’t care if Steve has a whole head of hair or not. If he hadn’t mentioned it, I wouldn’t have paid any attention to it. Life is more than hair.”
“That’s right,” Steve added. “I don’t care if Susan is tall or not. Life is more than being average in height.”
“And I certainly don’t care if Frank is a … what?” Miss Williams added.
“Nuclear physicist,” Frank said. “That’s it!” Steve said. “We’ve all been worried about what we can’t be. What we ought to concentrate on is what we can be! I’m a nice guy, and I like working with people.”
“And I’m a good athlete,” Susan said.
“And a good receptionist is very important to a medical staff,” Miss Williams said cheerfully.
“And I can be a science fiction writer and write about the brilliant scientists who save the galaxy from destruction!” Frank added.
The electrical power went back on, and Frank and Miss Williams hurried to see if the phones were working yet.
Steve and Susan sat across from each other.
“I should apologize,” Susan began. “I’ve been acting as if I were shipwrecked and you were the only life raft in the sea.”
“And I’ve treated you badly,” he admitted.
“You know, I feel much better now. I found out that I was the one who was making height a barrier to my own happiness.”
“And I was doing the same thing, being so self-conscious about my lack of hair that I drove girls away.”
“I can hardly wait to use my new insight to meet other guys.” Susan said grimly.
“Me too,” he added sadly.
Then he walked over and sat down beside her. “Susan, don’t walk out of my life. We should be more than two life rafts passing in the night. Will you go out with me, at least until someone taller comes along?”
“Oh, I’d like that,” she said, suddenly happy. “Besides, I really look up to you.”
Ten minutes later, four snow-mobiles pulled up in front of the building. Dr. Rawlins jumped out first and ran to the door. “I just hope we got here in time!” he yelled to the two policemen following him.
They rushed in to save the day but instead found four students in doctor’s smocks dancing to music from Miss Williams’s portable radio.

After 15 months, I was reassigned to the American Embassy in Pretoria, South Africa. I was selected as the first black Marine security guard ever to serve in South Africa. In each place I was assigned, I was handpicked because of my standards. Interestingly, President Bill Clinton phoned to ask me to accept the South Africa assignment. Those were some of the reasons that I received many recognitions and awards.
It was in South Africa that I met the Cleverlys, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The mother of the family invited me to their home at various times. She always told me about young single adult activities, but I could never attend due to my job schedule. Then she invited me to attend church, and I accepted. But before Sunday came, I had three nights of night-shift duty. I went downstairs to the library of the embassy where there was a computer with a huge search capacity. I just typed in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. All this information came up, so I just read it for eight hours the first night, eight hours the second night, and eight hours the third night. What I looked at most of all was what Latter-day Saints believed and how they applied it in their lives. Did they live according to what they had established as laws or standards of the Church?
The week preceding my visit to church, I had a dream. I was sitting at a table, and there were two young men with white short-sleeved shirts and black tags. They were sitting on the sides of a table, and I was seated at the head. I woke up, but I didn’t think much about the dream.
The first time I walked into an LDS ward, I knew there was something different about this church. Also, it happened to be the first Sunday of the month, which meant that the members had an opportunity to stand and bear testimony. Now this is the true order of church, I thought.
I was introduced to two missionaries who began to teach me. One of the young men was one of those in my dream, the exact person. Sister Cleverly invited the missionaries and me to her home for dinner. She placed us at the table exactly as my dream had predicted.
Later, when we got to the principle about baptism for the dead, I thought it was so amazing that one could go to a sacred place and do these things for people who had passed away. I just thought that was incredible, and I thought about my two grandfathers and my grandmother who had passed away. That’s when I started to feel the Holy Ghost. The teachings sounded right to me.
We got to the next principle, which is about families, and I just always knew that was true. When I heard about eternal families, I told the missionaries, “I knew this existed.”
Then the missionaries taught me about the Word of Wisdom, and it was then that I had a discovery. I don’t want to call it a paradigm shift, but it felt like my soul unfolded, and I just shed this shell and a new person came out. I felt like I was three feet off the ground. I had always lived the Word of Wisdom, and I wanted to know why I was the way that I was. No one ever had the answer to that for me, but the Lord did through the missionaries and the discussions. I knew that everything they had taught me previously was true, and everything that they would teach me would be true. I never felt the Spirit so strongly reading scriptures before, and when I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21, I knew it was true. I always knew that my body was important, and I knew that it was never to be defiled.
From this point forward, I began to experience mixed emotions about becoming a member of the Church. I was concerned about my father’s opinion and his reaction to my decision. The night of the sixth discussion was a very eventful night.
During the sixth discussion, I received the message that I had an incoming call from my father. The phone rang. I picked it up, and it was indeed my dad.
He said, “Your mother informed me that you’ve made a decision to join the Latter-day Saints.”
I said yes.
He said, “I’m here to prevent that from happening.”
And I said, “You know what, Dad? I love you, and you’ll always be my dad. You’ve done a great job with me. But I’m 22. I’m a man now, and these decisions are for my family and my future. I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me and that you will continue to do for me, but this is my decision. I’m going to do it, and I know that the Lord wants me to do this.”
My dad wasn’t too happy when he hung up the phone. Immediately I got on my knees in the kitchen and asked the Lord to help me see and understand that what I was going to do was correct. I was thousands of miles away from home. I was all alone, and nothing was going right. Only when I was with the missionaries did I feel good. At that moment the Spirit testified to me that it was the Lord’s will and that the Lord wanted me to be baptized. It was a very clear voice that just said, “You’re to do the Lord’s will. You are to follow His example.” Then I knew. I never looked back after that. I was baptized on October 12, 1995.
It was a year to the day of my baptism, October 12, 1996, that I entered the Washington D.C. Temple to be endowed in preparation for serving a full-time mission to the Spain Madrid Mission.
During the first year of my mission, my parents were not supportive about my missionary service. The Lord revealed to me while I was on my mission that my family was fine, and they would be taken care of. Then things changed all of a sudden. The last six to eight months of my mission my family was very supportive. They said they were receiving blessings, and they knew it was because of my serving a mission.
After I returned from my mission, I stayed with my family for three weeks before I had to leave to enter Brigham Young University. Before school started, my father visited me, meeting my friends and seeing Salt Lake City. When I took him to the airport, he embraced me and told me, “Out of all 46 years of my life, never ever have I felt more love or the Spirit of God in my home than when you were home the last few weeks. I know that we owe it to the service that you gave in Spain for two years.”

Jesse Austin of Lyons, Colorado, made a great friend in Brandon Harris of Ogden, Utah, at the wheelchair sports camp they both attended in Denver.
Brandon set five records at that meet in swimming and track and won many medals. Jesse won ten medals and set a record in the discus throw.
Both boys are paraplegic, but that doesn’t slow them down. Jesse pushed himself 50 miles in five days on the Oregon Trail to earn his 50-mile patch and his Historic Trails Award. He also goes to the temple with the youth from his ward to do baptisms for the dead.

Jean A. Stevens, first counselor in the Primary general presidency, told a story about a boy who had missed the last bus of the day and was walking home (page 81). With many miles left to go, he got scared and knelt to pray. Minutes later, Sister Stevens was prompted by the Spirit to stop and help him. Can you think of times when Heavenly Father answered your prayers? How have you helped answer someone else’s prayer?

I will never forget that morning. I was the first customer in the restaurant when it opened at 5:00 A.M. As I sat down at a booth I noticed my reflection in the window. I looked like something that had just crawled out from under a rock. It was my last semester in college, and I had stayed up all night working on a midterm project. I was tired and in a terrible mood. All I wanted was my breakfast and some peace and quiet. I decided to pamper myself, so I ordered a huge breakfast of eggs, pancakes, juice, and toast. I knew it was extravagant on my student budget, but I was too exhausted to care. As soon as I had ordered, I noticed a recreational van pull into the parking lot. It was one of those 30-foot monsters, the type you always get stuck behind when going up a long hill. Out jumped an older couple, probably in their sixties. As they walked into the restaurant I could just feel their energy. At a time when I wasn’t even sure my heart was pumping blood, the last thing I needed was to be exposed to the type of optimism they seemed to exert. I shuddered to think that my morning privacy was about to be violated.
There were six booths along the east wall and I had taken the most remote one. I could not understand why the couple chose the booth right next to mine. Irritated, I began a cold, critical analysis of these people in my mind.
The man’s hair was cut short in a crew cut. I was sure he was president of an Elks or Eagles Club somewhere in America’s heartland. He wore nondescript black oxfords with white dress socks, green polyester slacks, and a J. C. Penney’s sport shirt buttoned to the top button. As one would expect, he wore a leather string tie with a gaudy turquoise center piece. I guessed that he had been up since 4:00 A.M., run six miles, sung in the shower, and just couldn’t wait to hit the road. I secretly vowed that I would never, even if my life depended on it, be like that man.
I looked at the Mrs. in amazement as she sat with a road map fastidiously calculating the mileage for the day’s trip. She was a bundle of energy with makeup that didn’t cover the wrinkles, a yellow ‘smiley patch’ on her windbreaker, and an endless stream of conversation.
When they had finished their breakfast and were getting ready to leave, I made my final assessment. Who were they? I imagined he was a retired independent businessman, probably had his own tool-and-die shop in an Indianapolis industrial park. He was no doubt a good Republican, a retired colonel in the National Guard, and had the best-trimmed lawn on the cul-de-sac. She must have served on a thousand PTAs and would consistently have the Christmas shopping done by mid-July. Together, they were a tribute to the virtue of hard work, reaping their rewards as they discovered America in their Winnebago II, I thought sarcastically. They epitomized the kind of smug, self-satisfied materialism that takes good care of itself but ignores the poverty, pain, and sorrow of the rest of the world. Oh, they might give to the United Way or help organize a cancer drive, but I was willing to bet the price of my meal (considerable by my standards) that they wouldn’t recognize a real human need if it walked up and punched them in their middle-class noses.
As they paid their bill, I noticed the lady speak to her husband and then to the waitress. Then, looking a little flustered, the waitress left the register, hurried over to my booth, picked up my check, and returned to the couple. I had no idea what was going on. I felt myself getting angry. What right did these people have to ruin my breakfast? Why didn’t they just quietly leave and let me be?
Finally, they left and I calmed down. A minute later, the waitress returned to my booth and set my check on the table. I didn’t bother to ask what the commotion had been about. I finished my breakfast, picked up the check, and headed for the cash register. Just as I reached the waitress I noticed that my check had “Paid” written across the top. As I began to question the waitress, the Mrs. walked through the door and headed for her booth to get something she had left behind. The waitress then explained to me that the couple had paid my bill. Completely chagrined, I turned and tried to mutter some sort of thank-you to the lady as she passed by me on her way out the door.
“Oh, you’re more than welcome,” she said. “We have a grandson in college, and we know how hard it is. We love ya, study hard!” A second later she was out the door and into the waiting van.
As I watched that long van signal and turn onto the dark highway, I again made a secret vow. I pledged that I would never, even if my life depended on it, forget those two people and the lesson I had just learned about judging others.

Maintaining your standards qualifies you for marriage in the temple. Incidentally, this is the 173rd Annual General Conference of the Church, and for just a bit of trivia, my wife and I have been married 73 years. So the year we were married, the Church would have been holding the 100th annual conference. I can remember that as I was holding Ruby’s hand across the altar of the temple—listening to the words of the sealing ceremony—I had a special feeling in my heart, not only of the sacredness of it but of the responsibility I had to live as I should live, to take care of her and our children, and then our grandchildren, and then the other generations that would come along. I was determined to set an example of living the way a person can live in honoring the priesthood and our marriage covenant.