Gospel Story Finder

Jared Womack, of Franklin, Idaho, knows what team spirit is all about. After managing the Preston High School football team for five years, he received his letter in the sport. Jared also plays basketball and is a great example of good sportsmanship; he is always cheering for his teammates on the basketball team and finding ways to serve those around him.
“That’s just Jared,” says one classmate.
Although Jared has Down’s Syndrome, he is able to participate in school activities and hold an after-school job at a local grocery store. Jared is active in his priests quorum and blesses the sacrament regularly.

For example, President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, remembers when, as a young man, he’d convinced himself he couldn’t understand math. His dad thought otherwise and helped him through his homework. “I can’t remember the gifts my dad wrapped and gave to me” for holidays, he said. “But I remember the chalkboard and his quiet voice. … Because he had spent time [studying as a boy], he and I could have that time at the chalkboard and he could help me.”1

“Mike,” Dad called. “Time for school.” Walking slowly down the stairs, Mike found Dad waiting for him at the bottom.
“Do I have to go?” Mike asked. “Can’t I wait until tomorrow?”
Dad shook his head. “There have been too many tomorrows. I understand how you feel, but you need to get caught up.”
“Mrs. Peters sent home some of my work,” Mike said.
Dad sighed and handed Mike a sweater. “Today I go back to work—and you go back to school.”
Mike felt tears welling up. Surely he wasn’t going to cry again! “It’s so hard without Mom.”
Dad knelt and hugged Mike. “I know.” Mike could see the pain in Dad’s eyes.
As Mike walked out the door, he looked at Mom’s beautiful rose garden. But it wasn’t beautiful anymore. Weeds were popping up everywhere. He sighed. Would anything ever be the same again?
School was the same—noisy children running and talking. Mike dragged himself into his third-grade classroom.
Sam, his best friend, waved. Mike tried to smile, but his smile wouldn’t work. He kept taking deep breaths and trying not to cry.
Mrs. Peters began class. Mike heard her talking, but his gaze wandered outside. It was sunny. “How can the world look bright when Mom has died?” he wondered. A tear slid down his nose.
“Look, Mike’s crying!” shouted Bill, who sat across the aisle.
Without thinking, Mike got up and ran out the door and down the hall. He would never go back to school again! He pushed open the big school doors and ran the five blocks home. It was cold without a sweater.
He went to his room to get a jacket, then sat on his swing in the backyard. He swung back and forth, staring at the ground.
He thought of going to Grandma’s house, but she was sad now, too. She used to laugh a lot and go bowling and bake cookies. He wondered if she had gone back to work, too.
Mike made the swing go higher. Maybe, he thought, he would fall off and die. Then he could go to heaven and see Mom.
He heard words like the wind in the trees—“Then Dad and Grandma wouldn’t have you. Would you want Dad to leave?”
He stopped the swing, his feet skidding in the dirt. Who had said that? Was it Mom, speaking to him from heaven? He looked around, but there was only the sound of leaves rustling in the wind.
Mike looked at the patch of blue sky through the trees. “I miss my mom! Please, Heavenly Father, help me!” His tears started again.
Suddenly he had the urge to go to Mom’s rose garden. He stood looking at the poor rosebushes, without water and with lots of weeds. Mom sure wouldn’t like that! He knelt and began pulling and yanking at the weeds. Then he grabbed the garden hose and watered the bushes he had weeded. Soon it would be spring, and the roses would bloom bright red and yellow and pink. He wondered if Mom would see them from heaven. Somehow he felt closer to her as he worked in her garden.
Dad’s car came roaring up the driveway. He jumped out, ran to Mike, and hugged him. “They called me from school.”
“I’ll go back tomorrow,” Mike promised. “Dad, look at the rosebushes.”
“Mom would be proud,” Dad said. “I’ll change clothes, and we can work on it together.”
As Mike weeded alongside Dad, he thought of the roses that would bloom. He could almost smell their fragrance. After they bloomed, he decided, he would pick some of them for Grandma.
Mike looked up to see Sam and Bill. The two boys looked at the weeds.
“Can we help?” Sam asked.
Mike nodded. Slowly, a smile crept onto his face.

In the mid-1950s my parents were picked at random to take part in a government household expenditure survey. Our completed form was returned for “obvious corrections”, as it was judged that three people could not live on such a small cash income (less than what social security would pay). But they didn’t know my parents and their ability to make something out of nothing (“summat out nowt”). They also didn’t know our neighbours, who were of higher economic standing, and who appreciated my parents’ honesty, integrity, compassion, and hard work, consequently putting work their way and providing much of our clothing needs.

“Oh no! Here comes Pedro!”
Everyone at school knew that Pedro was a bully. He was big, and he was mean! He called other kids names, took their lunches, and chased them around the school yard. No one wanted to be around him.
Pedro walked by Lucas and his friend, Arthur. He called them “losers” and pushed Arthur.
Lucas was tired of Pedro being so mean. Without even thinking, he shouted, “Stop it, Pedro!”
Lucas couldn’t believe it. He’d just stood up to the biggest bully in school!
Pedro stormed up to Lucas and grabbed his shirt. “What did you say?” Lucas’s heart beat so fast it felt like it would jump out of his chest! “I’ll give you one warning,” Pedro said. “But you’d better watch out!” He shoved Lucas and walked away.
After that, Lucas did his best to avoid Pedro, but Pedro always found him. He kept Lucas off the swings, pushed him during dodgeball, tripped him in the cafeteria, and always said mean things.
One day Lucas and Arthur were playing with Arthur’s football. Pedro jumped out from behind a tree and grabbed it.
“Please give it back,” said Arthur.
“Who’s going to make me?” Pedro pushed Lucas into a tree and laughed.
Lucas could feel his stomach twist in knots. He was so angry! “You know what, Pedro?” Lucas said. “You’re the meanest kid I know! Nobody likes you. Everyone wishes you’d go away forever!”
Pedro stopped laughing. Lucas felt great about what he said … until he saw the look on Pedro’s face. Was he about to cry? Pedro quickly looked down and walked away.
Lucas instantly felt terrible. For the rest of the day, no matter how hard he tried, Lucas couldn’t get rid of the terrible feeling. That night, he tossed and turned in bed. He kept thinking about how sad Pedro had looked.
“How could Pedro feel bad?” Lucas thought. “He doesn’t care if he’s mean to other kids. I had to say something, right?” The more Lucas thought about it, the more he realized he was right to stand up for himself and his friend. But he was wrong to say those mean things.
Lucas knelt by his bed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive him. He told Heavenly Father that he never wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings ever again. He wanted to be kind. When Lucas said “amen,” he knew what he had to do.
After lunch the next day, Lucas found Pedro standing against a wall by himself. Lucas was nervous. What would Pedro do? Lucas took a deep breath and walked over.
“Um, I’m sorry about yesterday.”
Pedro looked surprised. “You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I said some really mean things to you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
Pedro stared down at his shoes. “It’s OK.”
The bell rang. Lucas started walking back to class. He felt so much better. But there was one more thing he wanted to say. He turned back around. “We could play football at recess tomorrow if you want.”
A small smile crossed Pedro’s face. “That sounds good.”
After that, things got better with Pedro. He was still a bully sometimes, but he wasn’t as mean. He even played with Lucas a few times at recess. And it was actually fun! At the end of the school year, Pedro told Lucas that he was moving away. Then he said something that really surprised Lucas.
“Thanks for being my friend,” Pedro said. “Even when I wasn’t nice.”
The warm feeling in Lucas’s heart let him know that being kind is always the right choice.

My father was a rancher. The colonies are normally quite dry. At first there weren’t many deep wells, so most of our water came from the river. Rain was very important, and it was scarce. We had a couple of man-made lakes to store the water in when it did rain. We had to rely on the Lord for our blessings, and quite often the ward fasted.
I remember one time when I was about eight years old and we were in a drought situation—it had been a long time since it had rained, and we needed it desperately. Our ward had a special fast, and by the time we left our sacrament meeting, the clouds had gathered and it started to rain. We relied on the Lord because of our need. Sometimes our family fasted for the blessing of rain, and it rained. It was a matter of knowing that if we did our part, the Lord would bless us. That built great faith in me as a young boy.

Several years ago, the Salt Lake City newspapers published an obituary notice of a close friend—a mother and wife taken by death in the prime of her life. I visited the mortuary and joined a host of persons gathered to express condolence to the distraught husband and motherless children. Suddenly the smallest child, Kelly, recognized me and took my hand in hers.
“Come with me,” she said; and she led me to the casket in which rested the body of her beloved mother. “I’m not crying, Brother Monson, and neither must you. My mommy told me many times about death and life with Heavenly Father. I belong to my mommy and my daddy. We’ll all be together again.”
Through tear-moistened eyes, I recognized a beautiful and faith-filled smile. To my young friend, whose tiny hand yet clasped mine, there would never be a hopeless dawn. Sustained by her unfailing testimony, knowing that life continues beyond the grave, she, her father, her brothers, her sisters, and indeed all who share this knowledge of divine truth, can declare to the world, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Ps. 30:5).

Nell was so excited she could hardly wait to change her Sunday clothes and run out to tell Dad what she had learned at conference. She didn’t even take time to put on her shoes, but ran barefoot across the dusty yard.
It was June 1899. There had been no rain in southern Utah for more than two years. The streams and even the wells around St. George had dried up. No crops could grow without water, and thousands of cattle had died on the range. Some of the families had already moved, and now Dad was also preparing to leave. Earlier that morning he had decided he was too busy packing the wagon to go to conference, even though President Lorenzo Snow had come all the way from Salt Lake City to talk to the people.
“Dad! Oh, Dad!” Nell called as she ran to him. “You can take our things out of the wagon. We don’t have to leave! In conference today President Snow said if the people will pay their tithing and plant their fields, the rains will come and we’ll have food.”
But Dad didn’t seem to understand. He just shook his head and sat down on the tongue of the wagon, staring out across the barren fields.
Dad had explained again and again that they could not live through another year without rain. There was very little food on their pantry shelves, and all the money that was left was the twenty dollars Grandfather had given to Nell.
Later that evening as Dad was washing up for dinner, Nell overheard him tell Mother they should all be ready to start at six the next morning. “We can make Thomson’s ranch by noon if we do,” he said.
The family sat down to a simple meal. No one spoke. Nell felt so sad she could hardly choke down the food. Finally she swallowed hard and said, “Grandfather once told me a story about how the people were blessed by doing exactly as Brigham Young asked them to do.”
Her father and mother stopped eating to listen as Nell continued, “When I said I wished I had lived then so I could have followed a prophet, Grandfather said that President Snow is our prophet today just like Brigham Young was then and that we should all follow him.”
After Nell finished telling the story, she asked Dad to take her precious twenty dollars. “You can give it to Bishop Thorne,” she explained, “to help bring rain to St. George!”
Early the next morning Nell looked out the window and saw a great cloud of dust blowing at the far end of the field. She dressed quickly and ran out across the dry ground.
When Dad saw her, he stopped the horses and held out his arms. Nell flew into them and he held her close. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here in time to help me plow the field and plant our seeds!”
During the hot dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George anxiously scanned the cloudless sky and sadly shook their heads. But neither Nell nor her father were at all surprised when on the second of August it began to rain.

During the pandemic I have met with youth from all over the world in many devotionals, large and small, through broadcasts and social media, and we have discussed their questions.

Youth often ask me what I believe and why I believe.

I remember visiting virtually with one young woman in her home. I asked if it was the first time an Apostle had been in her home. She quickly smiled and responded, “Yes.” Her question for me was good: “What are the most important things I should know?”

I answered with the things of my soul, the things that prepare me to hear promptings, that lift my sights beyond the ways of the world, that give purpose to my work in the gospel and to my very life.

We have a prophet of God on the earth today! Never discount what that means for you. Remember the young woman I mentioned at the beginning. She wanted to know what things matter most. “Follow the living prophet,” I said then and I emphasize again today.

Last June, when a new branch was created in Bangalore, India, the only young man in priesthood meeting was a recently ordained deacon named Gladwin.

Gladwin, along with the Young Men president and branch president, began calling the less-active young men and visiting them in their homes. Soon a second young man, Samuel, started coming to church again.

Each week Gladwin and Samuel called those who had not attended quorum meeting and shared what they had learned. They also called or visited them on their birthdays. One by one, the less-active young men became their friends and began to accept invitations to come to quorum activities, to attend quorum meetings, and eventually to do their own ministering. Today, all of the young men in the branch are active in the Church.

Charlotte and her sisters were huddled around the dining room table with paper and pen, each absorbed in a world of her own. Although the wind and snow were blowing through the moors outside, the girls were comfortable sitting by the fireplace in their long woolen dresses.
Born in the early 1800s, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë grew up in a bleak parsonage on the Yorkshire moors of England. After their mother’s death when they were small children, Aunt Branwell, kind but proper, came to look after the family. Their father was good and loving but kept very much to his study.
Once a friend named Ellen Nussey, whom Charlotte had known at school, came to visit for a few days. After walking through the moors with Charlotte and realizing how isolated her friend’s parish home was, Ellen asked, “What do you do with yourself around here?”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to keep us busy,” Charlotte answered. “We teach Sunday School and visit the sick to help father. During the day we help Tabby, our cook, with the food preparation and Aunt Branwell with the housework. The best part of each day is spent by ourselves in our own special part of the moors. In the evenings we … well, we write stories.”
“How exciting!” Ellen replied. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“One night a long time ago we were sitting by the fireplace waiting for it to get dark,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Branwell never let us waste candles until it was dark enough to really need them, so we began to tell stories. We made up some countries along with our favorite heroes, and we’ve been writing little stories about them ever since.”
So began the love of writing by three young sisters who were to be found each evening sitting in front of a candle with pens in hand.
Charlotte found it necessary to bend very low over her paper because of her nearsightedness, and the scarcity of paper didn’t help. The girls had to train themselves to write so small that even a tiny piece of paper might contain a complete story or a lengthy poem.
One night Anne and Emily were writing on a flyleaf that had been carefully torn from a book. Charlotte was finishing a tiny book she had made by sewing small bits of old paper together. She had already completed several little books like this that she kept locked in a writing desk—a small rosewood box.
For many years the girls were too shy about their writing to share it even with each other. It took a small accident by Charlotte to get them to share their work and their dreams of someday having their work published.
Charlotte was moving Emily’s notebook one day to set the table. She had done this many times in the past and had never neglected Emily’s privacy by reading her work. This day, however, the notebook fell open accidently to some poems, and before Charlotte could close it her eyes caught a few lines.
Having studied the best poets at her boarding schools, Charlotte was capable of recognizing good poetry when she saw it. Emily’s poems were good, very good, and Charlotte couldn’t put the notebook down. She knew her sister’s work must be published.
“Charlotte! How dare you!” Emily cried as she came into the dining room.
“It was an accident, Emily; really it was.” Charlotte realized what her sister must think. “Your poems are so good, though, I couldn’t quit reading them.”
Emily’s anger lasted for three days during which she didn’t speak to Charlotte. After all was forgiven, the door was open for the sisters to discuss their work with each other and make plans to try to publish it.
There was something more than their love of writing that made the sisters want to publish their work. It was a fear of having to go out in the world to make a living. It had been hard enough on them to leave home for some schooling, but it was unbearable to stay away after that.
Each served as a governess to wealthy families for a short time, but they could not stand the cold indifference shown them. They longed for the warmth and love of their own home and family. At different times each one of them gave a quick notice to either school or employer and returned to the family.
They finally decided to each contribute some poems into a collection to be sent to an editor. The poems were accepted for publication, but the girls had to pay the printing expense. Only two copies were bought at that time, but these same two copies would be worth a fortune today.
Before the poems were sent off, the girls had a decision to make—what names to attach to their work. Women’s writing was not regarded highly then, so they desired to choose names that were neither feminine nor masculine. Each chose a name using her first initial. Anne chose Acton, Emily, Ellis; and Charlotte, Currer. They wanted the last name to begin with B and finally decided upon Bell.
While they were waiting for the poems to be published, they began a new, larger project. Each was at work on a novel. Emily chose to write about some old ruins that could be seen on a hilltop near their home. She had been entranced by the place for several years as she had watched the wind wuther (blow) through the moors up to the old ruins. She planned to call her book Wuthering Heights.
Both Anne and Charlotte expressed some of their unhappy experiences and feelings when serving as young governesses to wealthy families. Through Agnes Grey Anne told of the selfishness and bad tempers shown her by the “respectable” people for whom she had worked. Charlotte wanted to write about a poor, plain girl like herself, and after much thought she chose the name of Jane Eyre for her heroine.
Anne’s book had very little success at the time it was published, but she ignored that and immediately began another. Emily’s book received more attention, but not all of it was favorable. Jane Eyre, however, was soon being read by people all over the world. In time all the books written by the Brontë sisters became classics in English literature.

Joseph turned the page in his book. He frowned. He had two more pages to go.
“Are you OK?” Mama asked.
“I like to read,” Joseph said. “But I am so slow. How can I learn to read better?”
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Read a chapter of the Book of Mormon every day. It will help you learn to read better.”
Joseph tried. At first it took him a long time. He had to sound out the long words. But he kept reading every day. Soon he could read more than one chapter.
Two weeks went by. Joseph’s bookmark moved from 1 Nephi to 2 Nephi. Then it was in the book of Jacob!
One night it was Joseph’s turn to give the lesson in family home evening.
“I know what to do!” Joseph thought. He found the Book of Mormon Stories book. It had words and pictures. He turned the pages until he found the perfect story.
Joseph read the story to his family. He read short words, like ship. He read long words, like commanded. Prophets wrote these words long ago. The words were easy to read.
When the story was over, Mama had tears in her eyes.
“Are you OK, Mama?” Joseph asked.
“Yes,” Mama said. “I’m happy. You have worked hard.”
Joseph smiled a big smile.
“I am reading every day, just like you said.” He showed Mama his Book of Mormon. His bookmark was in the book of Alma!
Someday Joseph’s bookmark would be at the end of the book. And then he could start over!

A few months before my baptism, I went to the baptism of two of my friends. Both of them sang a song during their baptism service. When we got home, my mom suggested I write down my feelings about being baptized, since I write a lot of songs. I went into my room and wrote down a few thoughts. My mom said what I had written was very special, and that we should have my grandma put my words to music. So we did. A few months later, at my own baptism I sang the song I had written. I was really nervous, but I felt the Spirit help me. I’m really glad to have my very own baptism song!

In my youth, I experienced the joy of coming closer to the Savior—and of His coming closer to me—through simple acts of obedience to the commandments. When I was young, the sacrament was offered during an evening meeting. I can still remember one specific night, more than 75 years ago, when it was dark and cold outside. I remember a feeling of light and warmth as I realized that I had kept the commandment to gather with the Saints to partake of the sacrament, covenanting with our Heavenly Father to always remember His Son and keep His commandments.
At the end of the meeting that night, we sang the hymn “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide,” with the memorable words “O Savior, stay this night with me.”
These words brought an overwhelming sense of the Spirit to me, even as a young boy. I felt the Savior’s love and closeness that evening through the comfort of the Holy Ghost.

Some years ago near the end of a plane trip that I was on on an assignment, the stewardess came along asking what we wanted as a refreshment, as a drink. And I told her that I would take a 7-Up or some lemon drink.
As she brought it to me and handed me the drink, she noticed my tie pin. And on my tie pin, which I have here in my hand—we were using these in the Scottish Mission years ago—there was the crest of the royal family of England. But in the center of that crest we had emblazed the London Temple. And so on this tie pin was the temple with that crest around it. As the stewardess handed me the 7-Up, she said, “My, that’s an unusual tie pin. What is on it?”
And I said, “That’s a temple.”
And this young lady said, “A temple? A temple of what?”
And I said, “A temple of the Lord.”
And she said, “A what?”
And I said, “It’s a temple of the Lord.”
And I could see some interest in her, and she said, ”What church do you belong to?”
I told her of our Church, and then I said to her, because I could see there was some interest, “If you will give me your name and address, I will have some young men come by and call on you, and they will tell you about this temple and about temples.”
She looked at me rather strangely and walked away. Then in a few moments she came back and handed me a little slip of paper with her name, Penny Harryman, with a Los Angeles address.
I called the mission president, and I told him, as we always do, “Send two of your best. I want you to go out and visit with this young lady,” because I had said to her, “I’ll have some young men come and see you, and if you do what they will ask you to do and listen to them, I promise you that you can have the greatest blessings that could come into your life.”
A little over a year later, a telephone call came into my office one day, and a girl’s voice said, “My name is Penny Harryman. Do you remember me?”
And I said, “Of course I do.”
She said, “Could you arrange to marry my fiancé and me in the Salt Lake Temple if we could arrange the time?”
I said, “Of course I would.”
And while I was sealing this young lady to this young man that she had met during that course of events, I found that her mother was walking around Temple Square in Salt Lake, wondering what we were doing to her daughter in the temple because she wasn’t permitted to be there.

We arrived at seminary ten minutes early. I hurried to the bathroom before anyone noticed the tears starting down my cheeks. It wasn’t just that I had proven once and for all what a klutz I was, or even the fact that right triangle theorems totally confused me. I could handle total embarrassment and complete failure. The thing that kept flashing through my mind was the scent of clover and the feel of Topie’s warm breath at my shoulder as I lay in summer grass. I heard the soft earthen echo of Topie’s hooves when he followed me out of the wildflower-clad pasture. I remembered riding on winter days when the world was white and the sky steel blue.
“Tracy.” The accented voice of Sister Wong, my seminary teacher, scattered my thoughts. “Why are you in here alone and crying?”
“It’s nothing,” I said, gulping in my tears, “just a bad morning.” I hoped she didn’t think it was self-pity. I had a great deal of respect for Sister Wong. She had grown up in Hong Kong. She had overcome leukemia and many other obstacles. She hated self-pity. She called it a destructive parasite sucking energy from the soul. “Learn to live life with energy, wisdom, and joy,” she would say.
“Tracy, Tracy,” she began. “Did you know that your very beautiful inside shines through to the outside more each day? Please tell me what happened to make it such a bad morning.”
First I told her about the problem I had with geometry.
“Tears over something such as this are a waste of time,” she told me. “You are bright. You are capable. Memorize the theorems. Try a tutor or more study time to pull you through. Do not sorrow over something you can change.”
Then I told her about my dirty boots in Sisters Montgomery’s car.
Involuntarily smiling, Sister Wong went on. “Learn to laugh over such things,” she said. “The Montgomery’s car is a much too clean, carbon copy of a hundred other cars. Your addition of life’s debris will give it character and variety. And think of how you rescued the passengers from a barrage of boredom!” She got some paper towels and began helping me clean off my boots.

I was pretty excited. The big day was getting closer. All of our Wednesday practices, all of our work, and it finally came down to one day of winter camping competition known as the Klondike.
“Load up the sled,” said Brother Tolson, our Scoutmaster, who also happened to be my dad. “It’s getting late.” We piled our shovels, wood, and other gear on the sled we had built the previous Saturdays. I helped lash our things down with a rope and tied one of the knots we had learned.
The air was frosty, and our breath hung in the air as we struggled up the hill. “This looks like a good spot,” Dad said.
“See,” he said, piling up snow, “you want to pack it down a little as you go. We don’t want our snow caves falling apart.”
“What do you think, Doug? Will it be safe?” I asked, as I dug snow out of our cave and piled it on top of the pile. Doug was our senior patrol leader and I respected his ability.
“I think it’ll hold,” he said. “And it can’t be any colder than a tent.”
After two hours of work, we got inside of the cave. To our surprise, it was really warm. We helped build a few more caves, covered the floor with plastic, and then put the firewood inside.
“The wood will stay dry on that plastic, and it will be really easy to take our food and packs up here when we come back on Friday,” Dad said.
We then walked back to the car in the moonlight, racing with the sleds when we came to downhill parts of the trail. We could hardly wait for Friday night when we could return to our camp.
When we arrived near our campsite on Friday, Doug’s brother John, another member of our troop, said, “I’m so glad we don’t have to set up tents.” But when we came over the last hill, we knew something was wrong. Our igloos had been destroyed. We could tell somebody else had found our caves, ruined them, and stolen part of our wood. We angrily looked around and noticed footprints leading toward another camp.
“Let’s get them,” John said. We all murmured in agreement. “I’ll bet it was those guys down there,” he continued. “We’ve got more people than they do, and they need to learn a lesson!” We started down the hill.
“Wait!” Doug yelled.
Just then, my dad came over the hill. “What happened?” he asked.
After hearing the story Dad told us he would leave it up to us how we dealt with it, but that he thought it was more important for us to rebuild our shelters. “It’s not going to get any warmer,” he said. We debated and argued for a while, and Dad walked away.
Finally, Doug spoke up. “Look,” he said, “we’ve been working on this trip for a long time. If our camp doesn’t look good, we lose points. I think we can win the Klondike, and that’s more important. I don’t want to get kicked out of this.”
John wasn’t so sure. “Doug, you’re always too good. Come on, let’s get those guys first. Then we’ll fix the camp.”
“I’m with Doug,” said Chad.
“Me, too,” I said.
John and the rest grumbled as we decided to rebuild the caves. After dinner over a small fire, we went to bed.
The next morning, we went to the competition. We were very well prepared, and our camp got full points. Somehow we did everything perfectly as we were the fastest in fire building and first aid. Later, we discovered our point total had been the highest ever recorded at the Klondike.
I’ve always been grateful to Doug for doing the unpopular thing, which led us to something far better than revenge.

We started the research on Leone Jacobs by reading Leone’s obituary, which included the names of her children, and I immediately felt that I should call Geraldine, Leone’s daughter. The results were extraordinary.

At the outbreak of World War II in Europe, Leone lived in the Palestine-Syrian Mission with her two children and her husband, Joseph, who was mission president. The mission encompassed Palestine, Lebanon, and Syria. She kept two diaries while she lived there and wrote articles about the mission for the Deseret News when she returned.

Geraldine was generous. She let us borrow and scan these priceless documents, so now digital copies are available for visitors to study at the Church History Library. Reading the diaries gave me a more intimate sense for who Leone was and what it felt like to help run the mission, and I tried to bring that to the introduction that I wrote.

When I read Leone’s promises that we can change our lives, “One of the most glorious principles of life is that we can always rise above our present level,” I imagined her in Beirut, helping with a program at her children’s school, teaching a young woman to play the organ, greeting Church members at the mission Christmas party that she planned.

Coming to know Leone through her diaries felt sacred.

I have thought about that, and I thank God repeatedly for such an individual in my life. He was a 78-year-old man who was assigned to be a priests adviser to six of us who were in our struggling teens and challenged with the future. His name was Charles B. Stewart. His son is here today as president of the great Tabernacle Choir.
I don’t know what you thought about a 78-year-old man when you were 16, but some of us questioned the wisdom of our bishop, for we thought he had literally brought Moses back.
I remember the first day I reported to my class in that rickety old upper room of the Hollywood Ward. There was that kind, gentle man to greet me. He took me by the hand as he had the other boys and said, “You’re Harold Dunn’s son, aren’t you?”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
He talked a little bit about me, my family, and showed a great personal interest. And then he said, “Paul, one of the requirements for being a member of this class is to think a new thought every day.” He said, “Do you have one this morning?”
Well now, I hadn’t had a new thought in years, and he could see my plight, and he said, “All right, I will teach you one. Listen carefully. ‘Attention is the mother of memory.’ Now can you repeat it back?” And I tried and finally gave it back to him. He permitted me to enter.
We had a wonderful class. It ended; as I went to leave he said, “I forgot to tell you—before you go home you’ve got to give me another new idea.” I thought, I won’t go home. I didn’t have one, and so he said, “Now listen very carefully and I will teach you one that you’ll always remember.” He said, “‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practise to deceive.’” I’ve never forgotten it.
Another week passed, and we went through a similar experience. I still didn’t have a new thought. He said, “Listen very carefully. ‘There’s an odd little voice ever speaking within that prompts us to duty and warns us from sin. And what is most strange, it makes itself heard, though it gives not a sound and says never a word.’” And I’ve never forgotten that one.
I started to go home and found he wouldn’t let me go until I cited another. When I couldn’t he said, “Listen carefully. ‘There was a wise old owl who sat in an oak, and the longer he sat the less he spoke. The less he spoke, the more he heard. Oh, Paul, why can’t you be like that wise old bird?’”
I’ve thought a lot about that since. Still another week and another great thought. He said, “‘Remember, young man, example sheds a genial ray which men are apt to borrow. So first improve yourself today and then your friends tomorrow.’” And I haven’t forgotten that concept either.
Time won’t permit a number of others. Two years later I found myself in the fighting forces of our country. I was on the island of Okinawa. I received a letter from Mrs. Stewart, and it told me of the sad news that my kind friend and adviser had passed away. In it she had attached a half-written letter from Brother Stewart to me, and he said: “Dear Paul, I’ve been thinking about you in that far-off country, discouraged, I’m sure, and somewhat depressed; and in order to build your spirits, I have included some additional gem thoughts.” There were twenty-five new ideas, and I have never forgotten them.

A story is told of the son of King Louis the Sixteenth of France. As a young man, he was kidnapped by evil men when they dethroned the king. For six months, he was exposed to every evil thing that life had to offer, yet he never buckled under the pressure. This puzzled his captors, and they asked him why he had such great moral strength. His reply was simple: “I cannot do what you ask, for I was born to be a king.”*