Gospel Story Finder

“Am I ever bored,” Natalie said on Monday morning as she and her sister and brothers sat under the maple tree in their backyard, drinking lemonade. “School’s only been out two weeks, and I’ve already run out of things to do.”
“Me, too,” Travis agreed. “Later we’ll have swimming lessons and summer camp, but right now, what?” He was the oldest Carter child. They ranged in age from Johnny, who was six, to Travis, fourteen; with nine-year-old Natalie, ten-year-old Roger, and twelve-year-old Susan in between.
“I’ve been thinking,” Susan said slowly.
“Hooray!” Roger teased.
“Seriously,” Susan went on, making a face at Roger, “why don’t we form a club?”
“We’ve already had lots of clubs,” Johnny groaned. “And I never got to be president of any of them.”
“Not a regular club—a special one, one that isn’t just for fun, but to help people too.”
“Sure!” Travis exclaimed. “We could have a good-deed club, or something like that. We could secretly do nice things for people.”
“We’ll need a name and a general plan,” Natalie pointed out.
“Why don’t we each think of a different good deed. That way we’ll do one for each day of the week,” Roger put in.
“Let’s call ourselves the Sunshine Club,” Natalie suggested.
“OK!” the others chimed in.
“Let’s pick ideas from oldest to youngest,” said Susan.
They all agreed. Then Travis announced that he already had an idea for that day. “Remember Jeff, the boy who was burned in that house fire last week? We heard about it in sacrament meeting and in Primary. We could each write him a letter and send a get-well card.”
After lunch the children wrote notes to Jeff. Johnny cut out pretty pictures from a magazine to help fill his page, and Natalie included a poem she liked. Travis found a card with a happy verse in the family greeting-card box.
The children rode their bicycles to the post office and mailed the large envelope. “That was fun, wasn’t it!” Johnny whooped as they pedaled home.
After supper, the Sunshine Club met hastily on the back porch. They decided to announce their activity at ten each morning and to try to complete it during the afternoon.
On Tuesday, Susan suggested they pick flowers from their garden, make bouquets, and take them to the retired people’s center. That afternoon, while Susan and Roger cut flowers with Mom’s permission, the other three children found old jars that they cleaned and covered with foil or pretty wrapping paper.
“Off we go,” they cried as they headed into town, pulling a wagon loaded with colorful blossoms. At the retirement center, they split up and each delivered three small vases of flowers.
Roger was having a hard time deciding what to suggest for Wednesday. But when Mom said she would be gone all day, his eyes sparkled. “Today the Sunshine Club stays home to help Mom.”
“But we always help,” Johnny said, disappointed.
“We do our regular jobs—but I mean special ones.”
So that afternoon the children washed all the windows and the kitchen floor. Then they made some corn bread, heated up some stew, and sneaked out of the kitchen just as Mom came home. She was pleased to see the shiny clean windows and glossy floor and to smell supper on the stove.
“My, how wonderful to have so many mysterious elves around our home,” she remarked at supper. “This stew is delicious, and the corn bread tastes great!”
Thursday morning when the children met, Natalie appeared about to burst. “We’ll collect aluminum cans today and give the money we make to the homeless shelter.” All afternoon they knocked on doors asking for old cans. They searched along roadsides too. A large stack of cans grew in their backyard.
When Dad came home, he volunteered to take the cans to the recycling center.
“Thanks, Dad,” Travis said. The others nodded their thanks too. They all helped load the plastic bags filled with cans into their van. Natalie went into the center with Dad and proudly brought back a check for their efforts. “It’s not much, but every little bit helps,” she said.
On Friday morning, Johnny looked happy. He had finally decided on a project. “Let’s go through our toys and clothes. Richard’s family is having a hard time since his dad was hurt. We could give them some of our things.”
“What a great idea, Johnny,” Susan said. “I’ll write a note, and we can sneak up and deliver the things without them seeing us.”
The children were amazed at the many nice things they found that would be just right for someone in Richard’s family. They decided to give puzzles, a teddy bear, a ball, a baseball mitt, books, and some outgrown clothes that were still as good as new.
Mom came by and added two good blankets and some canned food to the pile.
“Wow,” said Johnny. “This looks great!” The children carted their box to Richard’s home. They left it by the front door with a note that said:
To Richard’s family—
Here is a gift to let you know we care.
The Sunshine Club
The children hurried home. That evening after supper they again sat under the maple tree.
“Boy, am I tired!” Johnny announced.
“But it’s a good kind of tired,” Susan said.
“Yes,” Travis agreed. “And this sure hasn’t been a boring week.”
“The club won’t stop, will it?” Natalie asked.
“Oh, no,” the others chorused.
“That’s good,” Roger asserted. “I already have a lot of new ideas for the Sunshine Club.”

My wife and I did not have the privilege of attending BYU as students. However, our daughter received her bachelor’s and master’s degrees here—and, by the way, she graduated summa cum laude. I assume that there are enough proud parents here today who can easily recognize one of their own. Let me share with you briefly why the memory of our daughter’s BYU experience is so tender to us.

Only a few months before receiving her degree, our daughter gave birth to twin boys who arrived six weeks early. Talk about student efficiency! When we observed how she and her husband found time to raise these two little babies while at the same time finishing their schooling, we were convinced that there is a special spirit at BYU. In this atmosphere not only does knowledge grow and multiply, so does the population!

My wife and I came all the way from Germany to attend our daughter’s commencement exercises. We sat way up there in the high bleachers with the two little babies in a double stroller, watching the students receive their diplomas. Little did we know that 19 years later we would be here once again, attending another commencement—this time with slightly better seats—representing the First Presidency of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

By the way, our handsome twin grandsons, who were born at Utah Valley Regional Medical Center, are now six feet tall and serving missions for the Lord in Asia. Isn’t it wonderful how life brings change, challenges, and blessings into our lives?

On another occasion, I met a young man 14 years of age who was a superb tennis player. He had won all of the tennis tournaments in his class in an area that included several states. He had reached the semifinals of a very important tournament that was to take place in a distant city. As he arrived there, he found that he was scheduled to participate on Sunday. He went to the officials and told them he didn’t play tennis on Sunday; whereupon he was informed that if he wanted to play in this tournament, he would play on Sunday. He again indicated he would not play on Sunday, knowing that not to do so would mean he would forfeit the match. As it happened, the matches were rained out on Sunday. He played on Monday and won.

He then went by bus with the other finalists to another major city to compete in the championship matches that covered the entire Atlantic seaboard of the United States. They arrived on Sunday. The coach instructed the contestants to get out on the tennis courts and practice immediately upon arrival. This young man did not go to the tennis courts. The coach asked him why he wasn’t practicing. He said, “I don’t play tennis on Sunday.” The coach asked him why. His response was, “I am a Mormon.”

I suppose he wanted to win the championship for his age group more than anything else, and yet he himself had made the decision that keeping the Sabbath day holy was more important than being a champion in tennis. You see, he had found himself and had the courage and integrity to live his life according to the principles he had been taught, and he had made his decision regardless of social pressures.

The story was told by my mother that on the morning I was born, on a Sunday, my father was quite proud. He was the bishop of the Oakley First Ward in Oakley, Idaho, and he went outside to announce it to one of our Scandinavian friends, Brother Petersen, who was walking by. My father asked him to come in and see the new son. My mother said I was the homeliest little child she had ever seen. I was undernourished, wrinkled, and bald headed. And so Brother Petersen, after looking at me, said, “Sister Haight, do you tink he’s worth boddering with?” Well, that was my entrance into the world.

Another help that almost every person interviewed mentioned for bringing a new family close is showing physical affection. You’re not being disloyal to a natural parent by giving a stepparent a hug. You hug your friends, don’t you? “I remember one thing that really made me feel closer to my stepmom,” says Chris Smith. “I’d just gotten home from a trip, and she gave me a big hug—that made me realize she was really happy to see me. That was good.”

I accepted a mission call to Scotland and had a wonderful experience. A few weeks after I returned home, I met my future wife at a Church meeting. We dated, and I proposed marriage. We were married in the Salt Lake Temple.
One sentence in my patriarchal blessing indicates that I would be permitted to live in mortality with an angel. At the time the patriarch gave me that blessing, I didn’t know what an angel was, let alone the meaning of the phrase. As I left the temple the day my wife and I were sealed, I knew what it meant. She has been the light of my life. Thanks to her, I have been permitted to live in an environment of light. She has brought joy and happiness to our 8 children, 25 grandchildren, and 2 great-grandchildren. My children have all come to call her blessed. I give thanks to God for the blessings of the gospel and the eternal blessings of the covenants and ordinances of the holy temple.

I was the instructor and president of the university scuba club. I had been diving for almost three years and thought I knew all there was to know about scuba diving. I think, too, that at the ripe old age of 20, I had the idea that I knew pretty much all there was to know about life as well. There had been a drowning in the scuba club at another of the state universities, and the administration of our school was pressuring for the abolition of our club. Naturally, I had been fighting that idea with all my might. In any event, I had received the word directly from the university’s president himself. “Be careful. Any accidents of any kind will result in the immediate revocation of your student club charter.” I was trying to be very careful when I first met Diane. Actually, I didn’t meet Diane right away. I met, instead, her two roommates. They came to the pool one evening during a session of the scuba club and sought me out to ask if their roommate, whom they described as a very good swimmer, could join the club. I replied that she certainly could, as long as she could pass the necessary entrance tests. They left, and when they returned the next week I was astonished to see them pushing a girl in a wheelchair. They shoved her through the door and onto the pool deck. I stared at them, aghast. She was literally tied into the wheelchair with a wide band of white cloth. Her head lolled from one shoulder to the other like a bowling ball on the end of a broom straw. Her arms and legs jerked and twitched without control. She wore a terry cloth bib tied around her neck because she drooled uncontrollably. While I was staring, dumbfounded, trying to think what to do, her roommates pushed the chair to the edge of the pool and waited for me to tell them what to do next. I told them. I first motioned them to one side where I could speak with them privately, away from the unfortunate girl in the chair. “What’s the idea?” I demanded. “I thought you said she was a good swimmer!” “She is,” one of the girls assured me. I looked hard at the girl tied in the chair. Her head lay propped on one shoulder, and she regarded me with a face twisted into a grimace that made my neck hairs rise. “You’re kidding,” I replied. “There’s no way in the whole green world that she could swim well enough to take scuba lessons.” I patiently explained, over their loud protests, the situation I found myself and the club in. I recounted the instructions the president had given me only a few weeks earlier. They tried to argue, but I stood firm. Stubbornly, I brushed aside their arguments until finally I lost my temper with their insistence. Trying to keep my voice low enough so that the girl in the wheelchair—who was staring holes through me with her twisted face—couldn’t hear, I shouted in a whisper, “Look, I’m in charge of this club. I’ve said no and I mean no. Now get her out of here!” They left, and I resumed instructing the class. I was quite proud of myself for having stood off such an assault single-handedly. My self-satisfaction didn’t last long however. The girl’s two roommates hounded me relentlessly for the next several days. There seemed to be no way I could get away from them—or rid of them. They ambushed me along the sidewalk on the way to classes two or three times a day. They waited for me at the end of the cafeteria line. They called me on the telephone. Their pleas were impassioned and often loud. But they fell on strong shoulders and deaf ears. I was proud of myself for resisting, and that made me even more determined than ever that such a wild idea would never find favor with me. Then, on Wednesday, the day before the next meeting of the scuba club, the girl in the wheelchair pulled out all the stops. The class period ended, and as the other students began to file from the room, they found their way blocked by a wheelchair occupied by a very determined young woman. She had set the brake on the chair’s wheels. I heard the commotion by the door before I saw her. Then I heard her voice, shrill, slurred, but I could understand what she was saying. “Where’s Lee Dalton? I want to see Lee Dalton!” Some of the other students, angry and anxious to get to their next classes, grabbed me and pushed me to the front of the little crowd. The girl stared at me for a long time while I grew more and more uncomfortable as I tried desperately to think of something—anything—to say. The other students shifted around me. They were being caught up in the drama of the confrontation, caught up, but anxious to have it ended before classes resumed. “Uh, what do you want?” I asked lamely. Slurred and garbled though her speech was, there was no mistaking what she said. “You know what I want!” she replied in a determined tone. I began frantically trying to explain to her the demands of safety and the ultimatum of the president. None of it impressed her. She sat impassively, wheels locked, barring the exit of my classmates, who were becoming more and more irate as the minutes passed. Even the professor of the class just finished was breathing down my neck. “Whatever she wants, Dalton, give it to her,” someone behind me growled. “Yeah, and be quick about it,” added another. “My next class is clear across the campus!” I turned desperately toward the crowd gathered behind me and tried to explain my situation. They regarded me with what I took for scorn—and growing impatience. The girl in the wheelchair delivered the clincher. With the assembled students watching and listening she asked, “You told my friends I could learn scuba diving if I could pass the test. Right?” “Right,” I confirmed. “But … but how could you pass a test like that? It’s very difficult.” “How do you know I can’t pass it?” she retorted, speaking carefully and slowly so I could understand her. “You haven’t even given me a chance to take it!” The others heard and understood her plea, and I began hearing another kind of angry muttering from behind my back. The girl in the chair spoke again. There was no hint of begging in her voice, just a tone of firm determination. “Give me a chance,” she asked. “Just give me a chance to pass the test—or fail it.” I felt an elbow poke me in the ribs. A voice from back there someplace said, “Yeah, Dalton, what’s so bad about that idea? You afraid she might prove you’re wrong?” I tried once more to argue with the mob but was shouted down. They were surging against me, pushing me out of the room. I was caught between them and the girl in the wheelchair with the locked brakes. “All right,” I heard myself whispering. “Be there tomorrow night. But remember, you’ll have to pass the test just the same as everybody else. No breaks!” She nodded silently and unlocked the brake. I was as jumpy as a trout all the next day, and when time for the club meeting finally arrived, I had worked myself into a fair dither. I had discussed the problem with the other club officers, and we had finally agreed that we really had no choice but to let her take the test. But we’d be ready with all the available rescue equipment to pull her out before she drowned completely. The door to the women’s dressing rooms opened, and the two girls who had visited me the previous week and who helped make my last week so miserable pushed the chair with its tied-in occupant onto the pool deck. They shoved the chair to the very edge of the pool and paused. “Ready?” one of them asked. I looked around. Several of the other club members had taken up stations around the pool. Two of them grasped the long lifesaving poles with the shepherd’s crooks on the ends that usually hung in the brackets on the wall. A couple of others were pulling off their T-shirts getting ready to go in after her if necessary. I nodded, and one of them reached down and untied the cloth that held the girl imprisoned in her chair. Then they tipped the chair forward over the edge until she splashed unceremoniously into the water. We all stared, jaws slack, at the miracle in the pool. Freed from the pull of gravity against her body, the girl was immediately transformed into a thing of beauty and grace. She didn’t just swim through the water. She glided and surged with a precision that few of the rest of us could match. She swam to the side, executed a flip turn and swam back to stop at the edge of the pool at my feet. Looking up at me, she asked, “What do you want me to do first?” I noticed then for the first time how much effort it took for her to speak. Her entire body seemed to enter the effort of forming words, and her face twisted and creased as she fought to get the sounds out. “Swim five laps using a crawl stroke,” I said. And as I watched her sliding through the water, I suddenly found myself feeling terribly ashamed of myself. Ashamed because I had been secretly planning to rig the test against her by demanding far more of her than I would normally require of any new member. I knew then that I couldn’t do such a thing. She swam eight laps instead of five. And when I asked her to swim across the pool underwater, she not only swam across, she also swam back without stopping. Instead of bringing up one five-pound weight from the deepest part of the pool, she brought up two. In fact, in every task I required of her, she did more than I asked. When finally she swam to the edge of the pool and looked up at me to ask, “Well, did I pass?” there was only one answer I could give. Diane became one of the best divers in the club. She took part in all our outside dives including some difficult open water dives in the cold, murky waters of Lake Erie. She swam with us when we cut holes through the ice of our favorite limestone quarry to dive beneath it. She even helped us a couple of times n the unpleasant task of recovering the bodies of drowning victims. We learned to ignore the grotesqueness and learned to understand her garbled speech. And it seemed only natural that as we all grew to know Diane, we also grew to love her. She was a prisoner. Imprisoned not in a prison of stone and steel, but in a prison of skin and bone—and a somehow scrambled nervous system that shot random signals throughout her body. But in spite of all that, her spirit remained free, and about her radiated an infectious happiness and enthusiasm that lightened even the darkest days. We soon understood why her two roommates—friends of Diane since grade school—could sacrifice so much to give her the constant care she needed away from home. And, as we came to know Diane, we also learned of her dream. Like all of us, Diane had a dream she held close to her heart. It wasn’t a very spectacular dream like most of us carried in our youthful enthusiasm. Her dream was really rather simple. She wanted to teach. Diane wanted to teach other children like the child she had been, children held prisoners by their bodies or their minds, children twisted and deformed as she was. She wanted to help them find their places in the world. She wanted to help them grow to become all that they could become. And as we learned of Diane’s dream, we learned, too, of another obstacle she had to face—the same obstacle she’d had to face with me when she dreamed of learning to scuba dive. Even among those who worked as educators of the “special” children of the world, Diane found a wall of skepticism and doubt that prevented them from giving her the chance to show how well she could swim. She had finished her bachelor’s degree and had found all the job doors closed to her. Now, she was finishing her master’s degree, but still the doors were slammed and locked. The last time I saw Diane, she was in the swimming pool surrounded by a flock of laughing, splashing children. They paddled around her, shouting their happiness until it rattled off the rafters. Only the halting slurring of their speech gave away the fact that all of them, like Diane, were prisoners within their bodies. As I watched them splashing and laughing, I found myself praying silently for Diane—for all of them for that matter. I found myself praying that she—that they—would someday find the opportunity needed to reach the fullest potential they could reach. I never saw Diane again, never heard from her or of her. But even today, some 20 years later, I find myself praying that someone else, someplace, gave her another chance to show how well she could swim. And for those who didn’t, I can only feel sadness, sadness for those who deprived themselves of a great blessing. For we were all blessed in our opportunity, blessed because we gave ourselves a chance to come to know and to love a twisted, drooling, jerking girl named Diane. Now, too, I wonder how often we—all of us—have turned aside the opportunity to be blessed in a friendship with another person who, at first appearance, seems to be different in some way.

When Mitchell Compton was young, his mother often said to him, “Mitchell, God saved you for something special.” Then she would straighten his shirt and kiss him on the forehead. Mitchell didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he felt that it included protecting his four sisters, since he was the only son in the family.
As the years slipped by, his mother’s words receded into his memory. Mitchell drifted into intoxicating fun with friends. He knew he was not setting a good example for his sisters when he attended wild parties with kegs of beer. He sadly saw that his little sister was following his lead. Alcohol opened Mitchell’s gateway to drugs. By age 16, he was stealing to pay for his addictions. He spent many soul-searching years in jail.
Seven years later, his little sister died in a car crash. Her blue Mercury sedan landed upside down in a drainage ditch filled with three feet of water. Mitchell arrived at the scene of the accident too late to rescue her. He felt empty, like a vacuum had sucked out all his strength. Later, when he took the tragic news to his mother, she sobbed in a thin, bird-like cry and then collapsed into the arms of her friend. Mitchell was frozen at the sight. He was supposed to protect his little sister.
Wanting to get his life on track, he began attending AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meetings. While Mitchell was there, a young missionary pushed a Book of Mormon into his chest and then disappeared. Mitchell devoured the book and thought it was the truest form of religion he had ever read. When he rode public transportation, he often found other missionaries and discussed the Church’s beliefs with them.
Later at another AA meeting, Mitchell decided to believe in God and His Son, Jesus Christ. He started to pray, as Moroni instructed, but Mitchell felt nothing. He guessed he just didn’t know how to pray.
Mitchell found a free book at another AA meeting that dealt deeply with praying with a broken heart and a contrite spirit. Mitchell took it home and read it. When he finished, he put the book on his bed and fell to his knees. He begged to be forgiven as his tears wet his bedcovers. Then slowly, as if the veil had parted, he felt the forgiveness of his Savior.
Mitchell decided to take the missionary lessons. The warm feeling of the Holy Ghost continued with him each time he sincerely prayed. Later the missionaries gave tickets to Mitchell and his wife, Shauna, to attend the October 2014 Sunday morning session of general conference. They told Mitchell that if he would attend with a question in his heart, it might be answered.
Mitchell went to conference with this question to the Lord: “Should I be baptized, and on what date?” Throughout the meeting, he silently prayed, but it seemed his flow of inspiration had stopped. He prayed earnestly once again: “Lord, what day is a good day to be baptized? Please hear me.”
While President Thomas S. Monson spoke, the answer came to Mitchell. He heard an exact sentence in a soft voice, as if someone were sitting beside him. “Mitchell, any day is a good day for you to be baptized. It’s time for you to come home.”
Mitchell silently cried. His wife and the missionaries were crying as well. They seemed to understand what had happened to him.
The Tabernacle Choir added an additional confirmation as they sang:
Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
Calling, O sinner, come home, come home, come home.1
Mitchell was baptized in November 2014. He and Shauna were later sealed in the Salt Lake Temple. They also performed the ordinances for his little sister who had died. Shauna was the proxy for his sister. As Mitchell lifted her from the baptismal water, he clearly heard his mother’s voice: “Mitchell, God saved you for something special.” He finally understood. He had not been there to save his sister from alcohol and death. But he was now there to rescue her so that she could live—live eternally with her Father in Heaven.
Since then, Mitchell and his wife have performed temple ordinances for many generations of his family. Although his mother has long since gone to the spirit world, he knows she now understands more clearly as well. By doing temple ordinances for his whole family line, he is making it possible for all of them to “come home.”

Each of us has his own way of remembering. At Christmastime I take delight in visiting the widows and widowers from the ward where I served as bishop. There were eighty-seven then, just eight today. On such visits, I never know what to expect, but this I do know: visits like these provide for me the Christmas spirit, which is, in reality, the Spirit of Christ.
Come with me, and we’ll together make a call or two.
At a nursing home on First South, we might interrupt, as I did a few years ago, a professional football game. There, before the TV, were seated two widows. They were warmly and beautifully dressed—and absorbed in the game. I asked, “Who’s winning?” They responded, “We don’t even know who’s playing, but at least it’s company.” I sat between those two angels and explained the game of football. I enjoyed the best contest I can remember. I may have missed a meeting, but I harvested a memory.
Let’s hurry along to Redwood Road. There is a much larger home here where many widows reside. Most are seated in the well-lighted living room. But in her bedroom, alone, is one on whom I must call. She hasn’t spoken a word since a devastating stroke some years ago. But then, who knows what she hears, so I speak of good times together. There isn’t a flicker of recognition, not a word spoken. In fact, an attendant asks if I am aware that this patient hasn’t uttered a word for years. It makes no difference. Not only have I enjoyed my one-sided conversation with her—I have communed with God.

“Throw ’em in the rag bag,” Mom would say whenever I outgrew an article of clothing. Sometimes it was hard to think that a favorite blouse or skirt would end up as a cleaning rag.
But one rainy day, Mom told me how I could make something new from my old clothes. “I’ll show you how to make a rag rug,” she said.
We got out the sack of old clothes. First, we tore the clothing into inch-wide strips. These varied in length. For instance, the pieces from a skirt were longer than those from a blouse.
“Roll the strips into balls,” Mom said. “That way, the pieces won’t get all tangled up.” So I made separate balls of woolen cloth strips, cotton strips, and strips made from knit fabric. Mom explained that it was better to make my rug from one kind of fabric. If the strips were similar in bulk, it would be much easier to “work” the rug.
When there was a variety of strips, I sewed them together, end to end. I sewed mine by hand, but a machine works fine, too. By alternating strips in color and design, I created a pretty pattern. It takes many, many of these strips sewn together to make a rug. I figured about 680 yards would make a 24-by-45-inch rug.
Using a large wooden crochet hook (size 15), Mom showed me how to make a chain. This was the base of my rug.
Size 15 (Actual size.)
I made a slip knot with my cloth strip and inserted my hook through it from right to left. By pulling both ends of the strip, I drew the loop up close to the hook (figure 1).
Figure 1.
“Not too tight,” Mom directed.
With my right hand, I held the hook. I looped the strip over the hook with my left hand. Then I pulled the strip through the loop to make a chain stitch. I repeated this over and over until I had 45 chains. That is, I had 45 chains plus the one on my hook (figures 2a and 2b). This made my rug about two feet wide.
Figure 2.
Next, I inserted the hook down through the second chain from the hook. I looped my strip over the hook and pulled it up through the chain (figure 3a). I then had two loops on my hook. Putting the strip over the hook once again, I pulled it through both of the loops. That made one single crochet (figure 3b). This procedure was repeated in each chain. When I got to the end of the row, I chained one more, then turned my work (figure 4).
Figure 3.
Figure 4.
The second row was formed by making a single crochet in each single crochet of the first row. I again chained one before starting the next row.
I kept repeating this until my rug was the length I wanted. Eighty-five rows of single crochet made a 45-inch rug. It took me approximately 56 hours to make it.
To finish the rug, I removed the hook. Pulling the loop out, I worked the end of the strip back and forth through the rug’s stitches.
At times, weeks would go by before I’d work on the rug. Then I’d be in the mood to crochet again, so I’d do a few more rows.
Sometimes my girl friend would help. I’d let her crochet while I watched. Once in a while, Mom and I would work on our rugs together. Those were nice sharing times.
When it was finally finished, it made a colorful spot by our door. I felt good when I’d see my favorite old clothes still being useful in a bright rug.

It wasn’t until 1880 that the first missionaries of the Church entered Finland. At this time Finland was a province of Czarist Russia, and officials soon jailed the elders. However, Anders Johansson, a local fisherman, and his wife and daughter were converted and baptized into the Church. When missionaries returned to Finland after World War II, the grandchildren of Anders Johansson met them, having remained faithful to the gospel.

I received a letter from a missionary in California. He was there with his wife and he wrote this: “There have been so many Mormon boys here in uniform, and they have been such fine, outstanding young fellows that they have turned the attitude of the people of this town toward the Mormon Church.”
Now you see they were uncommon boys. Then he told this specific story. He said that one of the women’s clubs was putting on a luncheon at the hotel. The lady in charge had an extra plate placed at the table, and she said, “When the next soldier comes along, we will invite him to occupy this place at the table.” Well, he happened to be a Mormon boy and he didn’t hide his light under a bushel. Like Jesus said, we should let our light so shine that the world, seeing our good works, will glorify our Father in Heaven. (See Matt. 5:16.)
When they passed the coffee around, he didn’t touch the coffee. You see how easy it would have been for the boy to say, “Oh, shucks, Mother isn’t here. Father isn’t here. My bishop isn’t here. I am the only man with all of these women. A little cup of coffee won’t hurt me.”
But he had to show forth the praises of the Lord who had called him out of darkness into the marvelous light, and he wouldn’t touch it. They offered to get him tea and he didn’t want that. Then they wanted to know all about him. That opened the door so he could tell them about how he was raised. And then when they were through eating, they lighted their cigarettes and passed them around. Of course, the young soldier refused. Well, anyway, right there one of those women decided, “If the Mormon elders ever call at my home, I will let them in. I want to know more about a people who can raise a boy like that boy who sat at our table today.” When the missionary wrote me about this lady, she was a very earnest investigator.

I can’t give this talk without mentioning one more person in who has really seen me through in my life and that person is my husband. When we got married, he got a full time teaching job, but I was still in school, so because I had a longer commute, he would come home from work and do all the cooking as well. As he mentioned earlier, I was in a serious car accident during graduate school. Following that accident, he had to continue all of his own responsibilities, but also take care of me, and take on all of the household responsibilities. He even taught one of my classes. When our kids came along, he took equal interest in them, and there has been no task required of him that he is unwilling to do. He supports me in my desires for work and artistic development, and I could not do the work on campus in all that I do without his help. He follows a lifelong pattern of service to me and the rest of our family.

I may have shared this with some of you before. When I was a little boy growing up in Arkansas, we were the only Latter-day Saints in the city of Little Rock for many, many years. (It was ironic; I went back the other day as a General Authority to reorganize the stake and the building sits on a plot of ground where I used to play ball as a little boy.) And I have thought many times how grateful I am for parents and teachers, even those not of my faith, who imbued in me a sense of worth in those early formative years of my life. Here is an example: When I was about twelve years old, planning what I thought was to be a great athletic career, I opened up the sport page one day and there was an announcement. It said, “New York Yankees to play two exhibition ball games in Little Rock.” Keep in mind, young people, that in those days we did not have the winter leagues as we now have and there was no television. For a little boy of age twelve in Little Rock to see a major league game was impossible. Travel was completely restricted. Funds were just not available.

During the weeks before the New York Yankees came to Little Rock, I secured the position of bat boy for the local team. Out of forty-three applicants, somehow I got the job. You can appreciate the excitement this meant for me because this would put me on the ball field at the same time the Yankees would be practicing and performing.

On the morning of the occasion, I remember that I went out to Travelers Field and waited for the Yankee bus to come. The bus was due at nine; I arrived at six. I stood there with my hat and my glove and my little heart pounding because on the Yankee team was my favorite player, Lou Gehrig. Anything Lou Gehrig did I followed. During that same year I read about his diet. Lou Gehrig ate six eggs for breakfast and so did I. Lou Gehrig ate Wheaties for breakfast—or so the ad said—and so did I.

As the bus arrived and one by one the players got off, I stood there with my heart pounding, waiting for that special moment. Finally Gehrig made his exit and I remember looking at him and thinking, “He’s real! He moves!” and I followed him onto the field.

The manager assigned me to shag balls in the outfield and I about got bombarded with fly balls trying to watch Gehrig on the practice field and retrieve the baseballs. After he had taken his turn at the batting cage, he circled the field several times to get his legs in shape and then headed for the dugout. I thought, “Here’s my chance to be alone with him.” So I grabbed a fairly good-looking baseball off the field and ran as hard as I could to follow him.

When I got to the dugout, he had disappeared. I had a little courage and started down the stairs and up the corridor into the clubhouse. Then this gigantic trainer came out of nowhere. “Hey, kid, where are you going?”

He scared me. I just held up the baseball and said, “Ball.”

He said, “You can’t go in there. That’s for players only.”

“I’m the bat boy for the other team.”

“I don’t care who you are,” and he mentioned some adjectives we do not use in church. I learned then that there are some people who do not understand youth.

I turned very dejectedly to walk out of the dugout, got to the top step, and a deep voice from in the dugout said, “Hey, trainer, that boy’s with me.” And I turned around and in the shadow was Lou Gehrig.

I remember looking at the trainer and saying with my chin out, “Yeah, we’re together.”

I walked down the stairs and Gehrig came over and put that big old lovable arm around me and said, “What can I do for you, son?”

I said, “Ball.”

He took the baseball and looked at it and said, “You don’t have any autographs.”

“I want yours.”

“Wouldn’t you like the other Yankees to sign it?”

“Well, yes.”

He said, “Look, why don’t you go finish your practice and as soon as you get through out there and the players come in, I’ll take you into the clubhouse and we’ll get all the Yankees to sign it. All right?”

“All right.”

The moment after the practice was over, I met my friend and he took me into the clubhouse. Seated at the first cubicle as we walked in the door was a hometown boy who had gone on to be a Hall of Famer and, I think, the greatest catcher the game ever produced, Bill Dickey. Lou Gehrig said, “Hey, Bill, this kid thinks you’re kind of important. Would you sign his ball?” And Bill Dickey signed it. We made a tour around the whole clubhouse. Over in the corner, up from San Francisco that year, was the rookie of the Yankees, Joe DiMaggio. Gehrig said, “Hey, Joe, this kid thinks you’re going places. Would you sign his ball?” And he signed it. Then Gehrig took it and he put, “To my friend, Paul Dunn.” Well, that was the celestial kingdom. Then he put his arm around me and said, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I said, “I want to grow up and be like you and play ball.”

And he patted me on the head and said, “Oh, I think you’ll do better.”

And I said, “But every time I go out to play I get so nervous and afraid I can’t perform.” You see, I was starting to feel inferior.

He asked, “You going to be out here tomorrow?”

I said, “I live here.”

“Let me think about this and you and I get together tomorrow. Would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was the longest night I ever spent in my life. Would you understand, young people, that I took my baseball and glove to bed? My mother came in about eleven o’clock and said, “What are you doing with that dirty thing in bed?”

The next morning the Yankees were due at nine and I was there at six. We went through the same ritual. This time I was asked to shag balls behind the batting-practice pitcher so he would not have to bend over so far throwing baseballs in for practice hitting. Red Ruffin, another Hall of Famer, was on the mound and he had a vocabulary that was interesting for a twelve-year-old to hear. About the fifth batter into the batting cage was Gehrig and my heart beat a little faster as he stepped in. As he walked up, after knocking the dirt out of his cleats, he stood there and adjusted his cap. Then he looked out to his friend Ruffin and said, “Hey, Red, let that kid behind you pitch to me.”

And I went, “Enhhh!”

Red did not want to. He said, “Oh, I want to get through, Lou, and take a shower.”

And Gehrig just stood there. “I said let the boy pitch.”

Ruffin turned around and said, “Here, kid.”

You ladies may not know it, but a baseball only weighs about five and a half ounces–but it felt like a sixteen-pound shot put. I walked up onto the mound. I was sixty feet, six inches from my idol. He could see I was concerned. I was feeling very inferior. He took that magnificent bat and just held it there and then pushed it out. He said, “Just aim at the bat, son.” And I threw the ball somewhere in the park. Then I got one reasonably close and he hit a little ground ball back to me. And then he hit another one. And then he hit a short pop fly over second. Then, about the fourth or fifth pitch, he let go. The right field wall of the Little Rock playing field was 395 feet away, but the ball just tailed out. Then he fit another one right behind it. And a third. I felt a little better because I was getting the ball close. I wound up—you know, how hard can a twelve-year-old throw?—and I just grooved that pitch. He took that mighty Gehrig swing and he missed. He stood up said, “Beautiful!”

I remember growing on the mound and thinking, “Look out, world; I’m coming.” It took me several years before I realized he did that on purpose. Some people know how to teach youth.

He called me off the mound, put his arm around me and said, “You remember the question you asked me yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

He said, “I’ve watched you very closely this morning. You’re going to be great and I’m counting on you. Let me just teach you one little lesson. Just remember, young man, every time you walk out on the ball field and you feel nervous and concerned and like you can’t do it, know that so do we, and that’s the Lord’s way.” Imagine this nonmember athlete talking to a boy this way! I think about this quite often as I turn on my television set and see some so-called athletes with a can of light beer in their hands. And we call that a hero?

Here was that wonderful man saying, “Whenever I walk out on a ball field I feel nervous and concerned but I am reminded there’s a higher source than you and me and I’d better call on it. And remember this: in the game of life, my boy, there are eight other players on the ball field and you can’t go alone. It’s a team effort.” I have never forgotten. Then he said as we walked away, “You’ll find as you grow a little older that there will be people who will tell you you can’t, and they’ll even be in your profession. Whenever that occurs, you tell them I said you could.”

On my eighteenth birthday, I signed a professional baseball contract and was sent to the Pioneer League. I won my first ball game seven to one, and that was a proud moment. I walked off the field and the coach on the opposing team said in a sneery voice, “Hey, kid, whoever said you could pitch?”

I looked right at him and said, “Gehrig.”

And he said, “Oh.”

Thank God for great leaders and teachers.

Later, when through the missionary effort I joined the Church, I gained as a new member that peaceful feeling of being safely placed in the environment of true gospel living and that Babylon had floated away from me. As it was expressed by an early European balloonist: “I felt as though I had left behind me, all the cares and passions that molest mankind.”
I testify—as one who twenty-three years ago was baptized into the kingdom of God in Toronto, Canada—that my flight since my baptism has been a magnificent one, with breathtaking scenes and spiritual panoramas and with the never-failing knowledge that my day-to-day flight plan is made available to me by an understanding, loving, forgiving Heavenly Father.

Weather, distance, and school schedules prevent many Thai members from attending church, so the Ubon Ward decided to set a date and encourage as many people as possible to attend.
A lot of members here in Thailand have difficulty coming to church because of school meetings, bad weather (most of our members travel by motorbike), and distance. The members in my ward, the Ubon Ward, face all of these challenges and more, which makes attending church difficult.
One Sunday, I was wondering how we could help the members recognize the blessings of exercising the faith to worship together more often. The idea came to me, “What if we picked a Sunday to focus on getting every member to church that day?” If we were able to get everyone to come on the same day, it would allow members to really see and feel the strength of the ward.
Other leaders and members in the ward liked the idea and became involved in planning for it. We decided on a date, June 17, 2018—the Sunday closest to the anniversary of when the Ubon Thailand Stake was founded—and started sending messages about it through social media. We named the event “Let’s Come to Church on the Same Sunday! 200 Sacrament Meeting Attendance—Ubon Ward Can Do It.”
Practically the whole ward was involved in encouraging each other to come. Everybody kept sending messages persuading others to join the event. Members also invited returning members and friends who weren’t members. And so many people said yes!
We realized that this was more than just a fun event to see how many people could come. We wanted it to be an especially spiritual experience to help motivate members to make attending sacrament meeting a priority. So in the months leading up to the event, the bishopric encouraged people to avoid any activities that might minimize the importance of the sacrament or the worship of the Lord.
We even made bookmarks to help people remember the event and the Spirit that we knew would be there because of everyone’s efforts to attend. The bookmark had the name of the event and also a scripture: “I have said, Ye are gods; and all of you are children of the most High” (Psalm 82:6). We chose this scripture because we wanted everyone to realize that they are children of God and have the potential to be like Him.
Members planned for a long time to all be able to attend on the set day. Finally, the day came. But so did obstacles. It rained heavily the evening before and continued raining all through the night. Another obstacle for some members was that an important school meeting was happening at the same time as church.
We asked everybody to pray for these obstacles to be removed or overcome. At about 7:00 a.m. Sunday morning, the rain stopped. And when we arrived at church, we found those families who needed to go to the school meeting. When we asked them about their other meeting, they said, “We have to come to sacrament meeting first.” It was a great testimony to me of the importance of the Lord’s sacrament.
Members brought a lot of friends and neighbors to the meeting. One sister in the ward brought eight friends who had never been to church before! As more and more people arrived, we needed to open the overflow room. The count of the sacrament attendance was 215 people! All through the meeting, I could feel that the Holy Ghost was with us and that God helped us to be successful in this endeavor.
After this amazing Sunday, the number of people who regularly attend sacrament meeting increased. This included three Melchizedek Priesthood holders who began attending church regularly with their families. One family even had two of their children baptized and confirmed the following month.

In April 2009 former Presiding Bishopric counselor Richard C. Edgley told the story of an exemplary quorum that mobilized to assist a fellow member who had lost his job:
“Phil’s Auto of Centerville, Utah, is a testament of what priesthood leadership and a quorum can accomplish. Phil was a member of an elders quorum and worked as a mechanic at a local automobile repair shop. Unfortunately, the repair shop where Phil worked experienced economic trouble and had to let Phil go from his job. He was devastated by this turn of events.
“On hearing about Phil’s job loss, his bishop, Leon Olsen, and his elders quorum presidency prayerfully considered ways they could help Phil get back on his feet. After all, he was a fellow quorum member, a brother, and he needed help. They concluded that Phil had the skills to run his own business. One of the quorum members offered that he had an old barn that perhaps could be used as a repair shop. Other quorum members could help gather needed tools and supplies to equip the new shop. Almost everyone in the quorum could at least help clean the old barn.
“They shared their ideas with Phil; then they shared their plan with the members of their quorum. The barn was cleaned and renovated, the tools gathered, and all was put in order. Phil’s Auto was a success and eventually moved to better and more permanent quarters—all because his quorum brothers offered help in a time of crisis.”8

Once Joseph and Hyrum had been jailed, many legal efforts were made in their behalf. None of these availed. Dan Jones went and personally talked to the governor, reporting the threats to the Prophet’s life that he had heard uttered in various groups of men now in Carthage. The governor merely said, “You are unnecessarily alarmed for the safety of your friends, sir, the people are not that cruel.”

The governor was surrounded by mobocrats, and the Saints’ efforts with him failed. John Taylor, a man of great character and spine, saw the situation, was indignant, and said, “Brother Joseph, if you will permit it, and say the word, I will have you out of this prison in five hours, if the jail has to come down to do it.” He planned to go to Nauvoo and raise a sufficient force. But “Brother Joseph refused.” Stephen Markham offered to change clothes with the Prophet, to make a switch—the Prophet could then get away on his horse and all would be well. The Prophet turned that down. James W. Woods was assigned to go to Jesse Thomas, one of the circuit judges in Illinois, who had assured the Prophet that if he would send responsible Mormons to each community and explain the actions of recent days the citizens would be pacified. Woods was asked to check further into this. He found that hope too to be false, for Thomas and others said, in his presence, “Don’t you think it’s better for two or more men to die than for a whole neighborhood to be in an uproar?” Two or three of the Prophet’s non-Mormon friends, one of them a sea captain and one a dentist, were summoned to testify in his behalf. All of them tried, none of them was successful.

After all these efforts, the only real thing the Prophet had between him and the final scene was a pistol which Cyrus Wheelock had brought him. When Hyrum said, “I hate to use such things or to see them used,” the Prophet replied, “So do I, but we may have to, to defend ourselves.”

“Step on red, and you love Tami Cobb,” Travis whispered as we filed down the hall behind our teacher, headed for the cafeteria. Twenty-five pairs of shoes, including my own sandals, zigged, zagged, and leaped to miss the red-tiled squares.
Mrs. Simon stopped and faced us. “Where’s my nice straight line?” she asked, not smiling.
We straightened up. All but Tami, whose head hung down. Her stringy red hair looked as if she hadn’t washed it for weeks. No doubt she had that ugly, mean look on her freckled face—the one it always had. I tucked my own red hair behind my ears, glad it wasn’t as bright as Tami’s—and my freckles not quite as dark. Mrs. Simon turned back around, and we continued to the cafeteria. Shoes still skipped over red tiles, but more quietly this time.
“You’re Tami Cobb’s twin sister,” Zachary said to me as we ate our lunches.
Tami looked up at me as she nibbled on the corner of her sandwich. Her dark eyes looked afraid—and hopeful.
“Am not!” I protested.
Tami looked back down at her crumpled brown lunch bag. I felt bad, but it wasn’t my fault. Maybe if she washed her hair once in a while, and stuck up for herself instead of making ugly faces all the time, people wouldn’t pick on her so much!
At recess a bunch of us played tetherball. Tami stood alone by the fence, watching. I didn’t dare ask her to join us, or Zachary would call me “Tami Cobb’s sister” again, for sure. Besides, no one would touch the ball after Tami touched it. Everything Tami touched was automatically considered to have cooties. “Touch Tami’s paper, and you’ll get cooties,” someone always whispered when we passed our papers to the front of the class to be graded.
That night the missionaries came to dinner. It was nice outside, so Dad barbecued hamburgers and hot dogs on the back porch.
“Becca, I think you know one of the investigators we’re baptizing this Saturday,” Elder Ryan said, bouncing my little brothers on his knees while we waited. “She says she’s in your class at school.”
“Who?” I asked, surprised and excited. Maybe it was Brittany. She was so pretty, and everyone liked her. Or maybe Heidi. Yes, I hoped it was Heidi. We always got the giggles together during music class when Mrs. Bradley’s voice quavered on the high notes. Then there was Alix and Kira and Emily. “Who is it?” I begged, bouncing on the edge of my lawn chair.
“Tami Cobb. We’re baptizing her whole family.”
“That’s great!” Mom said. “Isn’t that great, Becca? You’ve always wanted to have a friend at school who’s a member of the Church.”
“Yeah, great,” I mumbled. I knew that I should be happy, but I wasn’t.
The next day at school, I caught Tami watching me. Every time I glanced in her direction, she was looking at me. I wanted to say something to her, but I didn’t dare. Anyone who talked to her was teased all day long.
That night the phone rang. My dad answered, then covered the receiver with his hand. “Becca, it’s the missionaries. They want to know if you’ll sing a Primary song at Tami Cobb’s baptism on Saturday. Tami requested you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Tami knew I liked to sing, because I always volunteered to lead the class in “America the Beautiful” each morning. And just last week I sang a solo in music class for extra credit. Tami had me trapped. There was no good reason why I shouldn’t sing at her baptism—except one.
I looked at Mom. She was smiling and nodding her head. “I’ll play for you,” she volunteered.
I was doubly trapped. “Oh, all right,” I agreed reluctantly. At least no one else from school would be there to see.
At the baptism on Saturday, Elder Ryan spoke about the baptismal covenant as explained in the Book of Mormon. “When you are baptized, you promise Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ that you will bear one another’s burdens,” he explained, “and stand as a witness of God at all times, even until death.”
I remembered my dad reading those words* at my own baptism last year, but they didn’t bother me then.
“We are all children of the same Heavenly Father,” Elder Ryan continued. “That’s why we call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister.’ When we are baptized, we also take upon us the name of Jesus Christ, which makes us brothers and sisters in the gospel, as well.”
As I sang my song, I sneaked a peek at Tami. She smiled at me. She was pretty when she smiled! It made me all warm inside, just looking at her.
I knew what I had to do.
At school Monday morning, Mrs. Simon picked us up from the gym as usual, and we began our single-file trek to our classroom to start the day. Travis whispered his usual line about Tami, and everyone began hopping over the red tiles. Except me. “Knock it off, you guys,” I said. “It isn’t funny.”
Mrs. Simon stopped and faced us. She raised her eyebrows at me and waited.
“Becca is Tami’s sister,” I heard Zachary whisper, followed by several snickers.
My face grew warm. Tami looked back at me, her eyes afraid—and hopeful.
“Would you like to repeat what you said so the whole class can hear you, Zachary?” Mrs. Simon asked.
Zachary shook his head.
My heart thumped as I raised my hand. I was going to keep my baptismal covenant and help bear Tami’s burden, even if it killed me. After all, red hair wasn’t the only thing we had in common. We were sisters.
“Yes, Becca?” Mrs. Simon said.
I swallowed hard. “Zachary said that I’m Tami Cobb’s sister.” I smiled at Tami. “And it’s true.”

I stood one day some years ago with a Japanese businessman in Hiroshima, beside the monument that marks the events of that tragic August 6, 1945, when in a matter of minutes some 85,000 people were killed. He told me that he had been a member of the Japanese Imperial Army, that out of that experience had come a hatred for all Americans.

One day two of our missionaries knocked on his door. He was too intoxicated to talk with them. All purpose had gone from his life, and his only refuge was drink. Not recognizing them for what they were, he invited them back, and there followed some weeks later his baptism.

With his conversion came purpose into his life, the will to forsake old habits, the strength to turn completely around. He spoke of appreciation for the young men who had taught him and the motivation they had cultivated within him.

At the time of our conversation he was serving as a member of the branch presidency and as an active member of an elders quorum. His case, in essence, can be multiplied thousands of times. There is no other power like the reforming power of the gospel of Jesus Christ to give men the desire and the will to change their lives.