Gospel Story Finder

It’s a giggle, a chortle, a wonderment of clowns. The large classroom in the Shriners Hospital for Crippled Children is warm with children and bright with laughter. Clowns blossom here and there in their rainbow wigs and giant smiles. Reflected double in the large eyes of each child, they glow with an unearthly light.
The children have already laughed and shouted through exploding balloons and pin the tail on the clown (with the biggest, sharpest pin in the world). Now it’s time for clown bowling. The clowns form themselves into a wedge. A nurse is called on to bowl. She takes a large ball from among the hospital toys and sends it flying at them. It looks like a sure strike. But clowns jump and lean as the ball whistles harmlessly through them. Now a little girl has the ball. Sitting in her wheelchair, she pushes it at them as hard as she can, but it dribbles weakly off her lap and barely reaches the clown pins. The little bowler sighs, underestimating clown magic. As the ball gently nudges the foremost clown he flies backwards as if struck by a locomotive, knocking down a second clown who ricochets into a third. The whole clown wedge explodes like a grenade. Strike! The children cheer. The nurse hints at a fix but is shouted down. When clowns are present, children always win.
With this wild bunch of clowns, it’s one crazy thing after another. The children shriek and giggle and clap their hands at each new outbreak of silliness. Even the teenage patients who are trying hard not to be sucked in cannot help smiling. For a few moments at least, no one is thinking about operations or needles or pain.
When the official performance ends, the clowns come down and move among the patients, making balloon animals and objects—dogs, cats, swords, giraffes, airplanes. They’ll try anything the kids request, and even the failures are good fun. They also draw clown stars on the children’s faces. Before each star is drawn, the child must raise his hand and make a solemn vow that he will not wash it off until forced to do so by a nurse.
All too soon the good times must end. The fun-loving nurses who have laughed and cheered right along with their patients begin taking them away for medical treatment. The children invent delaying tactics, stretching out the moment as long as they can. One little girl hugs a clown tight for a moment, then looks into his eyes. “I love you, clown,” she says.
The clowns are as high as kites. They keep their costumes and their faces on as they leave the hospital. It’s 14 degrees below zero here in Spokane, Washington, but to them it feels like spring.
Passersby stare at them in wonder. Clowns!
The clowns pile into two cars and drive off to a well-earned hamburger. Motorists along the way, especially little ones, gape in wonder as they see the two carfuls of smiling and waving clowns. At several stoplights clowns spill out onto the snowy road and race around in a Chinese fire drill.
At the hamburger joint, children at other tables (including 40- and 50-year-old children) giggle and goggle as real clowns eat mortal food.
The hamburger munchers react to the unexpected clowns much as they might respond to a stray unicorn. There’s a double take, then a prodding of nearby ribs, a subtle jabbing of thumbs. “Look, a clown!” “Don’t stare!”
As the clowns eat they share experiences from their hospital performance. They have made many such visits. Hospitals and clowns seem to go together. After all, if laughter is the best medicine, these guys are physicians. They can cure sadness with smiles, tears with giggles. If you’re suffering a mirth defect, they’re the specialists to visit. They’re crazy. They’re magic. They’re clowns.

But long unheralded were President Taylor’s understanding and love of people. Once, while president of the Council of the Twelve, after the Saints had reached Utah, two old and faithful brethren approached him about a strong and bitter quarrel between them. They had resolved to abide by whatever decision Brother Taylor might render. So they called on him, explained that they had seriously quarreled, and asked if he would listen to their story.
He said, “Brethren, before I hear your case, I would like very much to sing one of the songs of Zion for you.” A very talented and moving singer, President Taylor then sang a hymn to the men. Seeing its effect, he remarked that he never heard one of the songs of Zion but that he wanted to listen to one more. So the two brethren consented to hearing a second hymn. After the second song, President Taylor remarked that he had heard there was luck in odd numbers, so with their consent he would sing still another song. Afterwards he said, “Now, brethren, I do not want to wear you out, but if you will forgive me and listen to one more hymn, I promise to stop singing and will hear your case.” By the time he had finished with his fourth selection, the two brethren were melted to tears; they got up, shook hands, and asked President Taylor to excuse them for having called upon him. His singing had reconciled their feelings toward each other.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One day when the Prophet was visiting his parents’ home in Far West, a group of militiamen burst through the door.
Which one of you is Joe Smith?
We’re here to kill him!
Joseph immediately stepped forward, smiled at the men, and shook their hands.
I’m Joseph. Nice to meet you. Please, come and sit down.
The men stared in disbelief at the Prophet as he continued to speak.
We Mormons believe in Jesus Christ and just want peace. But we have had a lot of persecution these past months since we’ve moved to Missouri. As far as I know, none of us have ever broken the law. But if we have, we’re ready to be tried by the law.
Mother, I believe I will go home. Emma will be expecting me.
You shall not go alone, for it is not safe.
We will go with you and guard you.
Thank you.
We promise to disband the militia under us and go home.
If you need us at all, we’ll come back and do whatever you need.
Outside Joseph’s parents’ home, the rest of the men talked about their encounter with the Prophet.
Did you not feel strangely when he took you by the hand? I never felt so in my life.
I felt as though I could not move. I would not harm one hair of that man’s head for the whole world.
This is the last time you will ever catch me coming to kill Joe Smith or the Mormons either.

“Sarah,” Mom called, “Janeen is here.” As Sarah started down the stairs, she ticked off plans in her mind. First I’ll show Janeen my new soccer ball, and then we’ll make jewelry with her bead set. Later we can watch that new video Mom bought. And tomorrow, Janeen will help me learn a new kick shot. It was going to be the best weekend ever!
Sarah paused. What if Janeen doesn’t like staying over at my house? Everyone wanted to be Janeen’s friend. She was really nice, and she was one of the best soccer players on the team.
Sarah forgot her worries as Janeen waved to her from the bottom of the stairs. “Come on up!” Sarah called.
The two girls laughed and chattered while they rearranged Sarah’s basket collection and strung beads. Then Mom put on the movie, which was even better than Sarah had expected it to be. Janeen laughed so hard that she spilled her popcorn.
When the movie was over, they went to the kitchen while Sarah’s mom fixed them ice-cream floats. Janeen gazed at the top cupboard and admired the elegant bowls and glasses that sat on the shelves. The most beautiful piece was a large pitcher.
“That crystal pitcher has been in my family for many years,” Mom explained. “My mother gave it to me on my wedding day.”
“We only use it for special occasions,” Sarah added.
When the girls finished their ice cream, it was time for bed. After Mom said good night and the girls went upstairs, Sarah whispered, “Janeen, are you sleepy?”
“Not at all!”
“Mom said she doesn’t mind if we talk until we get sleepy, as long as we’re quiet.”
“Great!” Janeen whispered. “Did I ever tell you the joke I heard from my big sister’s friend?”
As Janeen spoke, Sarah’s eyes grew large and her stomach started to feel strange, as if something she had eaten didn’t agree with her. The joke wasn’t really funny, and Janeen used words that Sarah knew were wrong to say. What should I do? she wondered. If I ask Janeen to stop talking like this, she might think I’m acting like a baby.
When Janeen finished her joke, she started to tell Sarah a story she’d heard at school. She had forgotten about being quiet and was talking right out loud, and Sarah knew that Heavenly Father didn’t want her to hear this story, either.
Her face grew hot, and by this time, there was a gigantic lump in her stomach. If I tell Janeen I don’t want to hear any more, she might get mad at me. Maybe she’ll even want to go home. After a few more words, though, Sarah couldn’t listen any longer.
“Janeen,” she interrupted, “I think we should stop talking about this kind of stuff, OK?”
Janeen grew quiet.
Sarah took a deep breath and rushed on, “My parents have told me I shouldn’t listen to that kind of story or use those words. And they don’t make me feel very good inside.”
Janeen was silent for a while. Then she said, “OK. They don’t make me feel good inside, either, really. You know, I think it’s neat that you talk about this kind of stuff with your mom and dad.”
Sarah let out her breath, and the lump in her stomach started to shrink.
The next morning after breakfast, Sarah’s mom suggested, “Why don’t you go outside for a game of soccer?”
With a whoop, the girls scrambled for the ball. They played hard. The sun was hot, and there were lots of tumbles as they practiced blocking shots. Finally Sarah stopped under a shade tree at the edge of the yard. “Whew! Time for a break!”
They raced for the back door.
“Mom, is there anything to drink?” Sarah called as the girls washed their hands.
“How about lemonade?”
Sarah and Janeen grinned at each other and opened the refrigerator.
They froze in place, their eyes glued to the second shelf.
Instead of ice-cold lemonade, Mom’s beautiful crystal pitcher was filled to the brim with smelly, black mud!
The girls turned around to find Mom standing behind them. Chuckling at the expression on their faces, she invited, “Sit down for a minute.”
As they sat at the table, Mom continued, “Girls, I’d like to talk to you about something. I guess you didn’t hear me coming upstairs last night. As I passed your bedroom, I heard you talking.”
Sarah stared at her mom, then glanced at Janeen, who was studying the floor. Janeen’s face was red, and Sarah knew that hers was too.
“Just as I was about to knock, you decided to stop, so I thought I’d speak to you this morning, instead.”
Seeing their stricken faces, Mom added gently, “Don’t worry—I’m not angry with you. But I would like to explain why Heavenly Father doesn’t want you to say or hear things like what you were talking about last night.
“Imagine yourself on a sizzling hot day in the summertime. You’ve been outside playing for a long time, and you’re thirsty.”
The girls nodded—that’s what had just happened!
“Now, you’ve come into the house and opened the refrigerator. A tall pitcher of cold lemonade is waiting for you, and you know that it’s going to taste great.” She smiled and brought out a frosty container of real lemonade and some glasses. “Did you know that, in a way, our minds are like a pitcher?”
Sarah and Janeen gave each other a puzzled look.
“First, remember that whenever we see or hear something, it goes into our minds, and it’s there for keeps. Now, when you saw the crystal pitcher last night, how did it look?”
“Beautiful!” Janeen exclaimed. “It was clean and sparkling.”
“If we allow ourselves to see or hear only good things, then our minds stay clean and pure, like lovely crystal. Our thoughts and ideas are uplifting to others around us, just like icy lemonade makes everyone happy on a hot day.
“Now,” Mom asked, her eyes twinkling, “what would you think if you opened the refrigerator and instead of lemonade, found the pitcher with mud?” She placed the pitcher in front of Janeen and Sarah.
“Yuck!” they chorused.
“Right!” Mom said, smiling. “Yuck is the word.” Then her face grew serious. “You know, if we put wrong messages and bad language into our minds, it’s like filling this container with mud—pretty soon we feel sick.”
Sarah remembered last night’s lump in her stomach and nodded.
Mom reached over to wipe a smudge of dust from Janeen’s face. “And if the ‘mud’ is on the inside, we can’t just take a cloth and scrub ourselves clean.”
The girls were silent awhile, thinking and staring at the now-not-so-pretty pitcher in front of them.
“So, if we fill our minds with good words and ideas, we’ll think about them and be happy. We can help our friends feel good, too, right?” Janeen asked, hesitantly.
“We won’t stay healthy inside if the things in our minds are harmful, just like we wouldn’t feel too great if we ate some mud!” Sarah added.
“That’s right.” Sarah’s mother agreed. “I think you understand very well.” She smiled again and poured each girl a big glass of the real lemonade before taking the other pitcher to clean it.
Soon Sarah and Janeen went outside to continue their game. As she was closing in to score a goal, Janeen stopped suddenly. “You know, the pitcher-of-mud idea your mom showed us is really cool. I never thought about why listening to some jokes makes me feel bad inside. I’m going to explain it to Kim the next time she tells me that kind of story.”
When it was almost time to take Janeen home, Mom called, “Girls, it’s a long ride to Janeen’s house. Would you like a drink before you leave?”
Sarah and Janeen looked at each other and grinned. “Lemonade, please,” they giggled, “and hold the mud!”

Some years ago, as Sister Gong and I met a lovely family, their young daughter, Ivy, shyly brought out her violin case. She lifted out the violin bow, tightened and put rosin on it. Then she put the bow back in the case, curtsied, and sat down. A new beginner, she had just shared all she knew about the violin. Now, years later, Ivy plays the violin beautifully.

Like little Ivy and her violin, we are in some ways still beginning. Truly, “eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” In these times, we can learn much of God’s goodness and our divine potential for God’s love to grow in us as we seek Him and reach out to each other. In new ways and new places, we can do and become, line upon line, kindness upon kindness, individually and together.

Erin, from North Carolina, USA, and her family (left) have always had one goal in mind: to become an eternal family. However, Erin’s father was not a member of the Church.
“Of course my mom and siblings wanted my dad to share in the blessings of the gospel. The gospel of Jesus Christ made us happy, and we wanted Dad to share in that happiness. We also all desperately wanted to be sealed together as a family,” Erin says.
Determined to become a forever family, Erin and her siblings and mother did all they could to keep the commandments and develop strong faith, and they prayed together for their father’s heart to be touched by the gospel.
Though it took several years, Erin’s father was finally baptized and confirmed. Ten days after his baptism, he was able to baptize Erin’s younger brother and sister. Soon their family will reach their goal of being sealed in the temple.

The sacrament provides a time for a truly spiritual experience as we reflect upon the Savior’s redeeming and enabling power through His Atonement. A Young Women leader recently learned about the strength we receive as we strive to thoughtfully partake of the sacrament. Working to complete a requirement in Personal Progress, she set a goal to focus on the words in the sacrament hymns and prayers.
Each week, she conducted a self-evaluation during the sacrament. She recalled mistakes she had made, and she committed to be better the next week. She was grateful to be able to make things right and be made clean. Looking back on the experience, she said, “I was acting on the repentance part of the Atonement.”
One Sunday after her self-evaluation, she began to feel gloomy and pessimistic. She could see that she was making the same errors over and over again, week to week. But then she had a distinct impression that she was neglecting a big part of the Atonement—Christ’s enabling power. She was forgetting all the times the Savior helped her be who she needed to be and serve beyond her own capacity.
With this in mind, she reflected again on the previous week. She said: “A feeling of joy broke through my melancholy as I noted that He had given me many opportunities and abilities. I noted with gratitude the ability I had to recognize my child’s need when it wasn’t obvious. I noted that on a day when I felt I could not pack in one more thing to do, I was able to offer strengthening words to a friend. I had shown patience in a circumstance that usually elicited the opposite from me.”
She concluded: “As I thanked God for the Savior’s enabling power in my life, I felt so much more optimistic toward the repentance process I was working through and I looked to the next week with renewed hope.”

Excited voices rise and fall in a jumbled cadence that resembles a symphony tuning up. There’s a vibrant current flowing, and the ground almost rumbles underfoot. Everyone waits with nervous anticipation as another Texas well is about to burst forth.
All who are involved with the well will immediately strike it rich, but not in a monetary sense. Instead of the black gold Texas is so famous for, this well is spewing talent—talent in all shapes and forms, drilled from the young women of the Richardson Stake in Dallas Texas.
Nearly 100 girls are waiting for the concert portion of the day-long Young Women conference to begin. And this is no ordinary Young Women conference. It’s one that advisers and girls have been working on for two years.
The theme of the conference is “Follow Your Dreams … and Pay the Price,” and the advisers have come up with an interesting way to develop that topic. The conference is divided into two parts. One part is educational—the adults in the stake teach the girls just what price they’ll have to pay to realize their dreams.
Mothers, of course, are invited to share the day, so they can better help their daughters reach their goals.
During the other half of the conference, the girls give something back to the adults of the stake by putting on a talent “concert,” in which each girl has the chance to demonstrate some of the skills she’s working on.
Right now, just as the concert is about to begin, the young women are anxiously tying white ribbons and straightening white skirts. Everyone is decked out in sparkling white, but the color of their clothes is where the similarity ends. The styles, lengths, and details of the dresses are as individual as the girls who wear them. The symbolism is obvious; the whiteness stands for the purity that they all possess, and although they share the same virtues, they are anything but carbon copies of each other.
They’re a lively group. The same energy that pulses through downtown Dallas sparks from these girls. They’re quick with their laughter, yet quicker with concern for each other. Some speak with heavy Texan drawls, and others sound like they just came from Ohio. Dallas, after all, is a city that draws people from all over the country.
At last the cue is given, and they explode on stage singing the lyrics “Someday just began.” They sing with conviction because they know that someday is now. Instead of waiting to “someday” refine their talents, when they have the time; and to “someday” share them with others, when they’re good enough; or to “someday” use their talents to help those in need, when they have the inclination—the young women of the Richardson Stake are using their talents now.
The talent concert gave them the perfect opportunity to prove that. Take Amy Ravsten, a 17-year-old from Garland Third Ward, for example. When she heard that the young women in her stake would be performing, she offered to teach the girls in her ward a jazz routine she’d learned at cheerleading camp. A real sense of camaraderie developed as six girls of varying aptitudes worked together to perfect the dance.
For gymnast Kim McCauley, a 14-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, “someday” began when she was a toddler. She was walking at six months, running at eight months, and by the time she hit three, her parents decided they’d better find a way to channel her energy, or they’d be exhausted in the chase. They enrolled her in gymnastics classes, and today, she not only is a top competitor on her high school team, but she also uses her talent in her spare time to teach gymnastics classes for small children.
Instead of waiting for “someday” to take time to really get to know and enjoy the rest of her family, 12-year-old Stephanie Smith of the Dallas Fourth Ward learned a family talent that would send them touring the state and the country. The family took up clogging, a misleading term for a high-energy form of tap dance. Through it, she learned all about keeping in step with the rest of the family. “It’s really helped us with our unity,” she says. “Although it’s sometimes hard to get everyone together to practice, we feel a real closeness when we perform.”
“Someday I’ll be a great piano player … when I have time to practice,” is a foreign phrase to Susanna Olsen, who proved that she already has mastered the instrument. She dashed off a Rachmaninoff opus as if she’d written it herself. Members of the Richardson First Ward know that they can come to Susanna whenever they need an accompanist. She’s more than willing to oblige them.
Sherry Blanpied, a 13-year-old from the Richardson Second Ward, had no intention of waiting for “someday, when I’m good enough,” to display her dramatic talents. She performed a monologue right after winning first place with the same piece in a school competition held earlier that day.
These girls and many more were able to shower the stake with their talents. And for those who had talents that were not easily displayed on stage, such as soccer finesse or computer programming, their “someday” in the limelight came when they performed in one of three song and dance routines choreographed to include every girl who wanted to join in.
The conference theme came to life as the girls prepared for the concert. The price they paid to realize their dream of a successful show was a lot of time and effort. They passed up parties and various other school activities to meet a grueling rehearsal schedule, and some even missed going to their high school football games. That’s practically unheard of in Texas, where school spirit is as high as a lone star in the sky.
The girls in Dallas are just like most young women everywhere. In their spare time, they like to get together to talk and watch video movies, they like to go to dances, eat Mexican food, and go horseback riding. They’re especially proud of their new temple, and they go to the visitors’ center frequently. But in preparation for the conference, they put most of their other activities on the back burner and concentrated on “paying the price” to make it a dream come true.
Michelle DeMarco, 13, of the Richardson First Ward, even gave up a part in a school play to participate in the conference. Michelle, who lives and breathes theater, insisted “it was worth missing the school play to come to this. I’ve really enjoyed being together with everyone here.”
Michelle’s mother was right there supporting her from the rehearsals through to the actual production. “My mom has helped me with everything,” said Michelle. “She’s always making me feel good about what I’m doing, and she’s always there to lift me up.” That’s the way it is with many of the mothers in the Richardson Stake.
“We just can’t stand by on the side of the river and watch these young women try to maneuver the rapids by themselves,” said Linda McCauley, who spearheaded the conference. Sister McCauley had three daughters involved in the day and feels that she needs to “jump on the raft with them … to share their experiences so they don’t float so far away and become strangers.”
Some mothers and daughters in the stake are so close it’s even hard to tell them apart. They share jokes, clothes, and friendships. They were more than willing to help with the other parts of the conference by spending long hours decorating for the elaborate luncheon and pulling together the programs, speakers, and handouts for the educational part of the day.
The informative portion’s purpose, according to Sister McCauley, was to “provide the girls with a positive, uplifting experience where they learned about their responsibilities to Heavenly Father, to themselves, and to others.”
These responsibilities were brought home to the girls during a multimedia presentation starring many familiar faces. Advisers had taken the time to interview some of the girls and discuss how they could pump the most from their talents.
A video clip was shown of Rebecca Duehring, a 15-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, gliding across the ice during one of her many intense ice skating competitions. Rebecca’s struggle to be a competitive skater hasn’t been easy. She was born with brain damage that limited her coordination and space perception. She could barely walk, was constantly falling, and had broken nearly every bone in her body. Then she took up ice skating, which, for some reason she can’t explain, helped her gain her coordination.
Although it takes more time and concentration for Rebecca to perfect her routines, she’s right up there with the best in town and dreams of one day going to the Olympics. “Sometimes I can feel that Heavenly Father is behind me, and I go for the top,” says Rebecca.
The girls were also treated to talks, workshops, and presentations by people who had paid the price to reach excellence. “Commitment is more than desire,” stake president Larry Gibbons told them in his speech. “Commitment implies action.” And in other workshops, the girls learned just what kind of actions they’d have to take to be successful in different aspects of their lives.
They were shown the literal prices they’ll have to pay when the time comes to support themselves. They shuddered as they saw just how far an average, 40-hour a week job paying $5 an hour would take them. After paying tithing, taxes, rent, food, gas, transportation, insurance, and utility bills, they’d be in the hole about $2,000 per year.
“This has really started me thinking about what I want to do,” said Ruth Vigil, 16, of the Richardson Third Ward. “I hadn’t really set any goals for my future occupation, but now I realize that I’ll have to.” Ruth is musically talented. She sings and plays the piano and is now thinking about ways to incorporate those talents in a future occupation.
“We wanted to help the girls change their lives and get moving into some sort of direction,” said Connie Riska, stake Young Women president. “They need to make some of their decisions now and not wait until they graduate from high school.”
The girls realize that not all of them will go on to become working women. “My ambition is to have ten kids. six cats, and five gerbils,” jokes 16-year-old Tami McCauley of the Rockwall Ward. Just in case her dream comes true, the conference helped her to realize that the experience she’s gaining now by helping her mother take care of her nine brothers and sisters is invaluable.
Tracy Rico, 17, of the Garland Third Ward, had her feeling reaffirmed that if she’s going to meet her goal of entering into the medical profession, it can’t hurt to start learning now. That’s why she’s working as a “sports medicine trainer” at her high school.
The girls were encouraged to think about their future goals in preparation for a very special fashion show that was also part of the conference. Each young woman either made or coordinated an outfit to wear, and as they were escorted down the runway, their achievements and dreams were capsulized by the emcee.
Amanda Wilson, 15, of the Richardson First Ward, was right in her element during this part of the day. Her mother began teaching her to sew when she was seven years old, and now you might wonder who is teaching whom. Not only did Amanda sew several outfits for the fashion show, but she designed them as well, making her own patterns.
Amanda is refining her talents now so that one day she can major in fashion merchandising and hopefully have her own designing business. But in the meantime, she uses her abilities by sewing for ward members.
Short-term goals were also met via the fashion show. “It was great because my mom and I worked together on my outfit,” said Jennifer Beckham, 15, of the Rockwall Ward. “We took a whole day to go pick out the material, and as we cut it out and worked on it, we just talked about all sorts of things. It was really nice.”
That feeling of unity and understanding seemed to characterize the day. Most people were a bit surprised when Melissa Lane, 13, modeled her outfit as it was announced that one of her major goals was to become a member of the Church.
Melissa later explained, “My aunt is a member of the Church and I live with her now. She lets me go to church, and it really makes me feel good. I’m starting to read the Book of Mormon, and my aunt is letting me subscribe to the New Era. My special friends here have helped me with my testimony, and this conference has too.”
Most of the girls agreed that the friendship they cultivated by sharing their talents with each other was one of the best parts of the conference. Many of the girls go to different schools and don’t have the opportunity to get together often. “I’ve grown so close to the people here,” said Tova Carter, 14, of the Garland Fourth Ward. “We learned that if we put our minds to something, we really can accomplish it.”
An elaborate luncheon, a fashion show presented by a local designer, and minimusical concerts performed by local professionals and local Suzuki violin students all added to the day as the young women struck it rich in Dallas.
The girls might not be able to buy expensive sports cars and luxurious wardrobes with the wealth they gained by tapping the well at their conference, but deep in the hearts of the young women in Texas, they know they struck something far more valuable.

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

The Bengaluru Stake presidency wanted to visit members as part of their ministering efforts. One Sunday they went to a hospital to visit a member who needed a surgery. They had a pleasant visit giving hope to the family to know that all will be well. The surgery could not happen as the sugar levels were not within the level needed. A priesthood blessing and a promise was given that his surgery would take place soon. After a day, the surgery was performed and it was successful.

I saw harmony and love in action recently in Phoenix, Arizona, when I met with government leaders and participated in humanitarian visits. I saw in action the scripture “thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.”30

In recent months, tens of thousands of ­asylum seekers—migrants seeking international ­protection—have been relocated in the Phoenix area and elsewhere. These are people with ­nothing—no belongings to speak of. They arrive with no money and no home, and, it appears for them, no choices.

Forty different faith community organizations—including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—came together to help rescue these people from their dire circumstances. What a privilege it was to work side by side with others who are following the Lord’s admonition to care for the poor and needy. I was touched both by the desire of those who were helping and by the immense gratitude on the faces of those receiving help.

I had an extremely frightening experience several years ago while flying from Reno, Nevada, to San Rafael, California, with a friend in his twin-engine Aztec airplane.
When we left Reno, the weather was a little cloudy, and my friend was somewhat worried about it. Because of his concern, we landed at the Lake Tahoe airport to get a second report on the weather. It did not indicate that the weather was too bad, so we continued our flight to San Rafael.
Our destination was an airport in the northern part of San Francisco Bay. As we approached the Bay area, the clouds became increasingly low and dense. We tried to stay under the clouds so we could see the water and thus keep our bearings visually. But suddenly we flew into very dense clouds and could see nothing.
When you fly into such clouds, you become totally disoriented. You do not know whether you are flying straight, sideways, or upside down. You lose your sense of forward motion, and it takes a few minutes for the pilot to orient himself from visual flying to instrument flying. At 180 miles an hour, you move a long distance in that few minutes and can get into serious trouble very quickly. Unfortunately, my friend had not flown entirely on instruments for two years.
My friend struggled intensely and was near the point of panic as he tried to recall all that he had learned about instrument flying. I knew very little about instrument flying, so I could not help him. All I could do was put my hand on his shoulder and tell him to take a deep breath and get hold of himself. The only instrument that I could read was the altimeter. I said, “We are now at 500 feet. Don’t make any quick moves; just think it out, and you can pull us through.”
It seemed an eternity before he finally made radio contact with Hamilton Air Force Base. He said to them, “I am in trouble; please help me.” The air traffic controllers had us on their radar screen and immediately began to help my friend regain control of the plane. They told us where we were and started to give us instructions to help guide us to safety.
When my friend heard the voice from Hamilton Tower, he regained a sense of confidence that enabled him to gain control. But he knew that the plane was completely out of control and that our chances of pulling out of this danger were marginal. We could easily go the wrong way. The foothills, buildings, towers, and bridges were not far away. At one time we dropped to only 200 feet, and must have been flying upside down at one time because the maps and other items in the visor above my head fell into my lap.
At the peak of this crisis, an instant replay of my entire life flashed through my mind. I thought of my wife, my seven children, my parents, my business partners, the 37 priests whom I was the adviser to, and many other things. I prayed fervently all through this crisis and made a commitment more deep and more sincere than ever before in my life. I began, “Heavenly Father, guide us out of this thick, dense cloud, and help my friend remember all he knows about instrument flying.” And then I said, “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, bless my friend that he might regain control.” My prayer continued. I committed to Heavenly Father that if he would help us, I would place my life in his hands. I promised him that I would be what he wanted me to be.
Finally, we saw the lights on the runway. The white line in the center of the runway was a most welcome sight.

Let me share a personal example of this truth. I distinctly recall a time when I received a prompting in answer to mighty prayer. The answer was clear and powerful. However, I failed to act immediately on the prompting, and after a period of time I began to wonder if what I had felt had been real. Some of you may have fallen for that deception of the adversary as well.
Several days later, I awoke with these powerful verses of scripture in my mind:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, if you desire a further witness, cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart. …
“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?”7
It was as if the Lord was saying, “Now, Ronald, I already told you what you needed to do. Now do it!” How grateful I was for that loving correction and direction! I was immediately comforted by the prompting and was able to move forward, knowing in my heart that my prayer had been answered.
I share this experience, dear brothers and sisters, to demonstrate how quickly our minds can forget and how spiritual experiences guide us. I have learned to cherish such moments “lest I forget.”

Earlier this semester one of my students came to me distraught over failing a midterm. We discussed several ways she might improve: taking the practice exam as if it were real, forming a study group, teaching the principles to others, and trying more problems. She listened, she adjusted, and she aced the next midterm. Last week during office hours a different student expressed dismay at her performance on the midterm. The first student overheard her and immediately invited the discouraged classmate to join her study group and learn from the group’s collective experience. Love from others is essential when we are not having the experience we want.

I’ve always made an impressive grilled cheese sandwich. Between that delectable dish and a handful of other recipes, I kept myself alive and functioning throughout my mission and well into adulthood. But then I got married and had kids, all of whom have different tastes. I needed to expand my menu!

However, on nights when it was my turn to cook, attempting new meals proved to be a challenge. For starters, my evening time was usually limited. Even though I wanted to cook a variety of meals, I kept hitting snags. I couldn’t find ingredients fast enough, or we’d be missing some. More often than not, I’d scrap my planned dinner and instead go for quick and easy. And yet I kept wanting to improve in this area. So I decided to do something I had never done. I prayed for a spiritual gift by name.

Specifically, I prayed for the gift of organization. Yes, organization! We already had a spice cupboard. We also had cooking utensils drawers. Yet even with those in place, I seemed to spend more time looking for supplies than cooking.

As I consistently prayed for this gift, I began receiving specific ideas. A wall-mounted spice rack would organize spices and keep them handy. A magnetic kitchen bar (also wall-mounted) could store knives and other metal cooking utensils. These and other ideas, once put in motion, made a big difference in my cooking efforts. Need some thyme? Garlic salt? Garlic powder? I’m your guy!

But then a funny thing happened. Little ideas continued popping into my mind for small ways to better organize other areas of my life. For example, my three-level homemade laundry tower won’t carry my family to the promised land, but even Nephi would’ve appreciated the way in which I built it—by following promptings that came to me one piece at a time.

The spiritual gift of organization has improved my life and the lives of my family more than I would’ve ever guessed.

And it all came because I asked for it.

When I was a young bishop in Tennessee, we were neighbors to a wonderful Christian couple named Will and Karen. They weren’t members of our Church, but they were deeply Christian…good people in every sense of the word.

When I would speak in church, I would often invite them to come and see. Every time, they declined but always did so very politely.

Later, I learned Will was studying to become an associate pastor in a small Baptist church in a tiny, tiny town outside of Nashville. When I found out he was preparing for his first sermon, I asked if my family could come hear him preach. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. But he said we were more than welcome.

His church services started at 10 a.m.. Our church met at 1:00 p.m., but we also had Ward Council that morning. So, I called every member of the council and told them, “The meeting is canceled, I’m going to the Baptist church.”

When we arrived that Sunday morning, we were greeted so warmly. And I don’t just mean polite handshakes…I mean genuine, joyful, we’re-glad-you’re-here warmth.

There were a couple of things they did in that church that I loved.

If someone liked what the preacher said, they shouted out “Amen!” or “Hallelujah!” right in the middle of the sermon. Sometimes when I speak I feel like I could use a good “Amen!” or “Hallelujah!”

Right in the middle of the service, the senior pastor stood up and said, “Brothers and sisters, it’s fellowship time. I want you to stand up and go shake hands with someone you’ve never met before.”

Now, this was a very small church. And I don’t think there were any other visitors. I felt like I was in a wedding reception line as person after person came by, shook our hands, and said things like:

“We’re so happy you’re here.”

“We hope you will come back and worship with us again.”

I could have felt different and alone in that church, but somehow they made me feel like I belonged.

When our ward council finally met again, can you guess what we talked about?

We talked about how to help people feel like they are not alone on the Jericho road they may be traveling. We talked about how to help people feel that they are, as Paul said, “no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God.” [8]

And here’s the thing—the answer isn’t complicated.

It’s as simple as seeing ourselves as neighbor to each individual we interact with and treating them the way Jesus would treat them.

That same pattern of a Melchizedek Priesthood holder raising sights and giving confidence came one night at a speech festival sponsored by the Church. At 17 years of age, I was asked to speak to a large audience. I had no idea what was expected of me. I wasn’t given a subject, and so I prepared a talk that was way beyond what I knew about the gospel. As I spoke, I realized I had made a mistake. I can still remember that after I spoke, I had a sinking feeling of having failed.
The next and final speaker was Elder Matthew Cowley of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He was a great orator—beloved across the Church. I still remember looking up at him from my seat next to the rostrum.
He began in a powerful voice. He said that my speech had made him feel that he was at a great conference. He smiled as he said it. My feelings of failure left and were followed by confidence that I might someday become what he seemed to think I already was.
The memory of that night still leads me to listen carefully when an Aaronic Priesthood holder speaks. Because of what Elder Cowley did for me, I always expect that I will hear the word of God. I am seldom disappointed and often amazed, and I can’t help but smile as Elder Cowley did.

James Hutchinson Western was born in Deseret, Utah on 1st May 1898 to loving parents, Samuel Winsborough and Mary Alice. James was the sixth of twelve children. At the age of 22, Elder James H. Western set sail for the British Isles to serve a full-time mission for the Church.
On arrival in February 1921, Elder Western was assigned to the Liverpool Conference. He was transferred to Wales in March 1922, and though just 23 years old he was set apart as the president of the Welsh Conference, under the direction of President Orson F. Whitney (1855-1931), Apostle and president of the European Mission.
This was a time of dedicated service for President Western, one to which he gave his whole commitment, sharing his leadership skills and gospel experiences, providing training to both local leaders and missionaries in developing branches. He also continually cared for and encouraged the full-time travelling missionaries throughout the district, giving guidance and direction in spreading the gospel to many areas of south and west Wales.
After a very busy and gospel-promoting period, Elder Western was honourably released as president of the Welsh conference. He arrived in Salt Lake City on 20 January 1923.
Sadly, on Saturday 17 February 1923 surgeons operated to remove a tumour on James’ spinal cord, but to no avail. He died the following Wednesday with his parents at his side. Their beloved son, not yet 25 years old, had served his country and served a mission for the Church. Now they had to part with him again until they reunite in the eternities.
President David O. McKay (1873-1970) wrote, “Sorrow made heavy every heart in the Welsh conference last Monday, when the announcement was received of the death of Elder James H. Western. . . .
“His labors were characterized by zeal, courage, and indefatigable effort; his daily life, by sincerity, undeviating integrity, dignified humility, and an earnest desire to make better and happier all who came within the radiance of his life. . . .
“As a true servant of Christ, he has won the welcome:
“‘Well done, good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’”1
Though young, he accepted the mantle of leadership and with all diligence and commitment fulfilled his calling with love, dignity, and an ever-faithful heart to the gospel of Jesus Christ and the people he loved so dearly.

This may seem insignificant to some, but to me it is astounding. For thirty-four years, as a lawyer, I regularly dictated to my secretary. As I did so, I was often interrupted by a phone call or a question. After such interruptions I would invariably ask my secretary, “Where was I?”

But Joseph was not dictating or writing a new work; he was receiving revelation by the power of God and therefore did not need to ask, “Where was I?”

I also know something of the tensions of uncertainty. When I was a seventeen-year-old high school student in Provo I joined the Utah National Guard field artillery unit that had once included my father. I was corporal in that unit when the Korean War broke out, two weeks after I graduated from high school. Our field artillery group was alerted for active duty, and most of the units were soon called up and sent to training and on to Korea. When it came time to register at BYU in the fall I fully expected to be on my way to Korea before my first quarter was over, but after prayerful consideration I decided to register anyway since this would at least give me something to do while I waited. In that atmosphere of uncertainty I began my college work. The tension and uncertainty continued for the succeeding four years, but so did I. My unit was never called, but the prospect was never far from my mind, especially since missionary work was sharply curtailed and persons immediately vulnerable to military orders, such as I, were not called.