Gospel Story Finder

Our sacrament meeting had just begun when the phone in the foyer began ringing. Someone seated nearby answered it, then walked up to the stand to talk with our bishop during the opening hymn. The bishop walked out and then came back in, whispered to his counselors, and sat back down. The invocation was offered, and announcements were given.
Again the phone rang, and the bishop was summoned. When he came back in, he whispered to his counselors and left. One of the bishop’s counselors motioned to the chorister to pause and stood to explain the disruption. He told us our bishop needed to be excused because a wide section of his cattle pasture was on fire. If not brought under control, the fire might threaten homes in the area.
At those words, one man stood up and left to help the bishop. Over the next few minutes, several men got up one by one and excused themselves from their families. Obviously moved by this outpouring of love for our bishop, the counselor announced that any men or teenage boys who were not participating in the meeting could be excused. We lived in a small rural town with only a volunteer fire department, and we didn’t want to wait for the fire department to get there.
Our ward choir, of which I was a member, was singing as part of the program. As a priest, I had also been asked to help bless the sacrament. After some commotion of men and boys leaving, the sacrament hymn was sung and we blessed the bread.
I had wanted to leave with the rest. I wanted the bishop to know of my love for him, but as the meeting progressed, I was glad to have stayed. The meeting changed even more when it became clear that one of our speakers had left as well. Thanks to the leadership of a bishop’s counselor, impromptu speaking filled the gaps. When the choir sang, only two male voices were left—I sang bass while my dad sang tenor.
Our congregation was cut by a full third that day as its members practiced what they had been taught: to love one another and to serve each other where needed most. The Spirit of the Holy Ghost was so strong in our chapel.
Those who remained longed to help fight the fire but remained to serve in other ways, as our bishop would have wanted. Those at the fire reaped a reward of service and an outpouring of love. Those left behind were rewarded with an incredible manifestation of the Holy Spirit.
The blaze wasn’t a forest fire by any means. Flames were never higher than 10 feet, but the size of the area engulfed had made the fire uncontrollable for one man.
Can you imagine the feelings in our bishop’s heart as he fought the fire alone, getting one area under control only to have flames flare up in another? Then through the smoke came good and dear friends to stand at his side.
Men and boys, still wearing white shirts and ties, hunkered against the blaze like a royal army. They wielded shovels against the flames; they flung wet burlap sacks on top of the grass in an attempt to smother the fire. At the hands of so many, victory was swift and complete.
Then, as the last flickers of flame were extinguished, a great fellowshipping occurred. Fathers and sons compared notes on the fire. Old friends talked together. The bishop moved from group to group, thanking everyone. Hearts were bound together as one in a bond of priesthood brotherhood.
The next Sunday at church, those who fought the fire came in the same white shirts, washed and clean. Those of us who had remained at church gathered around to hear their stories. Both groups were blessed by the events of that day as we saw gospel service given in two distinct ways.

Ella W. was playing with her friends in the park when some of her friends lost their pet chameleon. This might not sound like that big of a deal. But remember, chameleons change color to blend in with their surroundings. After searching for a while, Ella decided it was time to pray in faith. They were soon able to find the chameleon in a tree! “Once it was in someone’s arms, we said a thank-you prayer to Heavenly Father,” Ella says.

One day in early winter, the boys planned to go hunting with their father. Charlie was so excited that he could hardly eat the spice cake Mrs. Thorpe had made for supper. “Do you feel all right?” she asked, feeling his forehead. “Why, Hiram, he has a fever!”
Charlie had to stay home. Jimmy could see that he was shivering under his pile of blankets. “I wish you could go,” he said awkwardly. His heart was heavy, for the twins had never been separated.
“Me, too,” Charlie whispered.
In two days Mr. Thorpe brought down three deer and a small bear. The third day he loaded the gun and handed it to Jimmy. “It’s your turn, son.”
Only once had Jimmy shot the big gun at a target. Although the recoil had knocked him over, he hadn’t missed! Now they were hiding in the brush near a little stream. When a big stag came to drink, Jimmy quietly sighted along the barrel. For Charlie, he thought as he squeezed the trigger. Boooom! Jimmy reeled backward, but the deer lay on the ground.
“Good work!” his father praised him. They loaded the horses, and Mr. Thorpe shouldered two deer himself for the long hike home.
“You must be as strong as Black Hawk!”
“Your eye is keen, your thinking straight, and your speed great,” his father returned the compliment. “Already you follow the path of Black Hawk.”
Jimmy thought about his Indian name, Wa-Tho-Huck (Bright Path). He hoped that whatever his “bright path” might be, it would be honorable, like Black Hawk’s.
Mrs. Thorpe met them at the door, but in spite of the great good luck of so much meat, tears streaked her face. “It’s Charlie,” she mourned. “He had pneumonia. He’s gone.”
Blindly Jimmy turned away. How could it be time for Charlie to go to the spirit world? If only he had let Charlie beat him just one time! He felt father’s strong arms around him.

I never cared for household dusting. But one day, this simple act was the reason I was able to take my family to the temple.
I joined the Church in 1970. My family was involved in Primary, Relief Society, and youth programmes. I noticed that our branch president kept mentioning the word ‘genealogy’ every Sunday. I kept turning a blind eye; I was too busy; I would do it later.
One Sunday, we had a visiting speaker who challenged us to think about where we could begin finding information about our ancestors. I then remembered seeing my name and birth date in my great-aunt Lizzie’s birthday book when I was a child. I wondered where the book might now be, as she had died many years ago. Jessie (my mother’s cousin) might know because she knew Lizzie. But what was her address? I’d had no contact with her since I was a child.
The next morning, I was dusting. I can’t imagine why, as dusting was hardly a favourite pastime of mine. I picked up a beautiful wooden bowl that my husband had made for me before we married. Underneath, there was a piece of paper with Jessie’s address on it. I was stunned. Where did it come from? I didn’t question it; I sat down and wrote to Jessie there and then. Jessie wrote back that “no one else has asked for it, Edith, so it’s yours.” Within the week I had that book in my hands. It is now my treasured possession. It gave me a flying start to my research into my mother’s side of the family!
I’m still not much of a duster, but I’m ever so grateful for that prompting so long ago.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, who had joined the Church in their native Scotland, left their home in Rutherglen, Scotland, and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849. One of their 11 children, Margaret, would become my great-grandmother.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area, leaving death and heartache in its wake. The Miller family was hard hit. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The first, on June 22, 1849, was 18-year-old William. Five days later Mary McGowan Miller, my great-great-grandmother and the mother of the family, died. Two days afterward, 15-year-old Archibald passed away, and five days after his death, my great-great-grandfather, Charles Stewart Miller, father of the family, succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
Because of so many deaths in the area, there were no caskets available, at any price, in which to bury the deceased family members. The older surviving boys dismantled the family’s oxen pens in order to make caskets for the family members who had passed away.
Little is recorded of the heartache and struggles of the nine remaining Miller children as they continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. We know that they left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.
Others of my ancestors faced similar hardships. Through it all, however, their testimonies remained steadfast and firm. From all of them I received a legacy of total dedication to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Because of these faithful souls, I stand before you today.

Sometimes the Savior’s touch can reach others through little bodies with big hearts. A lovely woman had received the missionary discussions but had not made the final commitment to be baptized. One Sunday she decided to attend sacrament meeting in a ward where she was not acquainted. She wanted a place where she could be alone with her thoughts. She sat beside a little boy. As the sacrament was passed, this little boy noticed that she did not take the sacrament bread. When it came to him, he carefully broke it in two and gave half to her. The woman was very impressed that a child would perform such a meaningful act of kindness. That day she contacted the missionaries and said, “If this is what you teach the children in your church, I want to become a member.”

When Brigham Young and his brother Joseph Young went to see Joseph Smith in 1832, they found him chopping wood, for, as Wilford Woodruff said, “he was a labouring man, and gained his bread by the sweat of his brow.” The Prophet, according to the account of this meeting, “received them gladly, invited them to his house, and they rejoiced together in the Gospel of Christ, and their hearts were knitted together in the spirit and bond of union.”8

How might we do this? May we suggest one way? Three thousand miles from this pulpit lives a family who will again do a very special thing following this conference. When the Ensign arrives with the conference addresses at their home, the family will immediately read the messages, with the older children reporting on selected addresses.

But they will do more than read. In family home evenings they will select family and personal goals based upon the conference messages. Their goals are practical: “Remember grandmother in our daily prayers, memorize a Church hymn, review our family preparedness, do the Lord’s thing in his way—not ours, bring a nonmember to church.” They will discuss their goals, pray about them, and review them frequently. Is there any wonder why the father says: “Our family regards general conference as the Lord’s list of things we should be concentrating on. It has meant more to us and our children than words can say.”

Webster, the Canada goose gosling, wobbles out of his down-lined nest and peers over the edge of the cliff. Two hundred feet below flow the waters of the Missouri River. Webster’s father, the gander, making short, circling flights above the cliff, calls and coaxes, urging his family to leave the cliff and join him.
On the cliff ledge, Webster is joined by his three sisters. Mother lifts off on her strong wings and calls to her babies, come, come, come.
Webster flaps his tiny featherless wings and hurls himself after the goose. Can he fly? No, indeed. Instead he falls down, down, down and lands ker-plunk on a rock pile at the base of the cliff.
One by one his sisters follow. The rocks below are jagged and sharp. It’s a miracle that they are not injured. Webster stands up, shakes himself, and the four goslings tumble and scramble down the rock pile to the waiting goose and gander.
Away they go toward the river—the goose, the four goslings, and the gander, making their own little parade.
But there’s another hazard ahead. Between the river and the cliff is a railroad track. And, while a person like you or me could step right over the tracks, the steel rails make a high fence to block the way of short-legged Webster and his sisters. The only way for the goose and gander to get their babies across is to lead them down the tracks to a crossing.
Look out, Webster! Danger may be lurking. Out in the open in broad daylight, the geese are in full view of any furred or feathered predator. If there’s a hungry fox nearby he may try to nab a gosling dinner. Actually, any fox would be foolish to tangle with the adult geese, because nesting Canada geese are short-tempered and strong enough to knock a horseman from his saddle and break his arm. A fox wouldn’t stand a chance against an angry goose and gander.
Soon the little parade comes to a railroad bridge. This solves the problem of getting across the tracks. Webster and his sisters follow the goose down the steep slope and, for the first time, enter the water. Instinct tells them exactly what to do and in a few seconds they are across the narrow stream and on their way to the main channel of the river just ahead.
The goose family is headed for a tree-covered island in the middle of the river. The island will provide food and a sheltered place for the young goslings to grow up.
Webster jumps in and paddles with all his might against the powerful river current. Bounced and battered by the rolling waters, at times he cannot see either his parents or his sisters. He swims and swims. The river is carrying him far downstream.
Finally he is out of the current and into calmer waters. With his last ounce of strength he wades up onto the levee and sinks to the sand in a tuckered heap.
Far upstream he can hear the come, come, come call of the goose and gander. He struggles to his feet and starts out to rejoin his family. The way is rocky and uncomfortable. He slips and falls, bruising himself as he goes. Although Webster is only one day old and appears to be all softness and fluff, in reality he is wiry and tough. He moves on.
Along the way he meets his sisters, also headed toward the come, come, come call. Soon they are greeted by the goose and gander. The parents flap their wings excitedly to welcome the goslings to the sheltering willows and quiet backwaters of their island home.

The rain started falling on Norfolk, Virginia, Thursday night while the Corbin children were still painting the banners.
“But it can’t rain tomorrow,” Matt, age 12, said. “That will ruin everything.”
“I don’t care if it rains all day,” 14-year-old Margaret said. “Dad’s coming home, and that’s all that matters.”
Out in the ocean, Richard Corbin, a Radio Officer, stood on the deck of the U. S. S. Nimitz, one of the largest aircraft carriers in the world. Corbin, the father of Margaret, Matt, and 10-year-old Nathan, and the husband of Jo Ann, was thinking of family and home. He’d been at sea for six months.
The carrier made steady headway through the misty sea. Rain was falling there, too, thick and heavy. In the evening light, the only way to tell the sky from the water was that the ocean was a darker shade of gray.
The Nimitz is a mobile, man-made island. Six thousand men live and work in its engine rooms and on its flight decks, in its galleys and its control tower. Among the thousands of men aboard are 15 LDS sailors. Brother Corbin is their group leader. Tonight he’d been finding his fellow Saints, taking time to wish them well and tell them good-bye.
“You get close to people when you work with them,” Brother Corbin said. “And you get especially close when you share the bond of the gospel. We have a place to hold Sunday meetings, and we have a family night activity. We invite other sailors to join with us and learn about the Church. And we talk about where we’re from, news we’ve received from home, how things are going. I’m glad to have an adopted family here on the ship, but I’m sure eager to see my real family at home.” Brother Corbin’s living quarters (he shares a small stateroom with another officer) are just six inches below where the airplanes land. “It gets rather noisy sometimes,” he conceded. “But after a while you can get used to anything. You learn to sleep, even with the noise. You get to where you can tell what kind of plane is landing or taking off just by the sounds it makes. There’s one plane, the S-3A Viking, that we call the ‘Hoover’ because it sounds like a vacuum cleaner.”
He looked around, above his desk and bed, at the collection of photographs of his wife and children, at the photos of the Washington D.C. Temple. “Every time the mail comes there are some snapshots,” he said. “After a while you get a pretty goodcollection.”
“I won’t sleep at all tonight,” he added. “Nobody will. We’re all too anxious to get home. They’ll show movies all night long to give us something to do. It’s funny. Lots of people dream of a cruise in the Mediterranean, and that’s where we’ve been. But nothing compares with coming home. Nothing.”
Nathan helped Matt finish the red border of a cardboard replica of the family coat of arms, a shield with two ravens on it. “That should stand out in a crowd,” Sister Corbin said. The other banners read, “Corbin’s the name we’re looking for,” and “Glad to have you back, Dad,” the last one spray painted on an old sheet so it wouldn’t fall apart in the rain. That was Margaret’s idea.
Matt and Margaret got out the stepladder and hung the sheet along the front of the house. Nathan watched.
“The one on the house will let everybody know he’s coming,” Margaret explained. “We’ll take the others with us to the docks so he can see us.
“You kids are soaked!” Sister Corbin called out the front door. “Come get dried off so you can go to bed.”
On the television, the newscaster was talking about the 16 ships heading for Norfolk and other home ports along the Atlantic seaboard. Everyone, it seemed, was anticipating the homecoming, the return of the men from the sea.
The rain kept falling all night long.
Friday morning dawned gray. The downpour had faded to a drizzle, but forecasts predicted more on the way. Brother Corbin climbed through a bulkhead, leaned over a railing on the carrier’s massive tower (called the “island”), and looked down at a helicopter taking off.
“That’s the travel agent, headed back to shore with orders for plane tickets. Once we dock, a lot of sailors will be headed for the airport,” Brother Corbin said.
He climbed back inside, down a set of stairs so steep it’s called a ladder. The interior of the ship was a flurry of motion, with men constantly running through narrow passageways, clanging up and down the ladders, or bending slightly to squeeze through a hatch. Almost every time Brother Corbin passed someone, there was a smile and a hello.
“The tide has finally come in,” Brother Corbin explained on his way to the communications center. “Now the water’s deep enough for us to make it to port. We won’t go quite fast enough for you to waterski behind the ship, but now we’re on a beeline for home.”
The Corbins live in Virginia Beach, a bedroom community near Norfolk. As Sister Corbin, Margaret, Matt, and Nathan rushed to beat the heavy traffic to the naval base, they could see signs everywhere. Some were red and white, posted along the road like Burma Shave ads. Others were simple but sincere, with messages like, “We love you” or “Happiness is having your ship come in.” In the car talk turned to Dad and the family. “Richard is from Webster, Texas (near Houston), and I’m from Spring Hope (near Raleigh), North Carolina,” Sister Corbin said. “We met while I was in school in Mars Hill, North Carolina. I had always told my mother I’d never date a Navy man. But then someone lined me up with a blind date.”
A whistle blown by a sailor pointing to a parking stall interrupted the discussion. On the waterfront, hundreds of people were already waiting. Banners and balloons were everywhere. Someone was handing out small American flags. “It’s like being at the airport with 6,000 missionaries all coming home at the same time,” Sister Corbin said.
As the family got out of the car, they opened their umbrellas. The rain was thundering down again.
You don’t unload the Nimitz in a minute or two. If you’re assigned to stand at attention as the ship pulls in (a ceremony known as manning the rails),then you can thrill at the sight of the crowds awaiting your arrival. But as soon as the ship is docked, it’s back to your duty station again, or back to waiting.
The planes flew home days ago. The four-and-one-half-acre deck is now empty, except for a few sailors scanning the docks for loved ones. Like others still on duty, Brother Corbin is busy filing reports and finalizing communications records. Down in the hangar bay normally used for plane storage and repair, the majority of the carrier’s personnel wait for permission to disembark. The bay is larger than a football field, now filled to standing room only. Men and duffle bags are everywhere.
Brother Corbin asks for permission to go ashore and bring his family back with him. Permission is granted. He joins the men in the hangar bay. And he waits, too. It seems like hours.
Finally, a microphone clicks on. Congratulations for a successful cruise are given. Announcements are made. Officers not on duty are cleared to leave, and they walk out single file. Then all others not on duty are cleared to leave, and they race for the quarterdeck and down the brow (a landlubber would say they’re rushing down the gangplanks).
On the pier, the crowd, now grown to thousands, cheers as the first sailors touch the ground. A band plays. Desperate eyes search and search, then finally meet. Then there’s running, running through a crowd for miles it seems, until those who stayed at home and those who have been at sea try to melt the absence in embraces. Fathers and mothers hug their sons, brothers and sisters smile and cry as though the reunion can’t be real. Husbands and wives hold each other and kiss. Older children put on their father’s cap or try to pick up his gear and find it far too heavy. Younger children hold onto his legs and wait for their turn to be held and loved. Babies, oblivious to it all, doze in their strollers as the rain keeps pelting the ground.
Margaret and Matthew spot Brother Corbin first. They start jumping up and down, almost screaming as they point him out to Sister Corbin and Nathan. Then Sister Corbin and Nathan are jumping up and down too, and so are some friends and neighbors who have joined them. They wave the soggy banners whose colors have faded in the rain.
“I looked and looked at the crowd and couldn’t see anything,” Brother Corbin said. “There were thousands of people, all holding signs. Then, when I was about halfway down the ramp, I spotted the red shield with the ravens.”
Now it was Brother Corbin’s turn to jump and shout, and finally free from the rails and the ramps, to rush into the embrace of those who love him.
The Corbins were finally reunited.
And this time, Brother Corbin was home for good. “I’ve been assigned to shore duty at a communications station in Virginia for three years,” he said. And with his record for time already spent at sea, he shouldn’t have to go away again.
Over the next few days, the rain would be forgotten in the sunshine of love. The Corbins would talk and talk. They would want to take Dad everywhere and tell him everything. They would listen to his stories of ships, planes, places, and people. They would hear his thanks for their Christmas package full of cookies and dried pineapple. They would tell him thanks for seashells from Israel.
On Sunday he would tell them about 18 missionaries who visited the ship in Naples, Italy, about holding church right above the flight deck where catapults launch jets into the sky, about mechanics who came to sacrament meeting dressed in dungarees. Margaret would tell him about being Beehive class president. Matthew would know his father was watching him pass the sacrament. Nathan would show Dad the new kittens born while he was away. And Brother and Sister Corbin would gather the family together to pray.
More than once they would wonder if this wasn’t what it will be like in heaven, when a loved one returns after being away. And more than once they would rejoice, glad their family was sealed in the Hawaii Temple years ago, an ordinance that opens the door to family homecomings forever.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town on Vancouver Island where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending some time with Latter-day Saint kids. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church. It was nights like this that I welcomed the interaction with them.
As was our habit, we were standing in the foyer of our new chapel chatting with each other. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton, the senior of the two missionaries, approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with him and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded half-heartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He stood there looking awkward and uncomfortable, mostly staring at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We continued conversing for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too cumbersome. We then slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is, except this new boy. We were so caught up in our discussions that we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the bathroom, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, gathered her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a three-mile walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to my older brother about it. Having recently returned from college, he was soon to go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” Laurence asked me after I had blurted out to him the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we crossed Third Avenue into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a street light and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a lady I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I wanted to apologize and to invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes the look of disgust with the way we had just treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted the burden of guilt from me. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart. Inside I knew I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one that I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.
“I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. But he that is an hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth: and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep. The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep” (John 10:11–13).
Whether I cared to admit it or not, I was no shepherd. I had fled like the hireling. I didn’t seek after what was lost until I found it. After only one try, I left the boy in the wilderness to the wolves. In my heart I wasn’t willing to pay the price of being a true shepherd.
Since that incident, I still see that boy in my mind’s eye and I wonder what happened to him. I still feel the responsibility for what I did and what I didn’t do.
I need to be a shepherd and not a hireling and to find joy in serving and including my brothers and sisters, whoever they may be.

There was an educator down in Atlanta, Georgia, while I was president of the mission down there. He has talked in the Tabernacle in Salt Lake at educational meetings, and I heard him relate this little story. He said that when he was a boy his father told him it was time for him to decide what he wanted to be in life and what he wanted to make of himself. So he studied the situation and he thought it would be wonderful to be a minister because he thought of the minister in his community and how the people loved him and how much good he did. So he thought he’d like to be a minister. Then he thought of being a doctor, how doctors relieve pain and distress and perform operations and increase the life span of people. And he thought it would be wonderful to be a doctor. Then he thought of being an architect and how wonderful it would be to plan buildings and to know that as they rise to the sky they were the result and product of his own brain. So he thought it would be wonderful to be an architect. Then he thought of being a writer and how writers sway the thoughts of men and of their great influence in the world. So he thought it would be wonderful to be a writer. Then he thought of the beautiful ears of corn that his daddy raised on the farm, and how wonderful it would be to be able to make the earth produce like that. So he thought it would be wonderful to be a farmer. And then, being a prayerful man, he got down on his knees and something seemed to say to him, “Why not be a teacher? Your students will preach your sermons for you; your students will perform your operations for you; your students will build your buildings for you; your students will write your books for you; and your students will raise your corn.” So he decided that he would be a teacher.

Eleven-year-old Jennifer stared out the window of her Primary classroom. Marshmallow clouds drifted across a blue March sky. Sometimes she saw imaginary faces in the clouds.
“Jennifer,” the teacher said impatiently, “what do you think of the idea?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Sparks. I guess I wasn’t listening.”
“I know,” Sister Sparks said dryly, at which the other students giggled. “We’ve been discussing a service project, and it’s been decided that we will visit the Golden Years Rest Home once a week for the next two months.”
“What will we do there?” Jennifer asked.
“We can sing, put on skits, play checkers and other games, and just visit with the folks who live there.”
Jennifer didn’t think that sounded like very much fun. She was apprehensive about being with people she didn’t know, especially older people.
The first visit to the home was not very successful. The children felt awkward and uncomfortable. The second visit was better. They felt a bit more relaxed, and the residents seemed to enjoy their company.
By the third visit the children felt at home, and they hurried to pick out their favorite partners to visit and play games with.
During one visit Jennifer noticed an elderly lady for the first time. She sat alone, looking out the window. Her fine, wispy white hair framed a face with deep wrinkles. Jennifer went over and stood silently beside the lady for a moment. Finally she said, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Wheeler. Would you like me to read to you?”
The old lady looked up with watery blue eyes. Her pale lips spread in a slow, sweet smile. “That would be very nice, dear, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather just talk.”
Jennifer drew up a chair and sat down. “What’s your name?” she asked.
The old lady laughed softly. “It might be one you’ve never heard. It’s Clementine. Clementine Dodd. But everyone here calls me Clemmie. Tell me about yourself.”
Jennifer told her about school and her family and friends. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Oh, you should see my cat! Her name is Bounce. Don’t you think that’s a nice name?”
Clemmie agreed, and they sat in silence for a while. Then Jennifer said, “Tell me about when you were a little girl. Did you like school?”
Clemmie’s eyes misted over as her memory went back to those long-ago days. She was quiet for so long that Jennifer thought she hadn’t heard the question.
At last she said, “Yes, Jennifer, I liked school, but I had to quit in the sixth grade. We were very poor. Oh, the chores we had to do! There was wood to chop and carry in, buckets of water to bring in from the well, oil lamps to clean and fill. We didn’t have much time for school or for play.”
Jennifer found it hard to imagine Clemmie as a young girl, harder still to think of anyone’s working so hard just to survive. She thought of her own warm, bright home and the simple chores she had to do. “But didn’t you ever get to do anything you wanted to do?” she asked.
Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”
Jennifer went back home, thinking that things were sure a lot different now than they were in Clemmie’s day.
Over the next few weeks, Jennifer and Clemmie became great friends. Clemmie had new stories of her childhood to tell every visit, and Jennifer came to appreciate what it was like to live in those bygone days.
As they were going to the nursing home one week toward the end of April, Jennifer was thinking about how much she would miss Clemmie and her stories at the end of the month. When they entered the home, Jennifer noticed right away that Clemmie was not in her usual spot by the window. “Where do you suppose Clemmie is?” she asked her teacher.
“I’ll find out,” Sister Sparks replied and went to talk to the head nurse.
When she came back, Jennifer could tell by her expression that something was wrong. “What is it, Sister Sparks? Is Clemmie sick?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Clemmie died a few days ago. The nurse said she went peacefully in her sleep.”
Jennifer felt the hot tears burn her eyes, and she turned away so the others wouldn’t see her crying.
Sister Sparks put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You brought a lot of pleasure and happiness into the last weeks of her life.”
As the class left the nursing home, Sister Sparks drew Jennifer aside. She handed her a small leather-bound book. The cover was cracked and worn at the edges, and Jennifer could just make out the faded gilt lettering, Daily Journal.
“The nurse gave me this to give to you,” Sister Sparks said. “It was Clemmie’s journal when she was a young girl. Clemmie wanted you to have it.”
Jennifer almost cried again as she looked at the writing on the worn pages. She knew the journal was something she would treasure always.

As a bishop, I have had many opportunities to work with those that have seemed to have lost that joy that we have been talking about. As a matter of fact, part of our ward boundaries includes the local jail. I have had many chances to “teach the spirits in prison”. There is one example I would like to share with you.

Let me tell you about a young lady who, even though she may have been raised in the church, made some decisions and choices which took her away from the church. She found herself with group of friends that did things that were not in keeping with the standards of the gospel. She gave in to peer pressure and soon found herself doing the same things they were.

She was arrested by the authorities and was sentenced to jail. She spent nearly 18 months without any contact from her family or friends or even the church. While she was in jail, her husband divorced her. Her son went with her ex-husband, and her daughter went to be raised with her mother. Can you imagine what it must have been like to be all alone in that kind of situation? Can you feel the loss of joy she must have experienced? You need to realize that in the jail, there’s not a lot for you to do. The atmosphere is not necessarily conducive to the spirit of the Lord. The feeling of joy does not abound there. Sometimes, when I visit, I feel the repentance process in full swing. There are many there that have realized their mistakes and are paying the price. Knowing that in order to have a fullness of joy, they need to repent for breaking those laws. There are others that feel no remorse and as soon as they are out, they will probably do the same thing all over again!

This young lady was beginning to understand what repentance was all about. She sensed the lack of joy and happiness all around her. She was willing to accept the consequences of her choices. When I was given the opportunity to meet with her and to feel of her spirit, much repentance had been made. She told me that she wasn’t even sure whether she was still a member of the church or not or if she could ever come back to the church. She did know that whether she was a member or not, she could still pray. She found herself praying for changes in her life. Her heart had softened. Even in jail, she was responding to the whisperings of the spirit. The Lord was answering her prayers, too, even though she was still having a hard time feeling the spirit.

She had been sentenced to serve out a term that included hard time in a federal prison up north, but by some divine intervention, rather than going to the State Pen, she was transferred here to do some of that time. She didn’t know exactly why the transfer was changed, but the Lord knew! It just so happens that her mother, who had been taking care of her daughter – her granddaughter – live close to this area, and they now have the opportunity of visiting her each week. Think of the great joy it must have been for her to see them both after such a long time of being alone. She mentioned how grateful she was to the Lord and His great blessing in sending her here to be with her family. I felt blessed to be able to visit her and to see some of the joy of the gospel come back into her heart. I wish I could say that she lived happily ever after and is now serving as a Relief Society President in some ward, but the story isn’t over yet. She still must pay the rest of her debt to society, but there is hope and joy that will come to her as she strives to be obedient to the commandments. That is a promise that He gives to all of us. And I have never known the Lord to ever renegotiate on His promises!

I had the privilege of filling a couple of missions in Holland, which is where the Pilgrims went when they left England, seeking a place where they could worship God according to the dictates of their own conscience. I preached in the little city of Leiden where they had lived. And I’ve been in the little church at Delft’s Hoven outside of Rotterdam where the Pilgrims held their last meeting before setting sail for America. We met there with nearly a hundred missionaries when President Grant was president of the European mission, and he sang “The Flag Without a Stain.” I will never forget that. It was wonderful to be in that place from which the Pilgrims left in the Speedwell. When they went to England they transferred onto the Mayflower and sailed across the Atlantic and landed on Plymouth Rock, which is another place I’ve been. And that country around Plymouth Rock is so stony I wonder how they could ever eke out an existence. I remember seeing a rock in front of one home that was so large it filled the whole front lot. But there were 122 of them who endured the first winter; 51 died; and 4 families were wiped out entirely.

You remember the little story about Miles Standish who sent John Alden to Priscilla Mullins to propose marriage for him; and Priscilla listened to John Alden and said, “John, why don’t you speak for yourself?” Now I am proud to tell you that on my mother’s side I’m a descendant of John Alden and Priscilla who landed with the Mayflower on Plymouth Rock. I’ve a little grandson sitting down there who is a descendant too. (He doesn’t know it, but now I’ve told him.)

Now, did they have the spirit of thanksgiving when they found themselves here in this land where they could start all over again? Let me just read you a few words: “They had landed at last on a frozen shore, bleak and dread. But they were so glad that as they knelt in prayer the very stones seemed warm and the snowflakes on their cheeks melted into tears of gratitude.” Did they not have the spirit of thanksgiving when they landed here in America? The account then says, “Oh call it holy ground, the soil where first they stood. They have left unstained what there they found, freedom to worship God.” That is what they have bequeathed to us, and I think Thanksgiving is a good time to recall what they did to open the way for this great nation to come forth.

Mother knew more about Joey than anyone else in the world except me. Once when I was five years old, she and I were lying on her bed, and after she’d read me half a dozen nap-time stories I decided to tell her I had a friend named Joey. Mother thought that was just wonderful and wanted to know all about him.

I told her how one day I’d gone exploring in the hills above our house. Tom and Scott hadn’t come because they were playing kick soccer with a bunch of kids in our backyard. At first I was going to play, but when they chose up sides I was the last one to be chosen, and then there was a fight to see who had to take me on their team. So I said I didn’t want to play, but I really did, but I’m glad I didn’t. Because that was the day I met Joey. He was just my age, but smarter. Almost every day after that we’d play in the hills hunting lizards or digging in the sand. Sometimes though I’d meet him other places.

Mother was amazed at the things we’d do, so every day before my nap I’d wait until her voice sounded sleepier and sleepier while she was reading me stories, and then I’d say, “Now I’ll tell you about Joey and me.” Once in a while Mother would get up and write something down. She wrote down the lion hunt, and the time we were lost at sea, and our exploration of the new planet.

Joey was a joke to Tom and Scott, but Mother thought Joey was magnificent—that was her very word. And she said some day she would write a book about him if I didn’t. Mother was always thinking about writing, but she never got around to it much.

“You are a remarkable boy,” my mom would say to me. I wasn’t sure just what she meant by that, but it made me feel strong and warm both together. And when I finally wrote my first story I signed it, “Remarkable Rulon.”

Ben stood with his friends after school in the hot sun as they waited for the bus home. He wished for the thousandth time that there was some shade at the bus stop!
“Hey, here comes Frankie,” one of his friends said. Frankie was part of their group.
“Dude, your shoes are so old they must’ve been made out of dinosaur skin!” Vince said once Frankie got closer.
Ben laughed at the joke as he glanced down at Frankie’s feet. Yup, his friend had on the same pair of tennis shoes he’d worn all school year. It was almost summer vacation. By now, the ratty shoes had holes in them and were falling apart.
They liked to give him a hard time about it, but Frankie always laughed it off.
Sure enough, Frankie was chuckling along with everybody else. But then Ben noticed something he hadn’t seen before. Frankie’s smile seemed different somehow. Like he was trying to cover up that he really was upset.
Something cold turned in Ben’s stomach.
His friends teased Frankie about the old shoes until the bus rolled up. This time, though, Ben didn’t laugh with them. He couldn’t help but feel like they’d hurt Frankie’s feelings.
As Ben plopped down onto the hot green vinyl seat of the school bus, he kept remembering the look on Frankie’s face from a few minutes earlier. Frankie walked to the back of the bus and chose a seat by himself.
Ben looked down at his lap. Had they gone too far? He knew Frankie’s family didn’t have a lot of money. In fact, now he wondered if those old scuffed shoes were his only pair besides church shoes.
Even though Ben had snagged a window seat on the bus, he couldn’t enjoy the ride home.
The next day Ben’s bad feeling grew worse. He thought about how he would feel if his friends made fun of what he wore. How often had they done that to Frankie?
And then he saw his friend at school. Ben’s eyes widened. Frankie was wearing new shoes! Not just new shoes, but cool new shoes. Ben felt another stab of guilt as he wondered if Frankie’s family could afford them.
At recess he grabbed a basketball and went over to shoot some hoops with Frankie. “So, where’d you buy those shoes?” Ben asked. “They’re awesome!”
Frankie shook his head and said quietly, “I didn’t. DJ bought them for me.”
Ben nearly dropped the basketball. DJ was one of the kids they hung out with at school. A kid who, now that Ben thought about it, never teased Frankie.
While the rest of them had made fun of Frankie, DJ did something nice instead.
I’m supposed to be Frankie’s friend, Ben thought. Why hadn’t I been nice too?
Ben cleared his throat and stopped bouncing the ball. “Hey. So, um, I’m really sorry about yesterday. You know. At the bus stop. That wasn’t nice of us.”
Frankie just shrugged. “It’s OK.”
“Hey, wanna play a game of one-on-one?” He passed the ball to Frankie. “You can start!”
Frankie’s face lit up in a smile, and Ben knew how he wanted to act from then on. He wanted to help make his friends happy every chance he could.

Mark combed his hair carefully. His baseball heroes seemed to look on with approval from the posters covering his bedroom walls.
“Everyone into the van,” Mom called from downstairs. “We don’t want to be late for church.”
Mark put down his comb and turned to leave. He stopped short. Staring him straight in the eye from the picture on his bedroom door was another of his heroes—Captain Moroni. I almost forgot! he said to himself. He went back and grabbed his scriptures from under a stack of baseball cards.
Brother Barton, Mark’s Primary teacher, was really cool. He’d returned from his mission a year ago and often told them, “Brethren (he always called them brethren), before you know it, you’ll be on your missions. Studying the scriptures is a great way to prepare.” Brother Barton made scripture study fun, and Mark especially loved reading the Book of Mormon.
A brisk hot breeze ruffled his hair as he climbed into the van. As it slowly went down the gravel driveway, Mom observed, “Everything’s so dry.” Through the open window, Mark could hear the tall, straw-like grass rattle nervously in the wind. Even the manzanita bushes and oak trees looked thirsty. In the summer, wildfires were a way of life in their rural area, but this year, after several dry winters, the fire danger was extremely high.
“It looks like there’s a fire over in Acorn Valley,” Dad said. Mark turned and spotted the thin, black feather of smoke.
“The firefighters are well trained,” Mom said confidently. “They’ll have it out before long.”
But by the time they got to the meetinghouse, the smoke plume had grown much wider. Mark became more and more alarmed as he heard bits and pieces of anxious conversations in the foyer:
“This wind is spreading the fire …”
“… having trouble controlling …”
“… alerting crews from all over …”
As Mark stepped into the classroom, Brother Barton smiled at him, and Mark relaxed a little.
After the opening prayer, Brother Barton said, “Let’s turn to 3 Nephi 13:21.” [3 Ne. 13:21] He waited until everyone had found the right place, then read, “‘For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.’”
He closed his scriptures. “After Lehi and his family left their home in Jerusalem, the Lord told Lehi to have his sons return. Why?”
“To get the brass plates,” one of the boys answered.
“Right. The brass plates contained scriptures and their genealogy,” Brother Barton explained. “The plates were a precious treasure to Lehi’s family. They gave up their gold and silver and even risked their lives to get them.” He looked right at Mark as he asked, “Brethren, how about you? What’s important to you?”
As Mark thought of his baseball cards and his mitt, Brother Barton continued, “Are the things of the world more important to you than the things of the spirit? Brethren, where is your heart? What is your treasure?”
On the way to sacrament meeting, Mark was still thinking about what his teacher had said. What is my treasure? Then he noticed the concerned faces of the people in the half-full chapel. Tensing up, he remembered the fire and found it very hard to concentrate.
After the sacrament, the bishop was handed a note. “The wind has shifted,” he somberly announced, “and the fire is now threatening Wildwood Acres.” There were a few gasps. Mark knew many of the ward members lived in that community. And it wasn’t far from his own home!
“We’ll dismiss early today, brothers and sisters. For those who need it, an evacuation center will be set up here at the church.”
Evacuate! A couple of weeks ago, Mom had given a family home evening lesson on being prepared for emergencies. Mark thought of the hours he, his dad, and his brothers had spent clearing a thirty-foot strip of weeds from around their house. Would it be enough to save their home if the fire kept spreading?
Mark’s family hurried out to the van. The smoke now billowed like a black thundercloud in the distance. Airplanes heavy with fire retardant roared overhead. Fire engines screamed past them.
On the radio came the report: “The fire has already burned through hundreds of acres, and several homes have been lost.” No one in the van had much to say.
As they turned onto their street, they were stopped by a roadblock. The highway patrol car’s lights were flashing alarmingly. Walking over to the van, a uniformed officer spoke to dad. “This area’s been evacuated, sir.” Mark’s stomach muscles tightened even more. He could hear the wail of sirens echoing through the valley.
“But we live just three houses down,” Dad told him.
The officer hesitated, looked at his watch, and said, “We can give you twenty minutes to get what you can out of your home, but then you’ll have to leave.”
Dad’s face was grim as he drove past the roadblock. “Do you all remember what you were assigned to save in an emergency?” Everyone nodded. “If there’s still time after we get the essential things out, you can each fill a small box with whatever you want to take.”
The moment the van screeched to a stop, everyone dashed for the front door. The smoke-filled air made breathing unpleasant. Just over the hill, flames like the tongues of a dozen dragons licked the horizon.
Working quickly, the family loaded financial papers, family records, journals, and photo albums into the van. They added their 72-hour emergency kit from the house to the one already in the car, sleeping bags, extra changes of clothes, and additional food. Mark carefully wrapped the old family Bible in a towel and placed it in the van, then he grabbed an empty box and sprinted to his room.
What should he take? The words of the scripture kept repeating in his mind: “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.” He quickly stuffed his baseball mitt and three of his best baseball card albums into the box.
Then he remembered Brother Barton’s words, “Are the things of the world more important to you than the things of the spirit?” Fragments of the story of Lehi’s family came to mind. They left their home. They went back for the brass plates. The plates were precious treasure.
“We have to leave right now!” Dad shouted.
As Mark hurried down the stairs, his eyes rested on his scriptures, which he’d left on the hallway table. He quickly picked them up and placed them in the box.
The road was crowded with cars and trucks loaded with furniture and belongings. The traffic slowed when it passed the dramatic sight of walls of fire boiling down the hillside.
Mom softly said, “I’m so grateful that our family is together and safe and that we were able to save our most important things.”
A soothing, peaceful feeling filled Mark’s heart. He glanced down at his scriptures. And I got to save my treasure too. He knew that somehow everything would be all right.

My sisters came into the living room each carrying a shiny baking powder can. The cans tinkled with the sound of coins that they emptied onto the table to be counted.
“Bishop Isom will pat me on top of the head when I give him my money and say, ‘My what a fine tithing!’” Mildred said proudly.
“Then he’ll say, ‘You are good girls,’” Kate added.
The bishop’s last name was the same as ours because he was Papa’s cousin.
I didn’t have any nickels or pennies. I didn’t even have an empty baking powder can, but I knew a little about tithing. I liked sitting on top of a load of hay as the horses clopped along the dusty road to the tithing barn. And I enjoyed watching Mama push the firm yellow butter out of the wooden mold onto the wrapper. Some of it she set aside for “tithing butter.” And our chickens laid “tithing eggs.”
I went into the kitchen where Mama was mixing bread. “When can I pay tithing?” I asked.
Mama’s dough-covered hands stopped still in the big tin pan. She looked at me for a long minute then smiled. “My goodness, you are getting to be a big girl, aren’t you! You’ll be five next summer. Why of course you want to pay tithing. Tell your sisters to wait until I finish mixing and you can go with them.”
Dancing into the living room I happily announced, “I’m going to Bishop Isom’s too.”
“You can go, but you don’t have any tithing,” Kate said.
“Wait for Alice,” Mama called to my sisters. Then she washed the dough from her hands and said, “Come with me.”
I followed her to the barn where she scooped up a can of wheat, scattering it in the yard. “Here, chick, chick, chick,” she called.
Greedily, the chickens flocked around her, so it was easy for Mama to slip her hands over the wings of a young rooster and hold him firmly while the plump bird squawked in alarm. “Here.” she said, handing him to me, “hold him while I tie his legs.” From a bunch of used binding twine that hung on the corral fence, she selected a short piece. Securing the rooster’s legs she said, “You’ve worked hard feeding the chickens and gathering the eggs. You can take this rooster to the bishop for your tithing.”
“I’m going to pay tithing. I really, really am,” I cried, running to the house.
My sisters giggled at the rooster squirming in my arms.
Purple daisies were blooming along the fences and the leaves of the fruit trees fluttered about us as we walked the six blocks to the bishop’s house. I hugged my rooster and he cackled back at me. The sun on his shiny black feathers picked up glints of green and gold. He was as beautiful as any bird that ever went to see the bishop.
When Bishop Samuel Isom saw us coming through the gate, his front door opened wide. His ample front was made for hugging children. “Come in, come in,” he said merrily. Then, seeing the rooster in my arms, he asked, “Oh-ho, and what’s this?”
“He’s a tithing rooster,” I proudly announced.
“Oh, he’s a real dandy,” the bishop said. Taking the rooster from me he gently set him down on the porch and ushered us inside.
Sister Isom came into the room, tall and smiling. Her neat hair was wound in a bun on top of her head. Over her blue checkered dress she wore a snowy white apron bordered with wide handmade lace. “Have a chair, girls,” she invited.
The bishop sat at his rolltop desk and Kate and Mildred gave him the coins from their baking powder cans.
We sat on polished high-backed chairs, feasting our eyes on the cheerful room while the bishop made out our receipts. I hoped that when I grew up I could have a stairway with such a beautiful bannister sweeping down into my living room.
Tearing out the receipts the bishop arose. “Mighty fine, mighty fine,” he said handing us each a receipt.
“Will you please read my receipt for me?” I asked, looking up at him.
“I’d be glad to,” he replied. Taking it from me he read, “Alice Isom has voluntarily contributed to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints one young rooster.”
I sucked in my breath. “Oh, my!” The Church of Jesus Christ was so big and I was so small. I had really and truly contributed to this great big wonderful Church. Happily I took my receipt out onto the porch. “Look, rooster,” I said, holding it in front of him, “you belong to the Church now, because I contributed you. That makes you a Mormon rooster.”
Bishop and Sister Isom were in the doorway laughing heartily. I skipped to the gate ahead of my sisters, feeling that I was the happiest tithe payer in the whole town of Hurricane, Utah.

Our family rotates family home evening duty. My husband’s was the Monday following the conference. During Sunday afternoon’s session, Elder Zwick gave a lesson on maintaining our standards. My husband used this talk to emphasize the need to maintain our standards. I had downloaded the MP3 file from the Web site. We sat together as a family and listened once again to the talk. This gave us an opening to bring up the topics of choosing friends, making good decisions, and making a life plan with our 14-year-old son.
Gwen D., Washington, USA