Gospel Story Finder

Fourth, we need to recognize our opportunities to teach and testify. People who have expressed adverse feelings about the Church have let us know that they are at least thinking about it. In Brazil, we taught our missionaries how to turn rejection into opportunity. Often, they would have two or three friendly discussions with a family, then one day the father would meet them at the door and say, “We’ve decided not to discuss religion with you anymore.”
We taught our elders to express what they felt in their hearts at hearing such disappointing news. They would say, “Oh, we are sorry that you have decided not to study with us anymore. We have enjoyed visiting with you, and you have been very friendly to us.” The father, of course, would say something nice in return.
Then the elders would say, “Could we have just a moment to step in and leave a greeting with your family? We won’t impose on you.”
Inside, the elders wouldn’t try to force another discussion, but they might say: “You have been very kind to us and we appreciate it. Before we leave, however, we need to tell you, because of our calling, what the gospel means to us.” Then they would explain why they believe the way they do.
“Do you remember when Joseph Smith knelt by his bedside and asked the Lord to tell him if he loved him or not and the angel appeared? The angel said, ‘Joseph, I have come to you from the presence of God and he has a mission for you to perform by which your name will be known for good or evil among all men.’ What did Joseph say to the angel?” (See JS—H 1:33.)
They would answer, “I guess he said he’d do what God wanted.”
“Yes, he did. He didn’t say, ‘Wait a minute, Mr. Angel. I didn’t want to go on a mission. I just wanted to know if the Lord loved me.’ You can’t do that to an angel, can you? So we have to tell you that someday you will stand before God and he will ask you why you didn’t listen to his message. We don’t know what you will say, but we think you should not refuse the gospel until after you have knelt down and asked the Lord what he wants you to do. Will you do that?”
Upon praying, many people joined the Church who had decided not to hear anymore about it.

Mari frowned. Grandma was telling the same story. Again.
Grandma came to live with Mari’s family several months ago. Mari loved her, but being around Grandma was sometimes tiring. She told the sames stories over and over again. Sometimes she’d start over before she even finished telling the story.
Mari sighed. “Grandma,” she said, “you already told me that story.”
Grandma looked down. “I did?”
“Yes,” Mari said. “You told it to me just a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t remember,” Grandma said. She looked sad and confused. Then she stood up and wandered back to her room.
Mari felt sorry that she had upset Grandma. Ever since Grandpa died, Grandma had gotten more and more forgetful. Once she even left the stove on, and it started a fire in her kitchen. That’s when Mom and Dad brought Grandma to live with them.
Mari found Dad in the kitchen. “I really love Grandma, but I get tired of hearing the same stories. Why doesn’t she remember that she already told me that story about fifty million times?”
Dad smiled. “I bet it’s not fifty million times. But I know it’s hard. Your grandma has a sickness in her brain that makes her forget things. Her stories are her way of trying to remember who she is.”
Mari hung her head. Why hadn’t she been more patient with Grandma? Grandma had always treated her with love. She called her “my Mari.” Mari thought about when she used to help Grandma plant flowers and weed the garden.
Mari knocked on Grandma’s door.
“Come in,” Grandma said.
Mari opened the door. Grandma was sitting in a chair with the scriptures open on her lap.
“Grandma, would you please tell me how you and Grandpa joined the Church?” Mari asked.
Grandma looked up. “You want to hear about Grandpa and me?” she asked in a hopeful voice.
Mari sat down next to Grandma. “I do. I want to hear everything.” Mari took her grandma’s hand. “You’re very special to me, Grandma. You always will be.”
Grandma smiled, sat back in her chair, and started to tell the story.
Mari had heard the story many times, but this time, she didn’t feel annoyed or impatient. Instead, she felt love and amazement. She knew Grandma and Grandpa had sacrificed a lot when they joined the Church in Germany. Her grandparents had moved far from their home so they could live near other Church members.
Grandma finished the story and smiled. “You are a good girl, my Mari.”
Mari hugged her grandma. “Thank you, Grandma. I love you.”
This story took place in the USA.

Many years ago, I had the desire to learn how to plant taro, which is our Polynesian potato. To help me in this endeavor, I went to see a very good friend—an elder in the ward—who knew a lot about agriculture, and who, over the years, had accumulated all the necessary expertise to produce beautiful taro in his fa’a’apu (field). I asked him if he could come to my house to teach me the basic techniques for planting beautiful taro. He accepted my invitation. He was excited to share his knowledge.
We talked for 30 minutes, and I took as many notes as possible of all the necessary steps to plant taro. I followed my notes to reproduce the advice my friend had given me. Every day, I would enjoy watering my taro after work. I could see the foliage of the taro plants growing day after day; it was radiant. I could envision myself eating my taro.
The long-awaited moment came to harvest the taro; seven months had gone by. I couldn’t wait to see the size of my taro tubers in the ground. I took my shovel to remove the soil around the plant to extract the taro. To my surprise, I found no taro under the plant. The taro had not grown. It was a total failure! I could see that the foliage of the plant had reached maturity—at least one meter, and it was green, which is a sign that the plant is doing well.
What happened to my taro which did not grow like my friend’s taro? I had followed every advice he had given me.
I would like to share with you some of the lessons I learned from this experience and especially how these lessons have helped my wife and I raise our children to stay on the covenant path, and to produce fruits worthy of the Lord.
The first lesson I learned was that taro needed much more water to grow. I don’t think I watered my taro plants enough. The “corme” (bulb) which is the base of the plant’s stem should not be completely submerged; or if so, only temporarily. However, the soil must constantly remain moist for the roots to grow and bear fruit.
The second lesson was that in addition to living in a humid environment, taro needed to be fertilized regularly because the taro plant needs plenty of nitrogen; and that’s something I hadn’t done, unfortunately. I must have overlooked this important information when I talked to my friend.

My first day at my summer job, I was invited to a video party in one of the employees’ cabins. I was eager to go and get acquainted with the people I would be spending the entire summer with.
As I neared that cabin that night, I heard a great deal of laughing and talking. Everyone must be having a good time, I thought, but when I opened the door, I discovered that a lot more was going on in there than just a video party. The lights were dimmed, and the room was full of smoke. Couples were lounging around on couches and the floor, drinking various forms of alcohol. Two guys were building a pyramid of empty beer cans on top of a rickety old table and laughing as if what they were doing was the funniest thing in the world. One of the guys threw me an unopened can of beer. I caught it.
Right then I had to make a decision. Everyone seemed to be watching me. If I had been smart, I would have decided what I would do in this type of situation before it even occurred. I looked at the can of beer in my hand. It doesn’t look like anything evil, I thought. It’s only a can of liquid. Just drinking one certainly won’t kill me, I rationalized. It might even taste good. And everyone seems to be having such a good time.
Miraculously, a scripture which I had memorized in seminary suddenly came into my mind. I could only remember the first line: “And the mists of darkness are the temptations of the devil.” Later, I found it was from 1 Nephi 12:17 and was followed by, “which blindeth the eyes, and hardeneth the hearts of the children of men, and leadeth them away into broad roads, that they perish and are lost.”
I tossed the can of beer back to the guy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, with an accusing look of “Are you too good for us?” in his eyes.
“I don’t drink,” I answered simply, hoping no one would ask any questions.
“Why not?” demanded the other guy who was helping build the pyramid.
I was really on the spot. About half the people in the room had stopped their conversations and were looking at me with curious interest.
“Because it’s against my religion,” I finally managed to blurt out. I sat down on a chair by the table with the pyramid of cans. The guy who had thrown me the can of beer introduced himself as Mark and his friend as Tim. They said they had never heard of a religion that had a rule about not drinking alcohol. I told them I was a Mormon.
“I think I’ve heard of them,” said Mark. “Don’t you all live in Utah and are into polygamy or something?”
I laughed at their misguided ideas and explained to them about the LDS church. They told me about their religions. We had a great discussion.

When I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings, and two missionaries reported their missions in the Southern States. When I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call.

And I went home, went into my bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Emma Swenson Hansen, another woman of great strength and endurance, regularly helped her husband in the fields when her “condition” would permit it and had the reputation for loading hay better than anyone in the community. Once the hay she was stacking slipped, and her husband saw her slide and fall to the ground. “What are you doing down there?” he asked. “I came down for more hay,” she gamely replied. Her history shows that she kept bees, milked cows, fed the calves, cared for the chickens, cut alfalfa with a scythe to give to her pigs, cured their pork, half-soled the family shoes, and made all the family’s clothing.3

As a retired couple, my parents served a mission. One of the places they served was in Amman, Jordan. The departing missionary couple took my parents on a tour of the city, showing them all the places they would need to go and how to get there in what my mother perceived as chaotic traffic. She was scared just riding in the car with the other couple and the thought of her doing it without their assistance was completely overwhelming to her. In the midst of her despair, she heard these words in her mind, “You can do it if you try.” This comforting guidance from the Holy Ghost gave her the courage to try. Not only did she serve a successful mission, but those inspired words “you can do it if you try” were reflected in the counsel she gave her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren until her passing just a few years ago.

The minute Robert woke up he knew the weather was still stormy. He was glad. Maybe I can stay home from school today, he thought.
Ever since he and his parents had moved to Pinehills in late summer, Robert had been unhappy. Each school morning when he awoke he felt a nagging dread in his stomach.
Robert dressed and went into the kitchen where his mother and father stood in the doorway, looking out at the dark day. He was still clinging to the hope that his mother would let him stay home, but all she said was, “Be sure and wear your warm shirt, Robert.” There was not a word about staying home.
A horse’s hooves sounded outside. A man called, “Ready, Mr. Shaft?”
Robert’s father answered, “Be right with you,” as he put on his yellow slicker and hat.
“Are you going to help build up the dam on Indian River?” Robert asked his father.
“Yes. Every man in town is needed there, Robert. After a week of rain Pinehills’ reservoir is in danger of spilling over.”
Robert’s mother looked worried. “Indian River runs right beside the schoolhouse,” she said. “What if the dam should break?”
Robert’s father tried to ease her concern. “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “We’ll be there to watch it all day.”
After his father had gone Robert sat down at the table. He wasn’t hungry and he wanted to say, “I don’t feel well, Mother,” or, “Maybe I should stay home to be with you,” but she would know he was only making excuses.
“Eat your breakfast or you’ll be late for school,” Mother insisted, so Robert choked down a few mouthfuls and then, with dragging footsteps, he set out under gray clouds that sagged nearly to the tops of the trees. Down the hill he trudged, his feet swishing through the wet leaves. He sniffed the brown smell of mud. I wish I could walk to some faraway, enchanted place and never have to go to school again, he thought.
But Robert soon reached the clearing where the one-room schoolhouse stood.
Two girls immediately ran up to meet him. Freckled Rebecca skipped on one side of Robert, and Patricia walked on the other side of him. Together they chanted, “Bobby Shafto’s gone to sea, Silver buckles on his knee. He’ll come back and marry me. Pretty Bobby Shafto.”
Then both girls giggled and Robert continued on to school, feeling miserable and lonely. He couldn’t remember who first used the nursery rhyme to tease him, but soon every child in school began chanting, “Pretty Bobby Shafto!” whenever they saw him. Robert felt he didn’t have a single friend.
When he reached the schoolhouse, Robert slumped in his seat in the back row where he was the only sixth-grader. He watched the teacher write words on the chalkboard. Robert thought Miss Parker was the one pleasant thing about school.
Turning around she asked, “Has the rain started again, Robert?”
“No, Ma’am, but the clouds are full,” he answered.
“Oh, dear,” Miss Parker said, looking worriedly out the window. “Maybe I should send the children home. Indian River runs so near the school.”
“My father said every man in town is watching the dam,” Robert told her.
“Well, then I’ll begin school,” she said. “Will you please ring the bell for me?”
Students hurried past Robert as he stood beside the door clanging the brass bell. No one spoke to him except to whisper, “Pretty Bobby Shafto!” or tease, “Where’s the silver buckles for your knee?”
Slumped in his seat, Robert watched Miss Parker as she listened to the first-graders read. He couldn’t help smiling when Amy Andrews read aloud. She looked too tiny to be in school.
A rumble of thunder and a crackle of lightning made Robert and the other children jump. Just as Miss Parker said, “Don’t be frightened!” another rumbling noise shook the schoolhouse. It was the loudest sound Robert had ever heard, a heavy shuddering rumble very different from thunder.
Everyone in the room except Robert sat so still they appeared frozen. He rushed to the door and shouted, “The dam broke! Here comes the water!”
The boys and girls began to cry as Miss Parker ran to the door and stood beside Robert. They looked out at the water swirling and roaring only a few feet away from where they stood. No longer held by the dam, the water leaped from the riverbed, rushing toward the schoolhouse. Water was coming inside the schoolroom now and Robert’s feet were wet.
“Robert, help me push my desk under the attic trapdoor,” Miss Parker directed. “Then lift the children up to me if you can.”
Robert and the teacher shoved the desk beneath the little opening in the ceiling. He put a chair on the table, then climbed up to push the door aside and helped her into the attic.
“Get in line by grades,” she called down. “Youngest first. Robert will lift you up to me.”
One by one, as the water rose higher in the room, the children climbed onto the desk. Straining, Robert lifted each child high enough for Miss Parker to grab his wrists and pull him into the dim, dry attic.
When the last child in line was safely inside Robert started to climb up himself. “Amy? Where’s Amy Andrews?” Miss Parker called.
The other children cried, “She isn’t here! Where’s Amy?”
Robert jumped off the desk into the still-rising water and began to search the schoolroom. He finally found Amy clinging to a chair that had floated into a corner.
“Put your arms around my neck, Amy,” Robert told her. “Hold tight so I can lift you into the attic.”
But Robert’s legs weren’t strong enough to carry both of them through the swirling water. No matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t reach the desk.
Up in the attic the children kept calling, “Come on, Robert!” He saw Miss Parker’s anxious expression just as the rushing water swept him off his feet and through the open door.
Robert never knew exactly what happened next. He only remembered swimming as hard as he could with Amy’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Then they were on a log that swept them swiftly downstream.
Robert couldn’t tell where they were. Sometimes it seemed he and Amy stayed in one place while trees and houses rushed by. Other times he looked down at the racing water and grew so dizzy he was afraid he would fall off the log. Then he’d shut his eyes and tell Amy softly, “Don’t let go!”
At a place where the river curved, the log slammed into a high bank and stuck there, but Robert knew he couldn’t climb the steep, muddy bank. His legs felt like soaked wood and it was almost more than he could do to hang onto the log with his weary arms. Amy was crying and Robert held her close as he prayed, “Heavenly Father, please send someone to find us.”
The long hours seemed to creep slowly by. At last the most welcome sound Robert had ever heard came from the bank above them. It was his father’s voice. “Here they are!” he shouted. “I’ve found Robert and Amy and they’re alive!”
It was two weeks before the flood damage was cleaned up and the school could reopen. And as Robert set out through the early morning sunshine he wondered how it would seem to be back in the schoolroom again. He was glad he had been able to help Miss Parker but he dreaded the teasing of the children as much as ever.
Walking slowly, Robert was nearly to the schoolhouse when he heard someone shout, “Here he comes!” Then someone else called, “It’s our Bobby Shaft who went to sea!”
Suddenly Robert was surrounded by all the boys and girls in the little school. Everyone was happy to see him. And even the old nursery rhyme sounded good when Amy Andrews ran up, slipped her small hand inside of Robert’s big one and said, “My pretty Bobby Shafto!”

Years ago our family lived and worked among people who in almost every case were not of our faith. When they asked us how our weekend was, we tried to skip the usual topics—like sports events, movies, or the weather—and tried to share some religious experiences we had as a family over the weekend—for instance, what a youth speaker had said about the standards from For the Strength of Youth, or how we were touched by the words of a young man who was leaving on his mission, or how the gospel and the Church helped us as a family to overcome a specific challenge we had. We tried not to be preachy or overbearing. My wife, Harriet, was always the best at finding something inspirational, uplifting, or humorous to share. This often would lead to more in-depth discussions. Interestingly enough, whenever we talked with friends about coping with life’s challenges, we often heard the comment “It’s easy for you; you have your church.”

He was a mean, gruff man. Every word that came out of his mouth was angry and sharp. His words always dug into us. He was mad at the world, mad at life, mad at God.
We hoped that the Christmas spirit would flicker in his soul. But, as with the rest of his dreams that year, the candle was being snuffed out.
Oh, he hadn’t always been that way. He used to be loving and funny. He had a quick wit. That disappeared when he stopped going to church.
I can’t remember when my dad became mean and gruff. It happened gradually. He sort of shifted that way like sand.
Mom and I are regular churchgoers. Maybe that’s why we can deal with anger so well. We know God loves us. We know that he loves Dad too. Though I guess it’s sometimes hard even for Him.
Dad was a big man. The kind that could play Santa Claus without the pillows. The bishop must have thought so too because he marched right over to our house after church and asked Dad to play Santa Claus that year.
Has he lost his marbles? I thought. Who’d want a Santa that would yell at the kids?
Dad thought it was just silly so he laughed sarcastically. I heard bitterness in his voice as he said, “Inactive for years—now he’s giving me a job that I don’t need any brains to do.”
The bishop stared and so did I. He should have known, I thought to myself.
“You think it over, Brother Henderson,” the bishop said and made a speedy exit. Dad just grunted and turned on his noisy TV.
“Think it over all right,” I complained to Mom later. “He wants a miracle.” I was disgusted with the whole thing by now. “Dad will never do it.”
Mom just stood there listening. She was a quiet person—the type that would take lots from Dad and never say very much. The type that sat alone in church every Sunday while I sat with my friends. The type that taught a rambunctious Primary class and smiled.
“We mustn’t give up, Andi. There’s a part of him that someone still might reach,” Mom said. Here was a woman who hadn’t heard a home teaching message for years because Dad refused, and she was telling me about miracles.
“Hogwash!” I answered. I hurried out the door to catch a movie.
I suppose that I should have been more understanding of Dad. After all, his business had been ruined. He had lost everything when his store burned down. We had lived on borrowed money until he could rebuild. He must have felt defeated. I guess that’s why he wasn’t going to play Santa—mainly because he had stopped believing there was one. He had stopped believing in himself. He just sat there in his chair watching television reruns. I sometimes thought he didn’t really watch them. Maybe it was just there to keep him from thinking or hurting. I was beginning to think that no one could help him. But there was Brother Darrin.
Brother Darrin was our long-suffering home teacher. He came every month. He always acted like he expected Dad to let him give a lesson. Brother Darrin was short and thin and soft spoken. Dad couldn’t wait to give him a hard time. The teachers quorum had to draw straws to see who would come with poor Brother Darrin. Dad had scared them all, one by one. But through it all, Brother Darrin was persistent.
I listened just to see how Brother Darrin would sneak the gospel in. One minute he and Dad would be talking about fishing, and Brother Darrin would put in loaves and fishes before Dad could get his next word out. The strangest thing was that Dad liked Brother Darrin.
I knew that Brother Darrin must have said his prayers the week before the Christmas party because he was starting out rather boldly. “Brother Henderson, do you believe in miracles?” I just gulped and pretended to be a fly on the ceiling. I knew Dad was going to explode. When I finally started to breathe again, I heard Dad say, “No, not anymore.” The silence hung heavy in the air.
Brother Darrin continued, “Well, I do, Brother Henderson. I’ll see you at the Christmas party.” He added quickly—“in a Santa suit.” Out he went, leaving Dad to glare at Mom and me as if it were our fault. He got up and turned on the TV.
“Doesn’t even faze him,” I whispered to Mom. “He’s as hard as an old rusty nail.” That time I said it pretty loud.
I soon learned from Tricia Darrin that her father had been fasting and praying for Dad. “Won’t help,” I promptly informed her. “Tell him to stop before he gets anorexia.”
She giggled for a minute. “He’s serious, Andi.”
As I knelt to say my prayers that night, I found myself thanking Heavenly Father for a dedicated home teacher. I even began begging to somehow get my dad back to church even if it was just to the cultural hall to play Santa.
The night of the Christmas party finally arrived. Mom and I carried our fruitcakes to the car as usual. When we came back in the house, Dad was in his chair watching television. “Good-bye, we’re leaving,” we announced. He grunted a good-bye without even looking up. Suddenly an envelope slid under the door. I handed it to Dad since it had his name printed on the front. We left feeling empty and downhearted. I knew Mom felt worse than I did because she started to hum. Humming usually meant tears.
We went to the program and watched the Primary act out the Nativity, including a sheep that fell off the stage during the big scene.
We tried not to think of Dad sitting in front of the TV when he should be here with us. Across the aisle was Brother Darrin.
Soon the big announcement came for Santa. The air filled with anticipation. “Wonder who they got?” I asked Mom. She just answered, “Some unfortunate stand-in.”
“Ho ho ho!” the shouts soon resounded in the hall. The children started to squeal in joy. The jolly Santa sounded familiar, like a sound that I had heard long ago. As I turned I gasped, for I couldn’t believe my eyes. Mom must have turned about the same time.
“Dad,” I said in a strange voice.
“It’s a miracle,” said Mom. Her voice was strange too. Her eyes were swimming in a pool of green. I looked over at Brother Darrin. He just winked and smiled.
Mom went up and got in line to sit on Santa’s lap. “Hi, good looking,” he said to her. “I think I know what you’d like for Christmas.” By this time her tears were spilling over into his glued on beard. “You’d like your husband to come back to church.” She just nodded and cried. “I think Old Santa can arrange that.” He gave her a quick kiss, “Move along, kid. Santa’s got others to see.”
I’ve never seen Mom look so happy, nor the bishop and Brother Darrin for that matter. They all looked like they swallowed chocolate-covered ice cream and it tasted sweet.
I couldn’t understand miracles right then, but I remembered the note that came under the door. I decided that it must have had something to do with it. I ran the whole block home just to read it. What it said shocked me. Scribbled in uneven handwriting were the words:
Dear Brother Henderson:
I believe in you and I love you.
Brother Darrin
I guess that’s why it was the best Christmas ever. Dad thought so too. He’s now the second counselor in the bishopric, and that, he says ironically, is a job that nobody should have, not even Santa Claus. Secretly he loves it—just ask Mom. Too bad she still has to sit alone in church. Now, though, she probably doesn’t mind so much.

Picture this: You sit down to dinner and look around. Gasp! You’re alone at a table with a half dozen of your past and present school teachers. Sitting next to you is Mr. Randal, your fourth period science teacher, and he’s staring right at you. He wants to chat.
Cringing already? Hey, I am, and they aren’t even my teachers.
There’s just something about teachers that makes most of us nervous (even those of us who no longer have to face their pop quizzes and long-essay finals). In fact, they make us so uneasy that the majority of us go through our junior and senior high years without ever getting to know what our teachers are really like, and most of us never even get to say thank you for all they do.
Two groups of LDS youth in the Boston area are doing something to fix that problem. It’s June 1990, and these New England LDS students are inviting their school teachers to “Appreciation Nights” at their local ward houses. The youth are spending an evening eating with, getting to know, and then saluting their teachers. They hope the time together will straighten out some long-standing misconceptions.
The youth of Nashua, New Hampshire, invite me to watch them set up for the following evening’s teacher appreciation dinner, which sounds about as exciting as watching 18 holes of TV golf. But I put some thought into it: a group of kids who would give up a night of summer fun to set up tables and cook for their teachers can’t be all bad.
I’m right.
Dave Eberhard, 17, a tall guy wearing a little black hat that seems too small for his head, says he’s the master of ceremonies for the big night. He looks like he might be a wise guy, but talk to him for a minute and you’ll find he’s articulate and bright—full of positive energy.
He says this is Nashua’s second year in hosting an appreciation night. “Last year’s dinner changed my relationship with my teachers,” he says. “They had always seen me as a class clown, but after they saw I appreciated them they began to notice how hard I really was trying. They looked at me from a different perspective.”
Dave adds that he learned more about his teachers as well. “I found out more about what really goes on after they get out of school. It’s a one-on-one relationship, and it’s not really school related or church related. It’s just you and the teachers out on the night.”
And according to Dave, the teachers loved the attention. “Some actually cried,” he says.
Elizabeth Davis, 16, sits on the front porch of her Pepperell, Massachusetts, home, her blue-rimmed glasses and baggy sweatshirt set against an old New England backdrop—1990 meets 1790. Elizabeth is talking about teachers. She has definite opinions. She loves her teachers, enough to help organize her ward’s own teacher appreciation night.
“Teachers don’t get a lot of respect,” she says. “That really annoys me. Most of my friends don’t think of teachers as people who are there to help them learn so they can get a good job, do something with their lives. The kids can be really mean.”
But Elizabeth says most of her teachers will go out of their way to help a student in need. She says that one of her teachers goes to a student’s house if that student is sick, to teach the day’s lesson (another scary thought, but kind of nice).
“All I hope is that after this night our teachers say, ‘Wow, our students really think of us.’”
It’s Tuesday night in Nashua. Sixty teachers and their spouses begin arriving at the appreciation night. They’re talking with their students, and the youth are relaxing.
I stop 14-year-old Cyndie Munk and ask her how it’s going. Three or four of her teachers are already here. “The teachers are just so impressed that we want to honor them,” she says, grinning. She sees her vice principal walk in and waves in his direction. “He never gets to do anything,” she tells me. “I gave him his invitation and told him what it was for and he absolutely beamed. Every time I saw him around school he just started smiling, asking if he was still supposed to come.”
The meal is served and Dave, the MC, sits with one of his teachers—Mrs. Rogers. Dave looks uncomfortable, but he gets over it. They chat. It’s fun to watch.
After the meal the bishop gives a “rah-rah” education speech and then the youth hand out certificates of appreciation to their teachers. My hometown newspaper would have written, “And a good time was had by all.”
The teachers are filing out and Cyndie sums up the Nashua evening for me. “My teachers said they’ve never had anyone do anything like this for them,” she says. “But I think they work hard. They give up a lot of their own time for us. I think they deserved this.”
“Two years ago I wouldn’t have done this, invited my teachers,” Jason Hunter, 16, tells me at the Pepperell dinner on Friday. Two of his teachers are here. “I’ve learned some things, though. If I am responsible, if I get my homework done, my teachers treat me differently. I’m sure that if I were a teacher and had a student who wasn’t trying, I’d get mad. The past two years I’ve made an effort in class, and now I think my teachers like me. I make the extra effort to think of them, to say good-bye when class is over, or tell them when I’m interested in something.”
Jason’s friend, Mike Bruneau, joins him. Mike’s 15 and feels lucky to be one of eight LDS students in a high school of 1,200—many of the youth in this area are the only member in their school. Mike says he tries to set an example, do the right things at school, and show respect for his teachers.
“I invited my French teacher, who gave me a lot of help earlier this year,” Mike says. “She just kept saying, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ when I gave her the invitation. I think it really touched her to see that someone cared about the good job she was doing.”
The Pepperell youth take a different approach than at Nashua. The students choose to entertain their teachers with a play and music before they hand out certificates. The play, a comedy about a class who is given a robot teacher to substitute for a human teacher, is a big hit. “Super Teacher,” written by Rebecah Davis, 15, illustrates that for the students, there is no substitute for the individual technique, enthusiasm, and humor of their teachers.
Rebecah says that most of the kids in her ward were skeptical of the appreciation night idea, but the teachers were so excited when they received their invitations that the youth lost their anxiety. “We couldn’t believe how excited our teachers were,” she adds. “Nobody had ever done anything like this for them before.”
“This is what it’s all about,” one teacher says to me, leaning close like he’s sharing a secret. “Knowing that you made enough of a difference for someone to say thank you.”
He returns to a group of other teachers who are standing around, talking with their students. They are laughing about something I can’t hear, but I don’t move closer. There’s something happening there, something kind of nice.
Hints from the New England youth on hosting successful teacher appreciation nights:
Hold the event at a time of year when both teachers and students are not very busy. (Christmas or the end of the school year can be bad times.)
Get the support of your leaders and bishopric before organizing anything. They should have some good ideas, or at least be able to help with the planning.
Invite all your teachers, not just your favorites. If word gets around (and it probably will) that you didn’t invite certain teachers, their feelings could be hurt.
Eating with your teachers, instead of serving them, is a nice way to get to know each other.
Make your program short and focused on the goal of honoring your teachers. (Make them laugh or cry, but stick to the theme.)
Give your teachers a certificate or some other memento of the evening.

3. While participating in the dedication of the Kansas City Missouri Temple, Sister Holland and I were hosted by Brother Isaac Freestone, a police officer by profession and a high priest in the Liberty Missouri Stake. In our conversations he told us that late one evening he was called to investigate a complaint in a particularly rough part of the city. Over the roar of loud music and with the smell of marijuana in the air, he found one woman and several men drinking and profaning, all of them apparently totally oblivious to five little children—about two to eight years of age—huddled together in one room, trying to sleep on a filthy floor with no bed, no mattress, no pillows, no anything.

Brother Freestone looked in the kitchen cupboards and in the refrigerator to see if he could find a single can or carton or box of food of any kind—but he could find nothing. He said the dog barking in the backyard had more food than those children had.

In the mother’s bedroom he found a bare mattress, the only one in the house. He hunted until he found some sheets, put them on the mattress, and tucked all five children into the makeshift bed. Then, with tears in his eyes, he knelt, offered a prayer to Heavenly Father for their protection, and said good night.

As he arose and walked toward the door, one of the children jumped out of bed, ran to him, grabbed him by the hand, and pled, “Will you please adopt me?” With more tears in his eyes, Brother Freestone put the child back in bed, found the stoned mother (the men had long since fled), and said to her: “I will be back tomorrow, and heaven help you if some changes are not evident by the time I walk in this door. And there will be more changes after that. You have my word on it.”4

If we don’t take gospel blessings to our communities and our countries, we will never have enough policemen—there will never be enough Isaac Freestones—to enforce moral behavior even if it were enforceable. And it isn’t. Those children in that home without food or clothing are sons and daughters of God. That mother, more culpable because she is older and should be more responsible, is also a daughter of God. Such situations may require tough love in formal, even legal, ways, but we must try to help when and where we can because we are not checking our religion at the door, even as pathetic and irresponsible as some doors are.

Nearly 20 years ago, our fifth son, Benjamin, was born. My wife sensed that something wasn’t right with Benjamin’s eyes. We consulted a close friend and retinal specialist in our ward, who confirmed our concerns and diagnosed Benjamin’s condition as retinal blastoma, a rare form of cancer of the eye. The news was devastating.

A few weeks later, Benjamin was to have the first of many surgical treatments. Prior to the operation we met with the surgeon and told him that we believed that he would find that Benjamin’s eye would be healed and not need to be removed. Our entire family and many ward members were fasting and praying for our son, and we had great faith that Benjamin would be healed.

An hour later, the surgeon returned and confirmed that Benjamin’s eye had been destroyed by the tumor cells and that his other eye also had several serious tumors that needed immediate treatment. I was speechless. Completely overcome with grief and disbelief, I walked out of the hospital into the damp San Francisco morning and began to walk, weeping bitterly.

I had done everything I had been taught to do. We had prayed and received a strong impression to select this doctor. We had fasted and prayed and felt certain that our infant son would be healed through faith and through the power of the priesthood. Yet the Lord had not intervened. Our faith it seems had been no more than vain hope. I began to question everything I had ever believed. As I walked, I felt betrayed and angry. I was overcome with pain.

I am not proud of the conversation I had with Heavenly Father as I walked and wept that morning. After a time, I got hold of myself emotionally. I remember the words of a children’s Primary song coming into my mind. “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer every child’s prayer?” Because you clearly haven’t been listening to mine or maybe you just don’t really care about me and my son. (“A Child’s Prayer,” Children’s Songbook, 12.)

In that moment, a tender mercy came. In my mind and heart, I felt these words: “Kevin, he is my son too.” The clarity of the prompting was unmistakable. I realized in that moment that I had not understood the purpose of prayer at all. I had assumed that, just because I had a righteous cause, I could use the priesthood and fasting and prayer to change the will of God.

For the first time in my life, I fully realized that I was not in charge. I knew that I needed to submit to Heavenly Father’s will. I couldn’t have what I wanted when and how I wanted it just because I was keeping the commandments. The purpose of prayer was not to tell Heavenly Father what to do, rather to find out what He would have me do and learn. I needed to align my will with His.

We would face another six years of serious challenges as we battled our little son’s condition to save his other eye and his life. But I now knew that Heavenly Father was aware and in charge. And no matter how things ultimately worked out, He had heard and answered my prayer. Today our miracle son is serving a full-time mission in Spain.

As a mother, I have been blessed many times. For example, one evening when our oldest son was about twelve years old, he had a slightly upset stomach and a bit of a fever. I put him to bed early, but in the middle of the night I woke suddenly and sat up in bed. “Matt has appendicitis,” I told my startled husband. The next morning I took our son in for an examination. By early afternoon Matt was in surgery. The appendix was almost ready to rupture.

I received an answer to a prayer when I was very young and living in Pocatello, Idaho. I had a pet rabbit that was very important to me. One day it got out of its cage and could not be found. I was worried that the neighborhood dogs and cats might hurt my rabbit. I looked everywhere, then decided to go behind our wooden shed and pray. As my prayer ended, I instantly knew where to find my rabbit. I looked under a pile of boards and found it. Our prayers can be answered by the Holy Ghost putting thoughts into our minds.

1. Eli ran through the living room, jumping over piles of laundry on the floor as his baby brother, Asher, watched.
Woo-hoo!
Be careful not to land on the laundry.
2. Eli’s foot knocked over a stack of washcloths. Asher laughed as the washcloths flew all over. Eli laughed too. They both laughed as he jumped from one stack of laundry to the next and kicked them over.
3. Mom walked back into the room. Eli stopped in the middle of a kick and fell down on Asher. Asher started to cry.
Oh, Eli!
Sorry, Asher. Sorry, Mom.
4. Thank you for saying sorry, but what are you going to do to fix this problem?
I don’t know. Can I go play with my toys?
5. Eli, when we do something that hurts someone and we say sorry, there is something else we need to do.
What?
We need to show we are sorry by making things better.
6. Eli wanted to show he was sorry. He ran to Asher’s toy box, grabbed a stuffed cheetah, and waved it in front of Asher’s face. Then he did a silly dance. Asher laughed.
7. Next, Eli helped Mom fold all of the washcloths he knocked over.
Good job.
8. Then Eli ran to the piano and made up a new song for his mom.
Wow, Eli. That is my most favorite song ever.
Now am I done being sorry?
Absolutely. And I’m done being angry too.

Elder Hunter related an experience he had during the time he served as president of the Genealogical Society: “I went to see President McKay one day after a computer representative told me that his company had developed a drum that would hold a billion bits of information. I was excited! This was a breakthrough for genealogical record keeping. As I told President McKay about it, I said, ‘Isn’t that marvelous?’ He replied, ‘What’s marvelous about that? You haven’t had use for it before, have you?’ I replied, ‘No, we are just at that point now.’ And he said, ‘Well, that’s the reason the Lord has provided it now.’”

My brothers and sisters, I am sure each of you has been touched by the stories of the Church’s great relief efforts to members stricken by floods or earthquakes. Our hearts go out to these people in need. There are, however, other needs—social-emotional needs—that can be just as devastating as any natural disaster. And these needs cannot be met with truckloads of food or clothing. I would like to illustrate several of them in my talk to you today.
Let me begin by reading a letter which relates the tragic story of a young man who became entangled in a way of life which led him to violate the most sacred of God’s commandments:
“I know not why I write this letter. Perhaps I grasp at last straws before it’s over or whatever. I seek help, without hope of receiving it. Not because I doubt that the Church is true, but because of my sins. Let me say here, I love my parents and do what I am able to help them, but my strength is going, and what flicker of spiritual life there is left in me spends itself on writing this letter.
“At a very young age,” this young man continues, “I became convinced that my father didn’t love me. It stemmed from an encounter when one evening I went to kiss him good night and he brushed me away. I’m sure he doesn’t remember, and it had no significance to him, but I was devastated: my entire sense of security and my world crumbled into ashes as I stood there.
“Not knowing what else to do, I ran from this new stranger in a panic to my mother and whispered tones to her of my calamity, which she denied, but did not convince me. That night I watched my father as I stood in the shadows of my darkened bedroom. I swore to myself that I would close the door until he sought to open it. I would ignore him until he sought after me.
“He didn’t notice. If he did, he never asked me what was wrong. Well, needless to say, through the next years I went through the motions and rebelled to get his attention, which I got in the form of anger. At any rate, I developed into a homosexual, a vitiating disease, and was soon entrenched in my prison. I didn’t know myself. And I have felt for more years than I can remember that the Lord didn’t love me either. From age seventeen to about twenty-three I began using drugs. …”
Well, you can imagine where his life went from there. This young man closes his letter with these words: “Thank you for your time. Can you help me? Is there reason for me to help myself? Can you convince me? Can you spare the time? I’ve not much left.”
Yes, young man, there is help available to you.
We know that the Lord does love this young man, as he loves all of us. This individual has since been referred through the priesthood to an LDS Social Services agency. Hand in hand, his priesthood leader and his LDS Social Services caseworker will help this brother learn what he didn’t learn at his father’s knee—that the Lord loves him and that the gospel’s plan of repentance and forgiveness is available to all.
In this next situation, Janet, as I will call her, was involved in serious transgression. After discovering that she was expecting a child out of wedlock, her bishop referred her to LDS Social Services. Instead of being condemned by staff personnel as she had feared, she found love and understanding—the love and understanding that she needed to help her repent. With the help of her bishop and the agency, she began to seek the Lord’s forgiveness. She was introduced to foster parents who lovingly accepted her into their home. She attended church regularly and studied the gospel. An unwed parents group sponsored by the Church helped her to realize the magnitude of her transgression and to resolve to start a new life. She began to more fully understand herself and her relationship to her Father in heaven.
“I went through an awful lot,” she recalled. “But I felt like such a load was lifted by being able to share the burden with those who understood. I’m so grateful for all the help I received from my Heavenly Father.”
In the final story, Verinda, a vibrant young Apache girl, was accepted into the Indian Student Placement Service. She later gave this testimony:
“When I first participated in this program eight years ago, I got off the bus with only the clothes on my back and a few small possessions in a shoebox. I came from a humble home. My people are humble. But you have opened your hearts unto me. For that I am thankful. Now I can go home with a brand new suitcase of clothes. But that is not my wealth. I am wealthy because that which is inside of me is as precious as all of the wealth in this world. I have a testimony of the gospel. I know that Jesus is the Christ and that God lives and answers prayers. I now have a goal—something I can strive for.”
Brothers and sisters, these three stories are in sharp contrast to the world around us. Today, we suffer not only from physical pollution, but from mental pollution as well. Perversions of our basic values are offered as the “new morality.” Cheating and violence are often accepted as a means of achieving individual and group desires. Working mothers and weekend fathers abdicate their parental responsibilities. Husbands and wives separate at the smallest argument. Natural affection is waning. I remember as a bishop an incident of a couple who lost custody of their two young children—one in diapers, the other too young for school. Each day the mother and father went to work and left their children locked in the house to fend for themselves. When questioned by the judge, the mother was quite surprised. She said that they had always left sufficient food for the children to last until suppertime! Can you imagine such an attitude?

Imagine competing in a triathlon where you swim 500 meters, bike for 12 miles, and then run for 3.2 miles. Sound pretty hard? Now imagine pushing and pulling a good friend the entire time. That is what Spencer Zimmerman of Arizona did with his friend Dayton Hayward.
Dayton, 13, has cerebral palsy and a seizure disorder. He can’t speak or walk, but in the deacons quorum of his ward, he is just one of the guys. When Dayton entered the Young Men program, his dad told the other deacons they would need to help Dayton fulfill his priesthood duties, and the quorum members have taken that challenge seriously.
“When I help Dayton pass the sacrament, I feel as if I am on a mission from Heavenly Father to give him the opportunity to participate in our deacon duties,” says Hunter McKown, a fellow deacon.
Along with passing the sacrament with help from his quorum members, Dayton collects fast offerings, does baptisms for the dead, and even goes on campouts with the other young men. They treat him like he is no different from anybody else. And no one is better at this than his quorum president, Spencer.
Spencer, 13, knows what it means to fulfill his priesthood duties, so serving his fellow quorum member just came naturally.
“When I got called to be the deacons quorum president, I felt a great sense of responsibility on my shoulders,” he says. “I knew that I should watch out for everybody in the quorum and make sure they’re doing good.”
Spencer loves to run and compete in triathlons. As the deacons quorum president, he encouraged his fellow quorum members to do a triathlon with him. But Dayton wouldn’t be able to do it on his own.
“I thought it would be really cool to do a triathlon with Dayton,” Spencer says. “He should have the opportunity to do and enjoy what everybody else does.”
So Spencer talked to his parents and Dayton’s parents about doing the triathlon with Dayton. Everyone thought it was a great idea, so they asked Dayton if he wanted to do it.
“Spencer went to Dayton and asked him, and Dayton just blinked really definitely like he was really excited about doing a triathlon with him,” says Dayton’s father, John Hayward.
So Spencer trained, and he and Dayton did the triathlon together. For the swim, Spencer pulled Dayton behind him in a small, inflated boat. On the bike, he attached a cart for Dayton to sit in, and on the run, he pushed Dayton in a jogging stroller. The race was hard, but Spencer says he and Dayton “loved every second of it,” and he was grateful to have Dayton with him.
“Throughout the swim, the bike, and the run, I knew that Dayton was five feet from me the whole time,” Spencer says. “It was awesome to know that one of my really good friends could be with me.”
Spencer says he and Dayton grew closer together during the race and that he felt spiritually strengthened.
“Near the finish line was very spiritual for me and Dayton, because I felt that I was out of energy, but then Dayton started smiling. I started to speed up, and I had the energy to sprint the last few hundred yards into the finish line. I felt that the Spirit was there helping Dayton and me to finish that race.”
They ended up finishing in an hour and 28 minutes and won first place in the team category. But Spencer doesn’t want any credit or glory for what he did.
“The triathlon was such a neat experience, because it was hard for Spencer, and yet he made it look easy,” says Dayton’s mom, Sherrine Hayward. “And he always has given the glory to the team. He’s been very humble, and he doesn’t want the spotlight. He wants Dayton to look like the hero, and he’s just Dayton’s legs.”
Even though Spencer didn’t want the attention, many people were inspired by what he did for his friend. The mayor of the city was so impressed that he made Spencer and Dayton citizens of the month. Throughout the experience, Spencer didn’t take credit for anything, something that really inspired his mother.
“Spencer has shown a lot of humility that has been an example to me,” Shelly Zimmerman says. “He has gotten a lot of attention. Attention that he didn’t want. And the whole time if anyone said, ‘Spencer, this is so cool; you’re so great,’ he turns it around and says, ‘It’s Dayton. Dayton’s on this team too.’”
Spencer was just happy he could serve his friend. “I fulfill my duty to God when I do service for others and I act on what needs to be done,” he says.
Spencer knows Dayton loved the triathlon. He could tell from the smile on his face. But he also knows Dayton is happy whenever the members of their quorum include him, so as their quorum leader, he is always encouraging them to serve one another.
“These boys are not inhibited by Dayton at all,” Sherrine Hayward says. “They’re not afraid or intimidated. They all really want to serve, and Spencer shows the boys that it’s not hard; it’s easy to serve.”
And that service goes both ways, as Dayton also serves the members of his quorum by teaching them. “Dayton is a true pleasure to be around because he may not talk but you can sure feel the Spirit when you are around him,” says quorum member Ryan Smith.
“Dayton has been a good friend to me because he has taught me a bunch of life lessons,” Spencer says. “He’s taught me that you can do hard things no matter what your circumstances are. You can be just like everybody else.”

Our son Mitchell is serving a mission in England. In a recent letter he recounted that while standing at a bus stop, a man from Africa excitedly approached them. The man said that before moving to England he had met missionaries in Uganda so he recognized their nametags. The missionaries in Uganda had taught him twice before he moved to England. When he saw the familiar nametags on our son and his companion, he blurted out this question. "Do you have the book?" They were not quite certain what he meant. But he explained that the missionaries in Uganda had read to him from a very profound book. He knew the words in the book were true and he wanted to learn more. He was thrilled to receive his own copy of the Book of Mormon. He held the book with tenderness and reverence and promised to read it that very night.