Gospel Story Finder

My last final this past semester was in an MBA economics class. For some very complicated reasons I had to take the exam a day late, with one other student. The first problem was worth thirty points. I read it once; I read it twice; I read it over and over until I realized that I had no idea how to do it. I panicked, but decided I had better finish the rest of the exam, which I did. After two hours, this economics professor returned and asked me how I was doing. I was reluctant to say, obviously, but finally explained my dilemma. He was very understanding; he asked me some questions to see what I really knew; he gave me a hint. I went as far as I could, struggled, and panicked again. He looked at my work and suggested I do one more thing. I did and, to my surprise, the problem was solved. I felt like I owed him my life. I thanked him, and then he said, “There is no need to thank me. That exam taught you something, and, after all, that is what we’re here for—to learn.”

One day in my office at seminary I was speaking with a student when I started to go numb down one side of my body and then the other. For some time I was in a semiconscious state. When I finally regained full consciousness, one of the aftereffects was persistent headaches that nothing seemed to help. I was the bishop of our ward at the time, and the headaches were so intense that I decided to sit down and have a talk with my stake president, William A. Cox.
I explained to him that I was experiencing extreme headaches, and even though I did not ask to be released, he knew why I was there. Finally he leaned over the desk and said, “I’m not going to release you, Bishop.” He then continued, “A loaded train doesn’t jump the track.”
Well, that certainly made no sense to me! Fortunately, President Cox explained what he meant. He had long worked at Geneva Steel, controlling the trains that transported the steel. He said that when a train is loaded down with freight, it will not jump the track. Only when the boxcars are empty is the train liable to leave the track. He then reinforced his statement that he would not release me. I did not fully understand the principle until later. As I went to Church to conduct interviews—still with headaches—I found myself so involved in the work that I soon didn’t even notice them. It wasn’t long before they lessened in intensity, and I have now all but forgotten about them.
The principle in this for me is that serving others brings the Spirit into our lives and helps us to remain on the straight and narrow way, especially during times of challenge and stress.

“She has only 24 hours to live, and even if she makes it, she will be paralyzed from the eyes down with no chance of recovery.” This was the bleak verdict doctors presented to my family in March 2004. At only 30 years of age, I had suffered a stroke that left me unable to speak or move. Yet in those dark, lonely hours, experiences from my previous calling as a Primary music leader gave me hope.
I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.
The blessings of my calling as Primary music leader were not limited to the Primary room, though. With the calling came the need to practice and play the music at home so I would be prepared each Sunday. As a result, my own children’s love for Primary music increased. The words of these songs brought a peaceful, calm spirit, comforting our children when they were hurt and lulling them to sleep each night. They insisted on listening to the Children’s Songbook CDs in the car—even if the ride was just a short one—and consequently began to memorize many of the songs.
However, it was not until after my stroke that I was aware of the far-reaching effects of this music in my life. With so much recent experience singing Primary songs, I found they were what kept me going during my trials. During my darkest hours I would pray and sing “A Child’s Prayer” in my head. As I cried out like the child of the first verse, “Heavenly Father, are you really there?” He would mercifully answer by reassuring me that I was not alone and that He was there, as stated in the second verse of the song. What a strength and reassurance!
During the recovery process, my husband and children came to my hospital room to hold family home evenings and frequently sang “Love Is Spoken Here.” That was the last song I had taught in Primary, and it was wonderful to hear my children sing it, knowing that I had planted those seeds. As they sang, I could relate to the mother in the song, praying on her knees (how I wished that I too could kneel!). Her pleas to Heavenly Father were also mine. I also shared the same gratitude for priesthood authority in my home. While I could not voice these thoughts to my family, the Primary song voiced these feelings for me.
It has been nearly four years since I suffered my stroke, and I have been able to regain far more abilities than the doctors expected I ever would. I have a small amount of movement in my right arm, which allows me to type on my computer and operate a powered wheelchair. I use a modified form of ASL—which I first learned in my Primary calling—to communicate. Because of this, I can still “sing” Primary songs with my children and express my feelings to family and friends.
Before my stroke I had always planned on singing at my children’s baptisms. In August 2005 my oldest child, Zach, was baptized. I was able to use my right hand to plunk out “When I Am Baptized” while my husband supported me at the piano bench. It felt good to express my deepest feelings about baptism through music and in a way that Zach would understand.
When I began serving as a Primary music leader, I did not think the calling would benefit me. Yet it plainly has! The Primary songs have blessed me with a better understanding of gospel principles, a strengthened testimony, the ability to communicate with my family, and the strength to persevere. The words and melody of Primary songs may be simple, but the message and the power of each one are clear.
We may not always understand why the Lord has given us a particular assignment. Even so, we must trust the Lord and put our faith in Him and His promptings. I am so grateful I was a Primary music leader before my stroke! The songs I can no longer sing can still communicate my feelings of the gospel to others. Every time I hear my children sing Primary songs, I know that their testimonies are being strengthened and that they share my love for the Lord and His gospel.

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University letterhead in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.
I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”
“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you? Cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”
“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”
“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”
“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”
She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”
“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.
“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”
I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?
Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”
“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”
“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”
He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?
Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”
I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”
She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?
After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a little girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.
But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in real life. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?
Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.
That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful band-aid on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle fingers against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.
I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!
The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.
By the time my plane approached the Salt Lake airport, I felt worn out with the traveling and emotions of the day. The plane had crossed the high Rockies, which in the early sunset presented a fairy world of peaks and crevices, clouds and shadows in changing, shifting patterns before my eyes.
But now, as the plane touched down, as I moved with the press into the crowded terminal, it seemed everyone had someone to meet them and some place to go. I hesitated, uncertain what to do or where to go next. I noticed a woman approaching, an older woman, very attractive, with rich brown hair and a lovely face. As she drew closer, I thought she looked familiar, so I glanced at her again. It looked as though she was coming directly my way. I shifted my feet and stared down at the floor, and when I glanced up again the woman was standing right beside me. She smiled, and the feeling that I had seen her somewhere before grew stronger.
“Michelle?” she said, with a little question at the end of the word. “You are Michelle Briggs, aren’t you?”
“Why … yes …” I stammered.
“I thought so,” she said. “You look very much like your mother, Michelle; you have her beautiful eyes.” She smiled again. “I don’t mean to alarm you, my dear, but I’m your Aunt Beth.”
“I don’t understand,” I cried. “What are you doing here? How did you know where to find me … or … or that I exist at all?”
“Your mother, Michelle,” she said, and took my hand gently in hers. “All these years I have written to your mother, but not once did she reply.”
“You, you mean, my mother’s known where you’ve been all along?”
“She’s known, but she hasn’t wanted to admit it. Your mother was very young when I went away, and your Grandpa Hunter did a good job of poisoning her mind. By the time she was old enough to understand … well, it was too late.” “Understand? Understand what?”
She paused, and her eyes began to sparkle. “When I was a girl I defied my father and joined the Mormon church. I was young and unwise. I hurt his pride, and he refused to forgive me. When I left and went to Utah, he refused to tell anyone where I had gone or what had really happened to me. He died without knowing that I had married and that he had three grandchildren he had never seen and another one on the way.
“But, you see, Michelle, I kept taking the Franklin City paper and I read about your mother’s wedding, and I wrote to her faithfully, hoping that sometime something would touch her heart and she would respond to me.”
“All these years?” I breathed in amazement.
“All these years. And all these years I have prayed that the Lord would soften her heart; and he has answered my prayers, Michelle, through you.” The sparkle in her eyes was wet now and her hand tightened over mine.
“But what …” I stammered, “how …” I still didn’t understand.
“Your mother wrote to me telling me you had joined the Mormon church, telling me you were coming to BYU and asking me to take care of you.”
“My mother … did that … ?”
My aunt nodded. “She told me what a special girl you were and how much she loved you.”
I couldn’t see too well, for my own eyes were clouded with tears and my throat ached trying to hold them back. My prayers and Aunt Beth’s prayers—and the prayers of a mother whose concern had overcome her pride and prejudice, and who could still teach me something about sacrifice and love! I smiled at the lovely woman who held my hand.
“I’ve got a long way to go,” I said.
“You’ll make it,” she replied, and I felt she understood all the things I was unable to say.
“Yes, yes,” I agreed, “I have to make it. I want to be a real Latter-day Saint. I want to make my mother proud of me.”

A lovely young lady told the following story at a stake conference. She said, “I am a convert from upstate New York. My parents wanted their children to have eternal marriages.
“Our family moved to Utah, and eventually I found myself a husband. He was the president of the local motorcycle club and wore a black leather jacket and motorcycle boots. We rode motorcycles together—perhaps not what my mother had hoped—but by that time I had wandered from the Church.
“We moved into a house. Often our friends would gather there. I’m afraid our neighbors were quite uncomfortable with us. At least one neighbor took her children into her house when we were roaming about.
“But do you know what our neighbors did? They mowed our lawn because we didn’t have a mower. They brought flowers when one of us was sick, and quite often they brought food and fixed things around the house. Our little daughter was included in the neighborhood children’s activities and was even given a party on her birthday. When we tried to thank our neighbors, they just said, ‘Well, we all like to help each other.’ They made us feel welcome there.
“About 10 months later, we traded our black leather jackets and motorcycle boots for the white clothing of the temple. As we knelt across the altar from each other and looked around that room, there were our neighbors, those who had been mowing our lawn and making things better for us.”

I heard the garage door open, and I knew what he would tell me. I lay quietly in bed. My father’s figure appeared in the doorway.
“Tracie, are you awake?” My heart was breaking as I felt my dad sit on the edge of my bed. “Lynn and I are going to get married,” he said. I was silent as he tried to explain.
“This does not mean that I love your mom any less. I know it will be hard, but I need you to be a good example to your sisters.” His sentences swirled around my mind, blurring into a mass of tears, weighing harder and harder on my heart.
“Good night, Tracie. I love you.”
As he left, my eyes overflowed with tears. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Why did my dad have to get married again? We were doing fine. Grandma didn’t mind helping us out. Mom wouldn’t want him to remarry. I didn’t want a stepsister my age. I have only one mom. I will be loyal!
I was eight years old when my mother died of cancer, and it changed me. I had always been shy, but my mother’s death caused me to turn completely inward. My friends distanced themselves from me. Home was my only safe place, and in it I grew up quickly as I became the part-time caretaker of my two little sisters. I must have blocked some things out because there’s not much I remember. I do know, however, that I became a hardened little girl.
It was during that stage that my dad told me he was inviting Lynn and her daughters to our house for a visit. They were family friends, so my little sisters were excited to play with Lynn’s two girls, Meghan and Paige. I hated the idea from the start. I suspected my dad’s intentions, and I decided I was opposed to the idea. I was determined that I would not forget my mother.
I felt betrayed that my dad would even consider remarriage. How could Mom’s memory live on with another woman in the house? I thought all my dad’s love would go to Lynn, and she would try to take Mom’s place.
I was wrong, and I am constantly amazed at how my views over the years have changed. It has been a long, hard process, but it has contributed a great deal to my character and has helped sculpt me into the person I am.
The first thing I needed to do was learn to love Lynn. I thought she was a nice lady, but that was where it stopped. She tried to tell me what to do, and even worse than that, she loved hugs and kisses. I did not want to kiss her and went to great efforts, at least at first, to avoid it.
Lynn and my mom are about as different as two people could be. They were actually best friends, and where one had strengths, the other had weaknesses. I have many memories of my mother waking up at five in the morning to read her scriptures and bake bread. She was friendly, but at the same time a bit shy. Lynn was the bold, outgoing one who loved talking and meeting people. This was something I had to deal with; she was just so different.
I think it was these differences, though, that made it possible for me to love her. I had respected Lynn from the beginning because she was my father’s new wife, and I wasn’t a rebellious child. But it was different when I started to love her. I saw that she was good to us. She drove us places and helped us with our problems. It was nice to have a woman in the house, especially during my early teenage years. She made my dad more happy and relaxed than he’d been in a long time, and it was nice not to have so much responsibility for my sisters. But there was still a wall between us. I loved and appreciated her as a person, but she wasn’t my mom.
Over time, Lynn’s role in my life changed. I matured, and Lynn became a great help to me. She loved it when I talked to her. Sometimes I would just plop down on her bed and talk to her for a long time. I really started to trust Lynn, to depend on her.
I now consider Lynn my second mother. The wall is gone. I used to think if I loved Lynn, my love for my mom would decrease; but just the opposite has happened. I love them both and appreciate their strengths and the many things they have taught me. I don’t compare them since they are both so loving and kind and have so many wonderful qualities. It took me a long time to admit I love Lynn and my stepsisters, but since I did, I have realized that love is sweet and powerful.
I love both my moms, and I am proud I am a little like both of them. I feel at peace, because I know the Lord’s plan for my family has been fulfilled. I have grown so much through these experiences and rejoice that I have learned to accept different people, to express myself to others, and most importantly that I now cherish a person I vowed I would never love.

In 1952, super-athlete Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia won both the 10,000 and 5,000-meter races. To celebrate his victory, he announced he would enter the marathon, even though he had never run the 26-mile event before.
“Do you really think you can win?” a newsman asked.
“If I didn’t think I could win, I wouldn’t have entered,” Zatopek replied.
At the 15-mile mark, Zatopek was side-by-side with Jim Peters of Great Britain, the prerace favorite.
“Don’t you think we should be going a bit faster?” Zatopek asked, then took off. He was grinning when he broke the tape.

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
It’s the last Saturday before school starts, and everyone has an idea about the best way to spend it.
Dad just wants to relax with a fishing pole and doesn’t care if he catches anything.
Mom wants to spend the day with a good book.
Mandy wants to spend her time with her sketchbook, drawing birds.
Matt wants to go swimming to try out his new snorkel.
Good thing the Coopers know how to compromise and just have fun together.

One day some friends began to say chastity is a thing of the past, that today no one obeys this commandment. I quickly said that I obey it and I know plenty of people who obey it. My friends laughed and asked me what I would do when faced with a temptation. I told them about an experience when I said no to someone. When she refused to listen, I left her presence, running. Then I told them we are created in the image of God and our bodies are sacred. Some months later a friend who listened that day was baptized.Jean Fernando da Silva, 20,Planaltina Second Ward, Brasilia Brazil North Stake

I’m Molly McKinzie, and in most ways I’m rather ordinary. My hair is brown. My eyes are a plain sort of gray. I’m not too short or too tall.
My best friend is Brenda. We both love pets, ballet lessons, climbing trees, and strawberry ice cream with chocolate on top. In other ways, though, we’re very different.
Brenda’s hair is curly and blond, and her eyes are a sparkling blue. And, when she giggles, Chuck Thornton, the neatest boy in our class, stares at her and can’t remember what he was going to say. I often wished he’d look at me like that.
It seemed hopeless, though, because of the one thing about me that isn’t ordinary—my nose.
“Most remarkable!” said Dad’s Aunt Prudence from Philadelphia, when she came to help after Mom had Michael. She tilted my chin up with her long, skinny finger and spoke to Mom as if I weren’t there. “It certainly doesn’t look like anyone from my side of the family.”
“Maybe not too much,” said Mom with a funny look on her face, “but Molly helps take good care of baby Michael.”
Mom was right. I did such a good job that Aunt Prudence didn’t have to stay very long.
I don’t know why grownups are forever trying to figure out who looks like whom. When Michael was born, everybody said things like, “Oh, how sweet! He has his mother’s delicate nose.”
“And his father’s chin and hair.” “Yes, but aren’t those Grandpa McKinzie’s ears?”
Actually, baby Michael looked like baby Michael to me and not like anybody else. It made me start thinking, though. There must have been somebody in the family with a nose like mine.
The day Michael rolled over for the first time, Mom hurried to get out his baby book so she could write it down. I got out my baby book too. Sometimes I like to look at it just for fun.
As I turned the pages, I noticed one that I hadn’t really looked at before. It was titled “My Family Tree.” All the lines were blank. I asked Mom if she had the names and pictures of the people who belonged there. I hoped that at least one of them would have a nose like mine.
Mom smiled. “I think we could find some of them.” When she finished feeding Michael, she got down a large box. “I have a few pictures, but you’ll have to ask Dad about his side of the family. I don’t know much about them.”
We dumped everything out onto the floor. “Someday I need to organize all this,” she said. We found pictures of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmas, grandpas, birthday parties, graduations, and weddings. We filled in many of the spaces and kept working until Dad came home. He joined in the fun too. We only stopped to make some sandwiches.
Dad got out his large black photo album and filled in many spaces. There was a picture of Dad as a little boy pulling a small dog in a wagon.
I had to laugh. Dad looked so plain and ordinary, just like me, except that he had an ordinary nose. The remarkable nose just couldn’t be found. When we finished that night, all the spaces were filled except two.
“Hmmm,” said Dad, leaning back in his chair, “I wonder where we can find your great-great-grandparents.”
The next Saturday, Dad and I drove to a huge library in a nearby city. We looked through books and films and even used a computer to search for more clues. Finally, after looking for a long time, Dad found a name. “Philadelphia,” he said thoughtfully. “It looks like we need to write Aunt Prudence a letter. Will you help me, Molly?”
I wrinkled my remarkable nose. “I guess so,” I said.
I helped write the letter, then began checking the mailbox each day for an answer. “It will take many days,” Mom said. I waited and waited until I almost gave up.
Weeks later I was out walking our dog, Dixie, when the letter carrier came. He waved to me as he put a stack of mail in our box. I waved back and ran to see what was inside.
Dixie’s leash slipped through my hands as I shuffled through the letters. Just then, a big gust of wind came along and blew the mail everywhere. I ran around as fast as I could, gathering it up.
Dixie thought it was a fun game and caught the last letter in her teeth. When I tried to take it from her she growled playfully and ran away, wanting me to chase her.
“Bad dog!” I shouted, but she paid no attention, darting this way and that with the letter still in her teeth.
Chuck Thornton came around the corner just then, delivering newspapers. He stopped to watch the chase. It was so embarrassing. He whistled to Dixie, and she ran right to him and let him take the letter from her.
“Thanks, Chuck,” I said, a little out of breath. “She’s kind of silly sometimes.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Hey! Look at this. It’s addressed to you, Molly. It’s from somebody in Philadelphia.”
“Really?” I was so excited that my hands shook when I opened it.
Inside was a five-page letter and some very old pictures. I read it carefully while Chuck looked at the pictures.
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “My Great-Great-Grandmother and Grandfather McKinzie were immigrants from Ireland who helped build a town in Pennsylvania. There’s even a park named after them.”
“Wow! That’s neat!” Chuck exclaimed. He handed me the pictures. “You know, Molly, you even sort of look like your great-great-grandfather. It’s … uh … your distinguished-looking nose.”
I stared at his picture. It was true! There was my nose on my great-great-grandpa’s face. “Distinguished?” I asked Chuck nervously.
“Yes, I think it’s the perfect description of it. Lots of famous people have distinguished noses.”
“They do?”
“Sure! Even some movie stars.”
Mom opened the door. “It’s here!” I yelled, waving the letter. She invited Chuck in for hot cider and donuts. While we had our treat, she read the letter.
“Remarkable!” she said, looking at the pictures.
“Distinguished!” said Chuck.
We all laughed.

Recently, a local television channel ran the story of a 10-year-old boy named Josh Bowers from West Jordan, Utah. He found a wallet that had $530 in it. Josh didn’t hesitate. He picked it up and took it to his mother. The wallet belonged to a mother of four, and the $530 was rent money she couldn’t live without.

Josh had some compelling reasons to keep the money. His father had recently been disabled on the job, so his family is living on Social Security. Then there were all the things Josh could have bought with the money. What he really wanted, as he said, was a new bike. But he knew the money was not his and that someone needed that money. The relieved young mother gave Josh $40 for returning the wallet and the money. Josh planned to use some of the money to get his old bike tire fixed. But a viewer, on hearing the story, had Josh pick out a brand-new bike “to reward him for being an honest guy.” Interestingly, the donor of the bike wanted to remain anonymous, but he said: “Josh set an example that everybody should follow, and he looks happy” (“Honest Boy Returns Lost Wallet and Money,” KUTV, 8 and 10 September 1998, 10:00 p.m.).

This reminds me of another story about a certain town where an electric generator failed, throwing the inhabitants into darkness. Mechanics and engineers could not figure out what was wrong. They called an aged professor from the university who looked at the generator for a while, asked for a mallet, and tapped on the generator. Suddenly there was electricity again. He was asked to send his bill. The bill amounted to $1,000.07. The president of the company asked him to itemize the bill. The professor answered: “Tapping, $.07; knowing where to tap, $1,000.00.”
Knowing where to tap requires that we know that we belong to a church that is the true Church of Jesus Christ and that we know our Heavenly Father. Do you really understand the mechanism of the Church? Do you understand that there is only one way and that the world is not giving you that way—this art of living?

Dr. Wilbanks, in studying the power of human will in responsible behavior, examined the on-court activity of two professional tennis players—Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe. I quote:
You probably remember Borg as the Swede who rarely showed any emotion on the tennis court and who decided never to be angry at the linesmen and the umpire. But Borg’s self-control was made, not born. Borg displayed an on-court temper similar to McEnroe’s when he was in his early teens in Sweden when he was known for his swearing and throwing rackets. At the age of 13 he was suspended by his tennis club for six months. And his parents supported that expulsion by locking up his racket and refusing to let him play at all.
Borg now says that he learned his lesson and simply decided from that day forward to control his temper—and he did.

Although they lived in town, where Henry’s father was a businessman, the family owned a fruit farm several miles from Provo. Elder Taylor recalls that “for several years we moved to the farm for the summer. Father would travel by bicycle or horse and buggy to his work at the Taylor Brothers Company. We learned to spray the fruit trees, to irrigate them, and to harvest the fruit. Night irrigating was a cold, unpleasant task, and it discouraged us from wanting to become farmers.
“Mother gloried in farm life. She had a beautiful garden and enjoyed picking the various kinds of vegetables and fruits when they were ripe. In the evening she delighted in walking along the brow of the hill and in admiring the magnificent sunsets. I suppose from her enthusiasm most of us children developed an appreciation for sunsets and other beauties of nature.”

Years ago, while immersed in the task of preparing a talk for general conference, I was aroused from a sound sleep with an idea impressed strongly upon my mind. Immediately I reached for pencil and paper near my bed and wrote as rapidly as I could. I went back to sleep, knowing I had captured that great impression. The next morning I looked at that piece of paper and found, much to my dismay, that my writing was totally illegible! I still keep pencil and paper at my bedside, but I write more carefully now.

Some years ago there passed from mortality a friend who helped more people, spoke more eulogies, and gave more freely of his time, his talents, and his possessions than most. His name was Louis. He related to me this tender account:
A gentle, soft-spoken mother had passed away. She left to her stalwart sons and lovely daughters no fortune of finance but, rather, a heritage of wealth in example, in sacrifice, in obedience. After the funeral eulogies had been spoken and the sad trek to the cemetery had been made, the grown family sorted through the meager possessions the mother had left. Louis discovered a note and also a key. The note instructed: “In the corner bedroom, in the bottom drawer of my dresser, is a tiny box. It contains the treasure of my heart. This key will open the box.” Another son asked, “What could Mother have of sufficient value to be placed under lock and key?” A sister commented, “Dad has been gone all these years, and Mother has had precious little of this world’s goods.”
The box was removed from its resting place in the dresser drawer and opened carefully with the aid of the key. What did it contain? No money, no deed, no precious rings or valuable jewels. Louis took from the box a faded photograph of his father. On the back of the photograph was the penned message, “My dear husband and I were sealed together for time and all eternity in the House of the Lord, at Salt Lake City, December 12, 1891.”
Next there emerged an individual photo of each child, with his or her name and birth date. Finally, Louis held to the light a homemade valentine. In crude, childlike penmanship, which he recognized as his own, Louis read the words he had written 60 years before: “Dear Mother, I love you.”
Hearts were tender, voices soft, and eyes moist. Mother’s treasure was her eternal family. Its strength rested on the bedrock foundation of “I love you.”

Sister Richardson continued: “Some time ago the film Mormons, Fact and Fantasy was being shown in one of the rooms at the public library in Nottingham. My husband was going there straight from work, and I decided that I ought to be there, too, so I got on the bus and went there with our three children.
“About a half hour before the film was due for a showing, someone’s voice called out, ‘Could we have volunteers to go out into the street and invite people in and hand out leaflets?’ I thought, ‘Yes, that’s what I should be doing. That’s what I had to come for.’ Then something inside of me said, ‘You don’t really want to, though, do you? You’re afraid of talking to all those strangers.’ I thought, ‘That’s right, I am!’
“So I just stood there with a battle going on within me, and then I looked down. Three upturned faces were looking into mine. They belonged to the three little people who are very important to me. I thought, ‘What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t show our children my faith by my works?’ We have spent a lot of time teaching our children the gospel, and I knew that I could ruin much of that teaching if I didn’t practice what I preached. I knew what I had to do.
“We took some leaflets. Our eldest little girl put on a sandwich board advertising the film, and we went down into the street below. I didn’t know if any of the people we invited actually came to see the film, but I was happy that we were doing our part, and that I had the opportunity of showing our little ones that sharing the gospel is not just something we talk about occasionally in family home evening.”

The house was a raging inferno.

“It’s no use,” the fire chief muttered, watching the flames leap high into the air. “Pull back!” he shouted. The fire crew moved back from the searing heat.

“Help!” a girl suddenly cried out from a second floor window.

“Oh no,” the fire chief mourned.

The girl’s parents, who had just returned from a movie, were quickly ushered over to the fire chief.

“Help me!” the girl shouted.

“Please save our daughter,” the mother pleaded.

“I can’t ask any of my men to go into that tinder box now—it’d be suicide.”

Randy stepped from the crowd. “Don’t worry, I’ll save your daughter.”

Before anyone could stop him, he ran toward the house, paying only slight attention to the crowd’s horrified gasp as he rushed into the flames.

It’s a good thing I’m wearing this action jacket, he thought as he kicked the door down. Inside, the stairs were still intact, although fire was licking through several of the steps. He covered his face with the jacket and bounded up the stairs.

On the second floor landing, because the jacket was still over his face, he tripped over a tricycle in the hall, but quickly recovered and hurried to her room.

He opened the door and saw her. She was in one of his classes in high school. She had long hair and nice eyes, although for some reason he couldn’t make out any details of her face. Maybe it’s the smoke, he thought.

She threw her arms around him. “I knew you’d come,” she cried.

A loud crash shook the house.

“What was that?” she cried.

“The staircase caving in,” he said calmly.

“How will we ever get out?”

He thought for a second then said, “I have a plan.”

Running to what was left of the hall, he grabbed the tricycle and hurried back to the room. He pulled an adjustable wrench from his jacket pocket and undid the front wheel. Then he kicked out the rubber from the wheel, leaving just the metal rim.

“Anyone else in the house?”

“No—my brother is spending the night at our uncle’s house.”

He hurried to the window and kicked out the screen and looked out. Just as he had noticed earlier—a telephone cable ran from the street pole to within a foot of the window. He leaned out, placing the rim of the wheel over the cable, then asked her to hand him the rest of the tricycle, which he refastened upside down onto the wheel again, the forked brace holding the wheel rim in place on the cable.

It was ready. He motioned for her to climb next to him on the window ledge. Putting one arm around her waist and holding onto the handle bar with the other, he jumped out into space.

They rolled gently down the telephone cable like a miniature cable car, leaving the house just before it broke apart. The crowd below roared its approval.

“Oh, Randy, you’re wonderful,” she sighed, hugging him.

A minute later they were on the ground, surrounded by a TV news crew and several newspaper reporters.

A newsman from the TV station stepped forward, microphone in hand, and asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“Hey, kid, whataya think you’re doing?”

That’s not the right question, Randy thought.

He looked again at the reporter. Somehow he had changed into a store clerk.

…

As he walked home, he began to think.

The house was a raging inferno.

“Help!” Michelle cried out from a second-floor window …

Many years ago I accompanied a brother I home taught, Brother Schaaf, to the hospital to give his wife a priesthood blessing before her surgery. Sister Schaaf shared her hospital room with a woman named Annie Leddar, a long-term patient with terminal cancer who was not expected to live much longer.
I reached out to pull the dividing curtain between the two hospital beds before beginning the blessing, but I stopped. Not wanting to exclude Annie, I explained what we were about to do and asked if she would like to witness the blessing. She said she would like to watch. Her husband, who had passed away, had been a minister in another faith, and she was interested in what we believed. Brother Schaaf and I proceeded with the blessing while Annie listened.
A few days later, before Sister Schaaf went home from the hospital, Annie asked if she could receive a priesthood blessing as well. Brother Schaaf and I gladly returned to the hospital to give her a blessing. Annie was not cured of her cancer, but her health greatly improved.
She was interested in learning more about the gospel, so I asked the missionaries to stop by the hospital to teach her. She listened to the gospel message with an open heart and chose to be baptized. Every week after her baptism we came to the hospital to take Annie to church in her wheelchair.
Because Annie was ill, it was difficult for her to get around, but she soon found her own way to serve the Lord. We brought her a typewriter, and she spent hours every day in the hospital doing family history work. Annie lived three years longer than expected and prepared hundreds of family names for the temple before she passed away.
After Annie’s death, Sister Schaaf did proxy temple work for many of Annie’s female ancestors.
As far as I know, Annie was the only member of her family to join the Church. Her living family was never enthusiastic about her involvement with the Church, but I am sure many of her deceased family members were grateful for the vicarious work that was done for them.
We never know if people we meet are ready to receive the gospel. I am grateful that I was able to see a seed—planted in Annie’s heart after she witnessed a priesthood blessing—flourish and bless hundreds of Heavenly Father’s children.

I met a man in Florida who took 15 years to join the Church. But once he was in, he resolved to spend the rest of his life as a missionary. More than anything else, he liked to ask people questions about the gospel. He sold used cars, and one day an all-American football player asked him if he would sell him a small pickup truck. My friend said, “I’ll do that, but I want to ask you something far more important. What do you know about Moroni?”
“Moroni who?” the football player asked.
“I guess he doesn’t have a last name,” my friend said. He then persisted and taught the football player the gospel. Within a few weeks’ time the football player had joined the Church and has remained faithful ever since. My friend has brought close to one hundred people into the Church! To me he is a great hero and stands out as one of the best missionaries I have ever known.