Gospel Story Finder

Dear Reed or Elder May,
I miss you. I miss you very much! I miss you, very, very much! Do I have to call you Elder May, or can I still call you Reed? I’m glad that you got out of the empty sea. I was worried about you drowning or something. When I asked her, Mom laughed and said that you were fine there, but I was still worried.
I have something that I want to tell you. But maybe I’d better not tell you.
Please write a letter just to me.
Love,Brad
Dear Buddy,
I miss you, too—very much! When I think of how much you will grow and change in two years, sometimes it makes me a little sad that I can’t be there with you. But I know that I’m doing the right thing by going on a mission. Besides, the elders here who are almost ready to go home all say that two years zoom by so fast that you can hardly believe it.
To answer your question, yes, you can still call me Reed instead of Elder May. But do I have to start calling you Brad now, or can I still call you Buddy?
Buddy, I have to admit that I was puzzled for a long time about what you meant by the “empty sea.” Then yesterday I told Elder Watts, my companion, that you were worried about me in the empty sea, and all of a sudden it came to me! Where I was, was not the empty sea, but the MTC. That stands for Missionary Training Center. That’s where I learned about being a missionary and how to teach people the gospel.
The MTC was a good experience, but I’m glad to be in the mission field now. The members here are friendly, and some of them help us a lot. We are teaching some great families. Elder Watts is a hard worker, and we spend a lot of hours trying to find people who want to learn about the restoration of the gospel and the Church.
Write to me again soon. I want to keep in touch and know everything that happens to you, kind of like our talks in the dark across the bedroom as we were going to sleep. Only now we will have our talks by writing letters.
And remember, you can tell me anything, just like always.
Love,Reed
Dear Reed,
It was awesome to get my very own letter from you. I’ll keep writing to you, if you’ll keep writing to me. But I still miss you very, very much! Nobody else calls me Buddy, but you can because I will always be your buddy.
Last night was our second grade Spring Sing. Everyone was there but you. Even Grandpa Richards was there, and your girlfriend Kelly. She says that she misses you very much, but I know that she doesn’t miss you as much as I do.
After the Sing we went to get ice-cream cones, and we talked about you. Mom and Dad said that you seem grown-up now. Natalie and Rachel said that they’re proud to be the sisters of a missionary. Scooter didn’t say anything because he’s too young.
I ate two scoops on my cone, one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of your favorite, pralines-and-cream. I did it for you.
I still have something I need to tell you, but I’m still afraid to tell you.
Love,Buddy
Dear Reed,
I know that I just wrote to you yesterday, but I have to write to you again today. If you were home, we could talk about it, but you’re not here.
Last night Melissa came to our house. She brought chocolate chip cookies that she made. She gave me a big hug and said that I look just like a little Reed, like somebody took you and let some of the air out. She’s pretty! Anyway, she says that she misses you very much.
Tell me, Reed, does Melissa know about Kelly? Does Kelly know about Melissa? What am I supposed to do with all your girlfriends? What if they both come over at the same time?
I told Melissa that she should send some chocolate chip cookies to you. I can’t tell you what she said because she wants it to be a surprise. If I can figure out a way to do it, I’ll send you some pralines-and-cream ice cream too.
Maybe next time I’ll tell you my secret problem.
Love,Buddy
(To be continued)

When he was in the navy during World War II, there were those in the great and spacious building21 who made fun of his principles, but two of his shipmates, Dale Maddox and Don Davidson, took note and did not. They asked, “Sabin, why are you so different from everyone else? You have high morals and don’t drink, smoke, or swear, but you seem calm and happy.”
Their positive impression of my father did not match what they had been taught about the Mormons, and my father was able to teach and baptize both shipmates. Dale’s parents were very upset and warned him that if he joined the Church he would lose his sweetheart, Mary Olive, but she met with the missionaries at his request and was also baptized.
Near the end of the war, President Heber J. Grant called for missionaries, including some married men. In 1946, Dale and his wife, Mary Olive, decided Dale should serve even though they were expecting their first child. They eventually had nine children—three boys and six girls. All nine served missions, followed by Dale and Mary Olive, who served three missions of their own. Dozens of grandchildren have also served. Two of their sons, John and Matthew Maddox, are currently members of the Tabernacle Choir, as is Matthew’s son-in-law Ryan. The Maddox family now numbers 144 and are wonderful examples of being “all in.”
In going through my dad’s papers, we came across a letter from Jennifer Richards, one of the five daughters of the other shipmate, Don Davidson. She wrote: “Your righteousness changed our lives. It is hard to comprehend what our lives would be like without the Church. My dad died loving the gospel and trying to live it to the end.”22
It is hard to measure the impact for good each individual can have by standing up inside. My father and his two shipmates refused to listen to those in the great and spacious building who were pointing the finger of scorn.23 They knew that it is far better to follow the Creator than the crowd.

I still can’t believe this.
It’s a fine morning in June—the sun is shining, the birds are singing, the bees are buzzing—and I’m standing around in the stake center parking lot with about 200 other people, waiting for rides to girls’ camp. One of the 200 other people is my own mother. She’s going to girls’ camp too. With me.
Please!
Mom’s idea of roughing it is staying at a hotel without room service. Now don’t get me wrong. Mom’s great. It’s just sometimes hard for me to believe we’re actually related.
She likes skirts and heels. I like jeans and tennies. She likes her hair sleek and chin-length. I like mine wild and long. She keeps the house (or most of it, anyway) perfectly straight. I keep my room, well, comfortable. She’s interested in art, literature, and the theater. I’m interested in basketball. She wants to teach English at the community college again someday. I want to be a forest ranger. She prefers the great indoors, and I think you know what I prefer.
Which is why I was completely shocked when she made her announcement over Sunday dinner last January.
“Guess what, everybody,” she said brightly as she helped herself to some steamed cauliflower. “I’ve been called to the stake Young Women camp committee. Sister Kaye (she’ll be the camp director) wants me and Sheila Taylor to be her assistants.”
I felt like one of those cartoon characters whose jaw drops and bangs against the dining room table. Sister Kaye, the original outdoors woman and one of my personal heroes, wanted Mom to be her assistant?
My two little brothers started to hoot. “You?”
“Excuse me,” Mom pretended to be very offended. “Do you two have a problem with that?”
Dad laughed, and Mom cracked a sideways grin at him.
My big brother Jared, who’s waiting for his mission call, got up, walked over to her seat, and wrapped one of his big old bear arms around her shoulders.
“Whatever you do, you’ll do better than anybody else,” he said. “You’ll be terrific.”
Me, I cringed inside.
Later that night as I lay in bed, watching the shadow of falling snow through my drapes, I heard my parents talking in the hall.
“I just don’t know if I’m up to it, Glen,” Mom said.
“Of course you are,” Dad answered.
Pause.
“Did you notice Wendy’s reaction?” Mom dropped her voice. “She didn’t say a word.”
“Look, Joyce,” Dad said, “I’m sure the two of you will manage to have a good time together.”
Mom didn’t answer right away. “She doesn’t even want to be seen in public with me. I have to walk ten paces behind her whenever we go to the mall.”
Dad burst out laughing. “She’s just going through a stage right now. You watch, sweetheart. You’ll win her over. You’ll win everybody over.”
I turned over in bed, my face totally flaming.
For the record, I do not make my own mother walk ten paces behind me whenever we go to the mall. And another thing: I hate the way adults dismiss the way you feel by dishing up that tired old line about going through a stage.
I buried my face in my pillow and talked to Heavenly Father in my head the way I sometimes do when I’m upset or scared.
I love my mother just fine. I promise I do. It’s just that camp is my thing, not hers.
So here it is. I’m going. Mom’s going. Right now she’s rotating among the groups of leaders and girls standing in tight little clusters around the parking lot. She’s smiling, cheerfully asking everybody questions about themselves.
After standing around for about 30 minutes, we begin loading up. Finally. My best friends (Melissa and Amy) and I crawl into Sister Kaye’s big orange van. There’s already a group of girls inside, rocking back and forth singing old Beatles’ songs at the top of their lungs. Sister Kaye sits behind the steering wheel while Sister Taylor sits by her in the passenger’s seat.
The only thing I can think is how glad I am there’s still room in Sister Kaye’s van for me.
“Hey there,” Sister Kaye greets us with a smile as warm as an old quilt. “Make yourselves comfortable, okay?”
Sister Kaye is probably about 50. She has short wavy hair, and she has a perpetually tan face (cross-country skiing in the winter, tennis in the summer) full of friendly creases.
Sister Taylor’s okay, too, I guess. It’s just that sometimes I wish she weren’t quite so nice. I think I’d actually like her better if I ever saw her really lose her cool.
“I’ll bet you’re just so thrilled to have your sweet mom going to camp with you, aren’t you, Wendy?” Sister Taylor asks in her whispery voice.
I smile at her politely as I watch Mom crawling into a waiting minivan.
Sister Taylor pokes her blonde head out the window. “Joyce. Wait a minute. Trade me places right this very second. I want you to ride with your cute little Wendy.”
I practically choke on the piece of licorice Melissa has just given me.
Mom blinks. “Really, Sheila. I’m fine.”
“I insist,” says Sister Taylor, who leaps out of the van, then sprints across the parking lot toward the waiting minivan. “I’ll just grab my things out of the van when we get there,” she calls back to us.
Mom hesitates for a second, then joins us.
“It’s lovely to have you with us, Joyce,” Sister Kaye says in a low, friendly voice.
Then we’re off. The drive to Camp Hunt takes about two-and-a-half hours. At first everybody sings and talks and shouts, but the van grows quiet after a while and I realize people are piping down so they can listen to the stories Mom is telling Sister Kaye. She’s talking about the year she lived in Europe when she was 19. Right now she’s telling a story that even I haven’t heard before.
Everyone is fascinated.
“I didn’t know your mom lived in Europe,” Amy whispers in my ear. “That’s so exciting.”
“Welcome! Welcome!” Sister Kaye says after everyone has dribbled into camp. “I’d like to take a few minutes for orientation.”
Sister Kaye breezes through the camp rules quickly, then reminds us of our candlelight values hike later that night. “There will be ward skits tomorrow night, and testimony meeting the next night.”
I cringe a little. To tell you the truth, I don’t really like the testimony part of camp. It’s not that I don’t have a testimony. It’s just that when there are 200 people in a group and they all stand up, there’s just a little bit of pressure on you to do the same thing no matter how you’re feeling inside.
“And now,” Sister Kaye continues, “it gives me great pleasure to introduce my two assistants—Sister Sheila Taylor and Sister Joyce Evans.”
Sister Kaye pulls down a big quilt hanging like a curtain from a tree limb to reveal my mother wearing my dad’s shirt, sitting at a card table covered with cosmetics. Sister Taylor is crouched and hidden behind Mom with her arms stuffed through Dad’s huge sleeves.
“Time to get ready for camp!” Mom trills in her best stage voice. “Maybe I’ll start by taking a look in the mirror.”
Sister Taylor’s hands fumble around the table, sending bottles of perfume and tubes of lipstick flying. Well, it goes on like this for a while, but here’s a newsflash on what happens. Mom hams! Girls go wild! I fake a smile.
That’s the way things have been ever since we got here. Every time I turn around, Mom’s right there, being funny and chummy—everybody’s best pal.
I don’t know what’s gotten into her.
At home she’s always nice to my friends, but she doesn’t sit down for heart-to-heart chats with them. She doesn’t run around home playing practical jokes on Dad and my brothers, either. Up here, however, she’s turned into a regular maniac. Now and then I can tell she’s trying to catch my eye to see if everything’s okay with me. So what am I supposed to do? Lie?
I don’t want to feel this way, but things are definitely not okay with me. I can’t explain it, but I just wish she weren’t here. Do you think that makes me a terrible person?
Mom tries to get my attention as we all file into the outdoor amphitheater for tonight’s skits.
“Wendy,” she calls and waves.
I give her a little wave back, then sit on the front row between Melissa and Amy.
Our skit, which Amy and I wrote, goes pretty well, I think. I’m just glad we go first so I can sit back and relax while the other wards perform. Everything’s great until it’s the stake leaders’ turn. Sister Kaye, Sister Taylor, and Mom wander out onto the stage dressed like that old singing trio, the Supremes, and start singing this truly stupid song about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in breathy voices.
Everybody else seems to think it’s funny, but I feel the back of my neck go hot.
Singing’s bad enough, I say to her in my head. Please just please don’t dance in front of all my friends.
Before I know it, Mom’s flipping her feather boa all over the place.
I can’t stand this. Not another minute of it.
“Pea-nut,” Mom gushes, “Pea-nut buttuh!”
Sister Kaye and Sister Taylor back her up. “And jelly! And jelly!”
Before I can stop myself, I’m on my feet. I look straight at Mom. And then I run, stumbling over startled girls as I go.
I head for the road leading out of camp, and by the time I get there, I already start to feel dumb. You know how it is when you’re mad—you feel completely justified. And then once you start to calm down, you realize what a complete idiot you’ve just made of yourself.
A single hot tear slides slowly down my cheek.
I don’t know how long I’ve been gone—it feels like forever. Amy and Melissa are in our tent when I get back. They grow quiet when I crawl inside. And they don’t look at me either.
“Hey there,” I say.
“Hi, Wendy,” Melissa says in a flat voice.
Amy nods.
I plop down on my sleeping bag. “How’d the rest of the show go?”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“Did, did my mom come looking for me?” My voice quivers a little.
“No,” says Melissa, “she didn’t.”
More silence, then Amy finally speaks up. “You really shouldn’t have done it, Wendy.”
I start crying all over again. Amy and Melissa look at each other, then slide next to me and drape their arms over my shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay,” Melissa soothes.
“Honest,” says Amy.
I take a deep breath, give them both one last squeeze, then draw back.
“I’ll go find her in the morning,” I tell them. Crying gives me a headache, but I manage to go to sleep.
As it turns out, the first person I find in the morning is not Mom but Sister Kaye. She’s walking from the mess tent toward the stake leaders’ tent. I’d give anything if I didn’t have to face Sister Kaye right now.
“Wendy?” At least her voice is friendly.
“Hi, Sister Kaye.”
She steps toward me and gives me a big hug. “I don’t know what I’d do without you or your mother. You’re both terrific in your own ways, you know? You, you’re so supportive of everything I do, so helpful and eager to learn. And your mother, she can rally a group around her like nobody else. I needed her so much for that. She’s a real star.”
I know, I want to say. That’s part of the problem.
“Do you know where my mom is now?” I ask.
“I just left her alone in the mess tent.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Mom greets me with chilly eyes when I join her there. She’s sitting at an empty table.
“Here you are!” I say in a cheerful, fake voice.
“Yes,” she agrees crisply. “Here I am.”
I take the seat next to her and notice that she doesn’t even look up. I search for the right words and the right way to say them. But before I can open my mouth, Mom stares straight at me.
“Sometimes,” she says in a high clear voice, “you can be a perfect little brat.”
Then she gets up and walks out.
Remember how I told you Mom isn’t like me—that she doesn’t get mad?
Well, guess what. She’s plenty mad right now. At me. Even after a good night’s rest.
All day long she’s gone out of her way not to look at me. And if by chance we’ve happened to make eye contact, she’s given me the kind of brief, polite smile strangers give one another.
My stomach is rolling, and I don’t know how I’m going to make it through testimony meeting. I’m supposed to be helping build the bonfire, but I can’t go. Not until I’ve fixed things with Mom. Not until I’ve apologized.
I left a note in her tent. “Mom, please meet me at 8:00 in the clearing near the camp entrance. Wendy.”
Right now I’m sitting on a log, waiting and wondering if she’ll even come.
“Wendy?”
I practically leap out of my hiking boots. It’s Mom, coming up behind me.
“Mind if I sit down next to you?” she asks.
I scoot over, making room for her, and she joins me on the log. Neither of us says anything for a minute. We just sit there, listening to the wind sing through the tops of the trees.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I blurt out, tears jumping to my eyes.
“Oh, honey,” she sighs. “We need to talk, don’t we?”
Mom slips an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. I don’t resist at all. “It’s just that last night when you stood up and stared at me, then ran off in front of everybody, I felt so hurt. You embarrassed me, Wendy.”
“You embarrassed me too,” I say in a tiny voice.
Mom looks truly surprised. “How?”
I shrug. How can I explain it to her without hurting her feelings. How can I tell her it’s tough being the daughter of the camp star, especially when the camp star doesn’t even like to camp?
“I embarrass you because I’m your mother?”
Miserably, I nod.
She sits still for a moment, then laughs softly. “You know, when I was your age, everybody always used to tell me how much I looked like your grandmother. Well, she was an enormously good-looking woman, and if I’d had a fifth of her looks, I should have turned cartwheels of joy on our front lawn. But instead I practically died whenever somebody said we looked alike. I wanted …” She cast about for the right word.
“Space,” I fill in the blank for her. I think I understand now. I think I know why I’ve been acting the way I have.
Mom blinks at me, then smiles like I have given an unexpectedly brilliant answer.
“Yes, space. Space to be just you. I’d forgotten all about that,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
It’s starting to get dark, and any minute now the testimony meeting will begin.
“To tell you the truth, Wendy, I really didn’t want to come here at all. I didn’t want to leave Dad. I didn’t want to sleep in a tent with a bunch of women. I didn’t want to hear Sister Taylor say the word special.”
I burst out laughing, and this time Mom gives me a full-court grin.
“And quite frankly,” she lets out a long, deep sigh, “I didn’t want to feel pressured into bearing my testimony in front of a group of people I don’t know.”
Mom doesn’t want to bear her testimony either? Imagine the two of us having a thing like that in common.
“You’ve done pretty well for someone who doesn’t want to be here,” I point out, not even feeling resentful.
“Well,” she shrugs, “I figured since I was here, I might as well get into the spirit of the thing. Besides, it’s been fun.”
The moon is just beginning to crest. It’s huge and gold, and it begins to rise like some great bird.
“Look at that,” Mom breathes. “Have you ever seen a more gorgeous moon in your entire life?”
I shake my head. Together we sit and watch it climb the sky.
“Maybe we ought to join the others,” Mom says finally, her voice laced with regret. She stands and stretches. “Come on, kid.”
I get up and shake the stiffness out of my knees.
“Fine,” I say, “but you have to walk ten feet behind me.”
She throws back her head and roars out a laugh.
The sound of it plays like music through the evening air.

Augustina Ogunkoru of Idogbo Branch, Sokponba Stake
Life was quite challenging as most times we had difficulties in providing for the family demands at home before I participated in the self-reliance group meeting. I was then a housewife doing nothing to support myself or the family.
During the group meetings, I learned a lot of principles, especially the need to be savings-conscious, irrespective of how small the value of money might be. I also learned about the payment of tithes, and how to know what people want to buy, which eventually informed my decision to acquire a skill in catering services.
A Perpetual Education Fund (PEF) loan was very helpful to me in achieving my goal to acquire catering skills, which has now unlocked my potential to work and earn money for myself and also to support my family from home.
I testify that our Heavenly Father has blessed everyone with talents and through self-reliance, we can be useful to ourselves and family. I never thought that I could do anything before now, but with the help of the self-reliance program, participating in group meetings, and acquiring the needed skills set, I can support myself and my family without begging for alms.

A man with whom I am associated as a director in a large company said to me the other day (he is representing the government now, and he has been a very successful businessman in the lumbering industry): “We asked for applicants who were prepared to accept a certain job in the government. We had many applicants, and we got them down to ten, and as we were considering those ten, we noticed that one of them was a member of your church, and we took him just like that.”

I said, “Why did you take him?”

He said, “Because we knew that he wouldn’t be carousing at night; we knew that we could depend upon him, and we knew that he would do the work assigned to him.” And I thought, what a tremendous thing if our young men would all just realize that that is true.

I grew up in Norway. The nearest temple was in Stockholm, Sweden, an 8- to 10-hour drive away. Needless to say, any trip to the temple took careful planning and deliberation. Our stake planned two visits to the temple for the youth each year; several wards would rent a bus and go to the temple for a weekend. It was fun to go with other youth, but my family and I wanted to go to the temple together sometime.

So one year we decided to go to Stockholm during our summer vacation. It was a great experience, and it soon became a pattern for our summers. We would camp at a campground close to the temple. Each morning we would get up early for a baptismal session with other families from Norway who had come to the temple. Afterward we would play football and go swimming at the campground.

These summers are sacred memories for me now. Although we didn’t live close enough to the temple to go there each month, it was always a special occasion when we could go. And even though the car ride was long and tedious, the Lord blessed us for our sacrifice. The spiritual experiences I had at the temple helped me develop my love for the temple and its ordinances. They also brought us closer together as a family.

Another Latter-day Saint in the same stake, Richard G. Murray of the First Ward, was honored with a similar plaque from the same organization for saving the life of an automobile accident victim. When his family heard a noise behind the house, they rushed outside to find a car upside down and filling with water in a drainage ditch. Brother Murray scaled a six-foot fence and slid down the embankment to rescue a woman caught in her seat belt. Moments more and the woman might have drowned. Sister Murray tied a garden hose to the fence and threw it down to help both victim and rescuer climb up the slope to safety.

I relate two experiences to demonstrate what I mean. A man in one of our organizations was transferred to New York City to direct the work of one of our radio stations. He had never been to New York before, but he located one of our chapels and attended church the first Sunday he was there. He was welcomed into the priesthood quorum as a brother, and his wife and children were similarly welcomed and were soon right at home.
In contrast, at the same time another young man whom he knew was sent by his company to operate another station. Though he was a member of a church with many times the membership of the LDS church, he found it most difficult to feel at home and soon asked for a transfer back to his original station. It might have been his fault, or it might have been the fault of his church. However, in our Church if the individual and the quorum are functioning as they should, all Church members should feel happy, wanted, and accepted wherever they go.

It all started when my friend Brett said, “Last night when I talked to my friend, I found out that her parents have been telling her stuff about our religion, making us sound really bad. She told me that I was wrong for being Mormon, and she seemed to have plenty of evidence. Lots of stuff that I didn’t know about. I figured I can’t defend this if I don’t know what we believe.”
Then he asked me, “Do you want to come over and study scriptures tonight? You know, we could do a little reading, look some stuff up.”
“Seriously?” I hesitated. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was just that I was taken off guard. I mean, how many teenagers hang out on weeknights to study the scriptures for fun?
“Sure, I guess,” I accepted slowly. “If you really want to.”
Brett was the only other Church member in my grade, and he’d never seemed very religious. I still remember being surprised my sophomore year when I first met him. He asked me why I chose not to date until I was 16. I was astounded by his question because Brett had been an active member his entire life but he somehow still didn’t know some of the basic teachings of the Church. To him, church was a Sunday thing. I remembered answering Brett’s question about my decision not to date until 16 and then enlightening him on many other standards we had as Church members.
Now, as seniors, we’d grown to be close friends. And once again I found myself surprised by Brett.
I arrived at his house not sure what to expect. As I walked into his family’s study, I noticed the Bible was open and several LDS reference materials were stacked on the desk. He’d already begun. “Look at this,” he said excitedly, pointing to James 2:21–26.
“I thought we could find some answers.” Then he asked, “Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“After listening to my friend, I know I need to study more,” Brett continued.
“So, are you looking up things about the points she made?” I asked.
“Yeah. I can see where she’s coming from, but you know, the more I find out about what we believe,” he continued, “the more I see and feel just how right our beliefs are. It’s exciting. I want you to help me.”
I’d never considered the scriptures exciting before. I felt humbled by his enthusiasm. He wanted my help because I’d read the Book of Mormon, prayed, felt the Spirit, and from then on hadn’t had doubts.
But at that moment, I realized I too needed to search the scriptures more.
Brett and I really studied the scriptures that night and found the answers to his questions. Time and time again, Brett searched the scriptures in response to criticisms of the Church. As he learned to trust the scriptures, his testimony grew. Not only did that study help him talk with his friend, but his example of asking questions and finding the answers in the scriptures made a difference for me too.

This story happened in the USA.
The smell of spaghetti sauce made David’s stomach rumble. “When will dinner be ready?”
“Just a few more minutes,” Papá said, stirring the sauce. He glanced over at David. “What are you working on?”
David held up his Children’s Guidebook. “I’m trying to pick a new goal. But I’m not sure which one to do. They’re all good.”
“What are some of the options?”
David flipped through the guidebook. “Sing a Primary song, serve your neighbors, welcome others . . . .” Then he saw another one. “Oh! Papá, will you help me learn how to cook?”
“Of course,” Papá said. “I’m going to make my special Sunday breakfast tomorrow. Will you wake up early and help me?”
“OK!” David said.
The next morning, David woke up early and met Papá in the kitchen. While Papá got out the ingredients, David washed his hands.
Papá showed David how to hold a knife and cut fruit safely. He had David mix all the pancake ingredients. Then it was time for the best part. Bacon!
David used tongs to carefully turn the bacon over in the pan. The bacon sizzled, and some grease splattered onto his fingers. “Ouch!” David said.
“Careful,” Papá said. He turned on the faucet and had David hold his hand under the cold water for a minute. Then he gave David an oven mitt to wear to protect his hands from the hot grease.
“Cooking is tricky,” David said.
“Yep,” Papá said. “Learning new things is hard work. That’s why you have to learn the right methods.”
“And practice a lot,” David said. “I learned in Primary that not even Jesus knew everything at first.”
Dad nodded. “Even He had to learn things a little at a time.”
They finished cooking the bacon and put all the food on the table. The whole family loved it.
Their cat, Nacho, meowed under the table.
“I think Nacho wants some too!” David’s sister Sarah said.
David helped Papá in the kitchen a lot after that. Papá showed him lots of recipes in their recipe book. David learned how to measure ingredients for cookies, how to scramble eggs, and how to make his favorite drink, horchata. The more he practiced cooking, the more confident he felt.
Then one Sunday morning, David finally felt ready. “Papá, can I make breakfast on my own today?” David asked as he joined Papá in the kitchen.
“All right,” Papá said. “I’ll be right here if you need any help.”
David got out the things he needed and started working. He sliced the strawberries and bananas the way Papá had shown him. He flipped the pancakes carefully without burning any.
And when he cooked the bacon, he knew just what to do. He wore an oven mitt and an apron to keep the grease from splattering on him.
When he was done, David put all the food on the table. The rest of the family sat down. His younger sister Emily said a prayer, and they started eating.
“This is really good,” said his brother, Jeremie. “Thanks, Papá.”
“Actually,” Papá said, “David made it all on his own.”
“Really?” Jeremie said. He looked at David. “You’ve gotten really good!”
David beamed. It had taken a lot of practice, but it felt good to make breakfast for his family. He couldn’t wait to try more recipes.

Stumbling blocks can be complex; let me illustrate.
Many years ago my father built a small cabin on part of the ranch property where he had been raised. The vistas across the meadows were exceptional. When the walls were framed in for the cabin, I made a visit. I was surprised that the window with the view focused directly on a power pole that was a short distance from the house. To me, it was a huge distraction from the magnificent view.
I said, “Dad, why did you let them put the power pole directly in front of your view from the window?”
My father, an exceptionally practical and calm man, exclaimed with some emotion, “Quentin, that power pole is the most beautiful thing to me on the entire ranch!” He then made his case: “When I look at that pole, I realize that, unlike when I grew up here, I will not have to carry water in containers from the spring up to the house to cook, wash my hands, or bathe. I will not have to light candles or oil lamps at night to read. I want to see that power pole right in the middle of the view window.”
My father had a different perspective on the power pole than I did. To him that pole represented an improved life, but to me it was a stumbling block to a magnificent vista. My dad valued power, light, and cleanliness above an aesthetic view. I immediately realized that while the pole was a stumbling block for me, it had great practical, symbolic meaning to my father.
My father saw the pole as a means of providing power, light, and abundant water for cooking and cleansing. It was a stepping-stone to improving his life.

Let me share with you two contrasting responses: One patient was a 36-year-old woman; I’ll use the name Mary. When we operated on her, we found cancer spread throughout her entire abdominal cavity. When I faced Mary the next morning, she asked soberly, “I have cancer, don’t I?” My reluctant response was, “Yes, you have cancer.” Her next question was, “How long do I have to live?” I explained that it was impossible to set an exact time. She hoped I wouldn’t misunderstand her question. She was not afraid to die, she said.
Mary was at peace with her Father in heaven because she had just completed a special course for senior Aaronic Priesthood bearers. It was called “Project Temple.” She spoke of her husband and her teenage daughter who had not been active in the Church until the three of them had attended the “Project Temple” meetings. At the conclusion of the experience, the bishop had assured them that in six months they could go to the temple if they would do the things they knew they should. Mary’s plea was to stay alive for that six months so she could go to the temple and be sealed to her family. “If I can stay alive that long, then I will die without complaining,” she would tell me. Mary stayed alive for that six months. During her entire stay in the hospital, she was cheerful and seemingly without pain, even though her body was filled with a disease that ordinarily is extremely painful and requires large amounts of narcotics. Mary needed none, and she literally folded her arms and died—without a complaint.

Just over a year ago, I was interviewed by the Church News prior to my birthday. At the conclusion of the interview, the reporter asked what I would consider the ideal gift that members worldwide could give to me. I replied, “Find someone who is having a hard time or is ill or lonely, and do something for him or her.”

I was overwhelmed when this year for my birthday I received hundreds of cards and letters from members of the Church around the world telling me how they had fulfilled that birthday wish. The acts of service ranged from assembling humanitarian kits to doing yard work.

Dozens and dozens of Primaries challenged the children to provide service, and then those acts of service were recorded and sent to me. I must say that the methods for recording them were creative. Many came in the form of pages put together into various shapes and sizes of books. Some contained cards or pictures drawn or colored by the children. One very creative Primary sent a large jar containing hundreds of what they called “warm fuzzies,” each one representing an act of service performed during the year by one of the children in the Primary. I can only imagine the happiness these children experienced as they told of their service and then placed a “warm fuzzy” in the jar.

I share with you just a few of the countless notes contained in the many gifts I received. One small child wrote, “My grandpa had a stroke, and I held his hand.” From an 8-year-old girl: “My sister and I served my mom and family by organizing and cleaning the toy closet. It took us a few hours and we had fun. The best part was that we surprised my mom and made her happy because she didn’t even ask us to do it.” An 11-year-old girl wrote: “There was a family in my ward that did not have a lot of money. They have three little girls. The mom and dad had to go somewhere, so I offered to watch the three girls. The dad was just about to hand me a $5 bill. I said, ‘I can’t take [it].’ My service was that I watched the girls for free.” A Primary child in Mongolia wrote that he had brought in water from the well so his mother would not have to do so. From a 4-year-old boy, no doubt written by a Primary teacher: “My dad is gone for army training for a few weeks. My special job is to give my mom hugs and kisses.” Wrote a 9-year-old girl: “I picked strawberries for my great-grandma. I felt good inside!” And another: “I played with a lonely kid.”

From an 11-year-old boy: “I went to a lady’s house and asked her questions and sang her a song. It felt good to visit her. She was happy because she never gets visitors.” Reading this particular note reminded me of words penned long ago by Elder Richard L. Evans of the Quorum of the Twelve. Said he: “It is difficult for those who are young to understand the loneliness that comes when life changes from a time of preparation and performance to a time of putting things away. … To be so long the center of a home, so much sought after, and then, almost suddenly to be on the sidelines watching the procession pass by—this is living into loneliness. … We have to live a long time to learn how empty a room can be that is filled only with furniture. It takes someone … beyond mere hired service, beyond institutional care or professional duty, to thaw out the memories of the past and keep them warmly living in the present. … We cannot bring them back the morning hours of youth. But we can help them live in the warm glow of a sunset made more beautiful by our thoughtfulness … and unfeigned love.”

My birthday cards and notes came also from teenagers in Young Men and Young Women classes who made blankets for hospitals, served in food pantries, were baptized for the dead, and performed numerous other acts of service.

Relief Societies, where help can always be found, provided service above and beyond that which they would normally have given. Priesthood groups did the same.

My brothers and sisters, my heart has seldom been as touched and grateful as it was when Sister Monson and I literally spent hours reading of these gifts. My heart is full now as I speak of the experience and contemplate the lives which have been blessed as a result, for both the giver and the receiver.

Recently my friend Richard came home from work to find a very small girl sitting on the curb in front of his house, crying. He asked if he could help. Through her sobs she explained that she was lost. He told her that this was his house and his wife was inside. He told her he knew she shouldn’t go with strangers, but if she felt comfortable going inside, he and his wife would try to find her home. They went into his house, and his wife, Linda, began to console the little girl. “I’m sure you must be very frightened,” she said.
“I was frightened,” the girl responded, “until I saw the picture of Jesus hanging on your wall. Then I knew I would be safe.”

“Jared, do you smell smoke?” Mom asked.
“No,” I replied groggily, still a little weary after just waking up from a nap.
“It’s probably Courtney’s cookies burning in the oven,” yelled somebody from the living room.
My brother Tyler had three friends over working on a psychology project in the dining room. Dad, Kim, Travis, and Devin were watching TV. Courtney and I were in the kitchen. All of us were downstairs on the main floor of our old, two-story farmhouse. Mom continued to ask everyone if they smelled smoke.
“Tyler, go check upstairs, please.”
As Tyler opened the door to the stairwell, smoke began to roll into the downstairs living room.
“Call 911! And everybody out of the house!” exclaimed my dad. I sat and watched as my mom made the phone call. I never really thought a 911 emergency phone call would have to be made from our kitchen phone.
“Jared, grab some shoes and a coat and get out.” It was good advice from my mother. As I did, I thought about getting my money out of the drawer, but I didn’t. The fire can’t be that bad, I thought.
I felt quite calm as I walked out into the chilly December air. I knew everybody was safe, and that was the main thing. Just then, I came out from underneath the porch and looked up to see flames billowing out of my sister’s second-story bedroom window.
My heart began to beat faster. My two little brothers were crying as they escaped to our barn to watch the horrible spectacle. My father stretched a garden hose around the side of the house and Tyler and I joined him in a futile effort to fight the flames from below. The fire was spreading. I heard windows in the old farmhouse shatter from the intense heat. My mom was worried and yelled at us to get away.
“Jared, go down and direct the truck when it comes,” I heard my dad say.
I ran away from the house to the spot in the road where our driveway separates from the main road, a deceptive fork to those who have never traveled it. Standing there alone, I watched bright, orange flames stream from several upstairs windows. The place where I had lived my entire life was being destroyed without mercy. A feeling of helplessness overcame me. I wanted to stop the disaster but knew it was impossible. The flames cut into the dark night. In that instant, the sight was calm, silent, scary, and awesome all at the same time.
I began to hear the whine of sirens approaching as the fire engines made their way through northwest Corvallis, Oregon. It seemed they were extremely slow.
The headlights of an engine came into view down the road. It had taken ten minutes for the trucks to arrive, but it had seemed more like an hour. By now the flames lit up the house, and the engines kept coming. Four trucks were on the scene.
I ran back to the house as the firefighters mapped out the entire house before entering, identifying from my mother the location of pictures and valuables. To our relief, most of these were saved.
The fire was confined to the upper story of the house because we had shut the door to the stairwell. It looked as if the house might not be a total loss. I looked at my dad staring at his burning home. “Well, we always wanted to do some remodeling up there anyway,” he said.
Ward members and other friends began arriving rapidly. I didn’t notice them come, but suddenly the place was filled with people eager to help and give comfort. As the firefighters brought things from the house, everybody helped in transporting them to the barn. Some of the people there I didn’t even recognize. I had never realized the kind of support and friendship our family has. I think sometimes I have taken for granted our many friends. I realized then, and in the ensuing months, that friends are truly a blessing that should be cherished.
It was difficult to sleep that night. My brother and I slept at a friend’s house, and the rest of my family stayed at various ward members’ homes. All I could think about was the fire. I wasn’t heartbroken about all the possessions I might have lost; those were not important. I realized the things that matter most in life are not clothes, stereos, or computers, but friends and family. The materialistic pleasures we have in life are nice, but definitely not important. I felt more sorrow for our dilapidated farmhouse that had weathered the years since 1918.
The relief effort put forth by Church members, the city, and other friends was truly amazing. We were showered with presents, food, and especially love. I almost felt guilty for all the gifts and acts of kindness that we were receiving from so many. All this did not stop after a few weeks or months.
As I look back on the experience today, I regard the fire as a blessing for our family. We ended up tearing our house the rest of the way down, and we have spent more than two years working to build a new one. The project of building a new house has been an opportunity for our family to learn new skills and has taught us to better refine how we deal with each other. Most of all, however, the fire taught us the importance of giving service and loving our neighbors.
Sometimes it seems that life throws us a curve ball. The important thing is how we deal with it. Every experience in life can be used for growth and learning. I thank my Father in Heaven for loving me enough to teach me the things I need to know.

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”

They finally asked Andy to be in the Third Street Tigers. His best friend, Michael, was already in the club. If only he wasn’t afraid to climb up to the tree house where they had the meetings! Wooden planks were nailed up the trunk like a ladder, but whenever Andy tried to climb anything, he got a funny feeling in his stomach.
One day he decided to try climbing while no one was looking. On the fourth step, his stomach did a double flip, and he dropped to the grass. Turning to go home, Andy found Montgomery blocking his way.
“You’re afraid! You’re afraid!” teased Montgomery.
“What do you mean?” Andy gulped.
“You chickened out. I saw you! You’ll never be a Tiger.”
“Leave me alone!”
Laughing, Montgomery pushed Andy. “Maybe you should join the preschoolers. They meet in the sandbox.”
In the morning, Andy told Michael what had happened. “It’s no use,” Andy sighed. “I’ll never get all the way up. Montgomery was right.”
“But you have to be a Tiger,” Michael said. “Best friends are always in the same club.”
“Yeah, but Montgomery …”
“Forget Montgomery. I know something that might help you build up your courage. Meet me at the gym after school,” Michael said as he headed back to class.
All day long, Andy wondered what Michael’s plan was and if it would work. He wanted to be in the Tigers more than anything.
The gym was crowded when Andy found Michael in a corner, watching a girl do a somersault on the balance beam.
“What’s the plan?” Andy asked.
“The balance beam.”
“You’re not getting me up there. I saw what that girl was doing.”
“Not the high beam,” said Michael. “There’s a lower beam over there.” As he talked, Michael pulled Andy across the room.
Andy put one foot on the beam, then jerked it down again. He hoped the Tigers were worth all this trouble. With Michael guiding him, Andy finally walked to the other end. Then he saw Montgomery watching him.
Andy stepped down to the floor. “What do you want?”
“I came to see if you’re still afraid.”
“Let’s go,” Michael said to Andy. “We’re done here, anyway.”
As they left, Montgomery shouted, “Hey, Andy, maybe you can join the Tigers when you grow up.”
On Friday, Michael talked Andy into trying to climb the tree again. As he got close to it, Andy felt a familiar flutter in his stomach. Hitching up his pants and crossing his fingers once for luck, he started up the tree.
First step, no problem. Second step, fine. By the third step, Andy felt as if he could make it. Then the plank pulled away from the trunk, and Andy tumbled to the ground.
Andy and Michael were both thinking the same thing: Montgomery must have loosened the step. “I’m going to find him,” Andy raged. He headed for Montgomery’s favorite hangout, the city park. By the time he got there, he’d cooled off. What’s the use? he thought. No matter what I say, Montgomery will never leave me alone.
He turned to go back to Michael, when he heard yelling and a dog barking. Andy ran toward the sound and found Montgomery backed up against a fence, his arms covering his face. In front of him stood a large, barking dog.
Wow! Tough Montgomery is afraid of dogs! Andy wanted to run and tell Michael, but then he remembered how he had felt halfway up the tree. I guess everybody’s afraid of something.
Andy grabbed the dog’s collar. “Calm down, Montgomery! Don’t you recognize Mr. Henry’s dog, Skipper? He only wants you to play with him.”
“Keep him away from me!” cried Montgomery.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Andy told him. “Let him smell your hand.”
“No way! I’m getting out of here.”
“Watch me.” Andy bent down and held out his hand. The dog sniffed, then licked it. “Now you try,” Andy said.
Cautiously Montgomery put out his hand while Andy held the dog. When Skipper licked it, too, both boys began to laugh.
“It tickles,” said Montgomery.
The boys heard someone calling Skipper, and the dog ran off.
Montgomery jammed his hands into his pockets and played in the dirt with his shoe. “Thanks for saving me. Are you going to tell?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know,” Andy said. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m sorry for picking on you,” Montgomery apologized. “If you want, I’ll help you climb the tree tomorrow—no tricks, I promise.”
“How come?”
“Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?”
In the morning, Andy and Montgomery went to the giant tree early. Andy took a deep breath, then looked up. The Third Street Tigers clubhouse was up high!
“You can do it,” Montgomery said. “I’ll be right behind you. If you get scared, stop and rest.”
Andy swallowed hard. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottom plank. Nervously he pulled himself up. Counting to three, he moved on to the second step, then the third, which had been nailed on tight again. He bit his bottom lip and stopped to gather his courage.
Andy forced himself to continue from each step to the next. When he saw the opening of the tree house, he heard Montgomery say, “I knew you’d make it!”
They pulled themselves inside to wait for the rest of their friends. Andy could hardly believe that he’d done it. When Michael arrived, he asked, “What happened? How’d you do it?”
Andy and Montgomery just looked at each other and grinned.

The elementary school in our area was having a program in the gymnasium for both parents and students. The students sat close together on the floor. The fifth graders were seated near the back of the room with students from the special education class who had physical and mental disabilities.
During the program, one of the older boys in that class began to cry loudly. Many in the room either ignored him or stared at him in embarrassment. Shanie Atwood, a fifth grader, leaned close to him and kindly began to rub his back. This calmed him, and soon he was quietly enjoying the program again.
Jesus would not have ignored the boy or given him unkind looks. He would have helped, and that is exactly what Shanie did. She was a Christlike example that day.

Such a call of duty—a much less dramatic call but one which nonetheless helped to save a soul—came to me in 1950 when I was a newly called bishop. My responsibilities as a bishop were many and varied, and I tried to the best of my ability to do all that was required of me. The United States was engaged in a different war by then. Because many of our members were serving in the armed services, an assignment came from Church headquarters for all bishops to provide each serviceman a subscription to the Church News and the Improvement Era, the Church’s magazine at that time. In addition, each bishop was asked to write a personal, monthly letter to each serviceman from his ward. Our ward had 23 men in uniform. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied the funds for the subscriptions to the publications. I undertook the task, even the duty, to write 23 personal letters each month. After all these years I still have copies of many of my letters and the responses received. Tears come easily when these letters are reread. It is a joy to learn again of a soldier’s pledge to live the gospel, a sailor’s decision to keep faith with his family.

One evening I handed to a sister in the ward the stack of 23 letters for the current month. Her assignment was to handle the mailing and to maintain the constantly changing address list. She glanced at one envelope and, with a smile, asked, “Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged? Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”

I responded, “Well, maybe this will be the month.” As it turned out, that was the month. For the first time, he responded to my letter. His reply is a keepsake, a treasure. He was serving far away on a distant shore, isolated, homesick, alone. He wrote, “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters.” (I could have told him that several months earlier.) His letter continued, “Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”

Brother Bryson was no happier than was his bishop. I had learned the practical application of the adage “Do [your] duty; that is best; leave unto [the] Lord the rest.”13

Years later, while attending the Salt Lake Cottonwood Stake when James E. Faust served as its president, I related that account in an effort to encourage attention to our servicemen. After the meeting, a fine-looking young man came forward. He took my hand in his and asked, “Bishop Monson, do you remember me?”

I suddenly realized who he was. “Brother Bryson!” I exclaimed. “How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”

With warmth and obvious pride, he responded, “I’m fine. I serve in the presidency of my elders quorum. Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”

The first real test of my young testimony came when I had to decide between going on a mission and playing basketball,” says Dean Reid Burgess. Brother Burgess had spent his freshman year playing basketball for the College of Southern Utah on scholarship.
It was 1965, the height of the war in Vietnam, and not every young man had the chance to serve a mission because of the United States military draft. But Brother Burgess had the chance and the choice. “It took a lot of prayer and a lot of fasting,” he says. “But I knew serving a mission was a real privilege, so I left school to serve.” While serving in the Brazilian Mission, Brother Burgess solidified his testimony of the restored gospel.