Gospel Story Finder

I am reminded of a little village called Panacaxtlán, situated where the coastal plains meet the mountains of central Mexico, just a few kilometers off the Vía Corta (the short route) between Mexico City and Tampico, Tamaulipas. The village is situated in a lush, green, humid area known as the Huasteca, and the inhabitants are sons and daughters of Lehi. In 1979, while I was serving as president in the Mexico Mexico City North Mission, missionaries began proselyting in the Huasteca. Fifty-two people joined the Church in Panacaxtlán, along with about 400 others in nearby communities that formed the new Tempoal Mexico District.
A short time later, a meeting was called in Panacaxtlán at which Church members were given the following options: denounce the Church, leave the village, or be killed (not an idle threat).
The members, particularly the women, said they knew the Church to be true and would not denounce it. They also indicated they had worked just as hard as the rest of the community to secure their homesteads, and they would not leave. Boldly stepping forward, they told their taunters if they were going to kill them, to get on with it. The moment grew tense as machetes were raised, then finally lowered while the Latter-day Saints stood up for that which the Spirit had testified to them to be true.
These Saints eventually learned, as most of us do, that it is harder to live the gospel day by day than to die for it in an instant, but their early commitment came because the Spirit had touched their hearts and changed their lives. Their conversion had taken place as the Book of Mormon helped build their faith in Jesus Christ, the Son of God. They learned that Christ had visited their ancestors in the Americas after His Resurrection, and they were grateful for the blessings available to all our Father’s children because Heavenly Father had sent His Son. Like the Saints of New Testament times, those members in Panacaxtlán had developed faith sufficient to withstand the persecutions of people whose minds were closed.

When I was a boy, we lived on a fruit farm in the summer. We grew great quantities of peaches. Our father took us to tree pruning demonstrations put on by the agricultural college. Each Saturday during January and February, we would go out to the farm and prune the trees. We learned that by clipping and sawing in the right places, even when snow was on the ground and the wood appeared dead, we could shape a tree so that the sun would touch the fruit which was to come with spring and summer. We learned that in February we could pretty well determine the kind of fruit we would pick in September.

Many of you have had an experience like Ryan with the family car.

One event that happened when I was sixteen I remember very well. I had had my driver’s license for three or four months, so I snuck out my window, probably about midnight, took the car, went and picked up some of my buddies, and we just went cruising. We went and picked up some drinks at 7-Eleven and just went driving around the city—nothing major. And even though I know I shouldn’t have been out that late, I did it anyways, cause you know when you’re sixteen you don’t really care. When I came back, however, dropped my friends off, and pulled into my neighborhood, I could see the kitchen lights on in my house. I knew I was caught—I was busted. I was expecting to be grounded for three or four months from the car. That never happened.

Again, note the effect his parents’ response had on Ryan.

They just talked to me like a normal person. They asked me, “Why did you want to go out?” And then, “Well, I understand. When I was sixteen, I wanted to go out and hang out with my friends—it’s a cool thing to do.” Then they asked me, “Do you realize that if you had been caught, you could have been busted for curfew?” They made me realize some things in a way that I hadn’t really thought of before. And I respected them because they treated me just normal. They didn’t talk down to me, they didn’t lash out, they just connected with me.

—Click! A switch was flipped, and a tiny sewing machine light guided adroit fingers over a swatch of terrycloth. The cultural hall of the Irvine California Stake Center was lined with sewing machines, and the middle was filled with cutting tables. The young women were making bibs for a local home for abused children.
“When they told us they use about 350 bibs per day, I thought, Wow—this service project really will make a difference,” said Katheryn Clayton.

Mom and Dad say that when I was born, I brought a special spirit into our home. I like to be a peacemaker. Whenever my brothers argue, I put up my hand and say, “Stop! No mad allowed!” If that doesn’t get them to stop, I lead them to the den and have them look at the picture of Jesus and talk to them about Him. Then I ask if they feel better. They always do.
Elizabeth Gibson, age 4 (with help from her mom)Goshen, Indiana

On December 4, 1986, two American missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knocked on the door of my father’s house. Although Father let the missionaries visit regularly, he was never interested in the message. A few months later he divorced Mother and remarried.

When Father informed the missionaries of the sad news of our broken family, he also told them not to come back.

The missionaries left a copy of the Book of Mormon with the address of the nearest church written on the inside cover and said, “We will always be your friends. If there is anything we can do for your family, come to this address, and you will find us there.”

Saying good-bye to the missionaries that evening was difficult, for I had felt something precious in their message.

Stepmother moved in. She and Father became cruel, life became hard, and I became a cynical teenager.

One night, when I could take their horrible treatment no longer, I dashed out the door in fear and hid in the rice fields, lonely, depressed, and hopeless. I wanted to run away, but I had nowhere to go.

Suddenly I remembered what the elders had said during their last visit. “First thing tomorrow, I am going back to find my friends!” I told myself, feeling a sense of inner peace for the first time in years.

Early the next morning I hopped on my bike and went downtown to the church, but the elders who had visited my family a couple of years before had returned home. Just when I was about to give up, two friendly ladies with the familiar black name tags on their coats approached me and introduced themselves.

A month after I met the sister missionaries, I was baptized, in November 1988, the first convert in my family.

Well, I look about you and you look like a convention of the teenagers that have graced our home while we have been raising our eight children, sharing with us hundreds of gallons of ice cream and great barrels of carmel popcorn. On one occasion, when I was downtown, I called home and a young man answered the phone. I asked for each of my children in turn and he said, “None of them are here right now.”

I said, “Oh? Who is this?”

He said, “This is Brent.”

“What are you doing, Brent?”

“Oh, Bill and I are just sitting here having some chocolate ice cream and watching television.”

It is always open house at our place, and they know it. I thanked him kindly and told him to keep taking messages, and if anyone needed me I would be home soon.

I recall as a young boy going with my father to visit an elderly widow living in humble circumstances. We shared a couple of boxes of food with her. When we were leaving, her remarks touched my heart. She said, “Thank you, Bishop, and please come back again, even if it’s just to say hello.”
This was probably the first time I realized that the food items were appreciated but the words of encouragement and the personal visit were of greater value.

President Joseph F. Smith was five years old when his father, Hyrum, was killed in Carthage Jail. Later, Joseph crossed the plains with his widowed mother.
At age 15 he was called on a mission to Hawaii. He felt lost and alone and said: “I was very much oppressed. … I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look [anyone] in the face.”
While pondering his plight one night, young Joseph dreamed he was on a journey, rushing as fast as he possibly could. He carried with him a small bundle. Finally, he came to a wonderful mansion, which was his destination. As he approached, he saw a sign which read, “Bath.” He quickly went in and washed himself. He opened his little bundle and found clean white clothing—“a thing,” he said, “I had not seen for a long time.” He put them on and rushed to the door of the mansion.
“I knocked,” he said, “and the door opened, and the man who stood there was the Prophet Joseph Smith. He looked at me a little reprovingly, and the first words he said [were]: ‘Joseph, you are late.’ Yet I took confidence and said:
“‘Yes, but I am clean—I am clean!’”8

Imagine my awakening as my work over the last thirty years in fifty countries has acquainted me with thousands of our Heavenly Father’s beloved children who are amazing and faithful souls. In Egypt I worked for months with Ahmed Sami, the producer of Death on the Nile. He was a devoted Muslim, a father, and a truly ethical businessman in a country ripe with corruption at its cultural and political roots. Without even knowing the word, he voluntarily tithed himself to the benefit of the poor. He spoke of many miracles and answered prayers. He often reminded me of Christ’s injunction to be “wise as serpents, and harmless as doves” (Matthew 10:16). If I ever make it to the “entry queue” for the celestial kingdom, I expect him to be standing up there ahead, well in front of me, with the season-ticket holders.

While in Egypt we honored the promise the Church had made not to proselyte, but I have no worry for the state of Ahmed’s soul. Why? Because apostles remind us often of the Lord’s statement in 2 Nephi 27:20 that “I am able to do mine own work,” and the last two sections of the Doctrine and Covenants reiterate that the Lord has a plan for the redemption and exaltation of those who have died without the gospel and its ordinances (see D&C 137 and 138).

Alan rested his arms wearily on the edge of the pool and gulped deep breaths of air. He’d lost to Chris again—by a tenth of a second. Alan wished he could beat his teammate in the 50-yard freestyle race just once!
As Alan hoisted himself from the water, Chris clapped him on the back. “Good race,” he said. “The two of us ought to take first and second this Saturday against Brookston. If we do, the team could get the district trophy.”
Alan wished he felt as confident about winning as Chris did. Instead, he groaned inwardly at the thought of letting the team down. He’d have to do well in both the 50-freestyle race and the 400-freestyle relay for the team to win, and he was afraid he couldn’t do it.
That evening when Alan sat down to supper, he tried not to think about swimming. But his brother Pete’s trophies kept staring down at him from the trophy shelf. Then Pete came into the kitchen, plopped into his chair, and immediately launched into his swim report. “What a workout we had at the pool today! But the coach clocked me at one minute thirteen in the 100-yard breaststroke. At that rate I could break the district record on Saturday.”
Pete turned to Alan. “How about you guys? Think you’ll bring home a trophy?”
“Chris thinks we will, but I’m not sure,” Alan answered. “They’re counting on me to take second in the 50-yard freestyle.”
“Why not a first?” Pete asked.
“You know I can’t beat Chris. Every time I take off a tenth of a second, he does too.”
“If you keep thinking like that you’ll never win a race,” Pete chided. “When you’re competing in a swimming meet, you have to think of yourself as a winner.”
“Sure, sure,” Alan muttered, pushing back his chair with an “Excuse me.”
Alan hurried down the basement steps and went over to the exercise mat where Pete kept his weights. Maybe I should try using them, he thought. Alan had watched Pete work out, so he knew what to do.
Just as Alan was about to lift one of his brother’s weights, Pete came down the stairs. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m going to lift some weights,” Alan replied as he got into position.
“You don’t start lifting weights three days before a meet. If you do, your muscles might tighten up, and you won’t have a chance of winning.”
Alan put down the weights and went upstairs to his bedroom. I might as well face it, he thought. I’ll never be as good as Pete or Chris. If only Saturday were over …
The day of the meet, as Pete walked to the locker room with Alan, Pete delivered his familiar pep talk: “Remember now, don’t start thinking you’re going to lose. I’ve been watching you, and you can swim just as fast as Chris. You can start adding your own trophies to the family collection.”
Pete clapped Alan on the back, and the younger boy hurried off to change into his suit. It’s easy for Pete to talk about beating Chris, he thought, but I’m the one who has to swim the race!
When the time came to swim the 50-freestyle, Brookston was slightly ahead of Lakewood in team points. Chris slapped Alan on the shoulder good-naturedly and said, “Don’t forget—we’re going for first and second.”
When the starter’s gun sounded, Alan made a good, long, entering dive and came up to the turn even with Chris. Alan knew Chris would pull ahead now—he always did on the second length. Alan sucked in air and choked on some water. For an instant his rhythm broke, and he felt Chris touch the wall before him. What was even worse, the swimmer from Brookston had edged out both of them. That meant Lakewood had to win both the backstroke and the freestyle relay to win.
Alan helped Chris stretch out for the backstroke race, working his arm muscles and drawing out his legs. Chris didn’t disappoint the team. He pulled ahead even before he reached the first turn. And when he smacked his hand against the wall for the finish, the timer flashed a record-breaking 28.6 seconds.
But Chris got out of the pool white-faced, clutching his wrist. “I hit too hard. Something’s wrong!”
Quickly the coach led Chris to the locker room, while the team murmured anxiously. When the coach came out of the locker room, he was alone and he headed straight for Alan.
“The trainer’s taking Chris for an X-ray, Alan. We’ll put Tony Ramos in as third swimmer, and you’ll swim anchor.” The coach gave him an encouraging smile. “You can do it, Alan. You’re as good as Chris is—maybe even better. I’ve been watching your progress. Now, get out there and get that win for us!”
Alan swallowed hard. He wasn’t “as good as Chris.” And he’d have to be even better if he was to beat the swimmer from Brookston! Alan’s eyes moved up into the stands. He saw Pete pointing his thumb up in the air in a sign that meant, “Get in there and win!”
As they lined up for the start, Alan looked over the Brookston team. Sure enough, the power swimmer who had beaten Chris and him earlier would be Brookston’s anchorman. What chance did Lakewood have!
But the Lakewood team put up a battle. Alan watched his teammates churn up and down, splashing water as far as two lanes away. Lakewood fell behind on the third leg, though, and Brookston’s anchor swimmer got off the block before Alan did. Not wanting to let his team down, Alan resolved to do his best. He poured all his strength into each kick, each stroke. Then, at the turn, Alan saw that he was almost even with the Brookston swimmer! Somewhere, deep down inside, Alan felt a new confidence.
I’m not going to let him beat me! he decided. His legs ached, his arms hurt, but he pulled and kicked harder than he’d ever done before. He began a rhythmic chant to himself: Pull and win. Pull and win. With a final surging stroke he hit the touch pad. The electronic timer flashed the results, and a great shout broke from the Lakewood team. They’d won!
Alan’s teammates pounded him on the back, and he heard the coach exclaim, “You did it!”
Now Pete was beside him, his eyes dancing. “Hey, Brother, what got into you?” he asked.
“Oh, I just got to thinking,” Alan answered.
“That’ll do it!”
Alan nodded happily as he went to get the trophy that just might be the start of his own collection at home.

Because my school has only six members of the Church, it was extremely hard for me to find friends with the same values. I felt lost and confused. The youth in my ward were nice people, but we never really hung out. I didn’t know the other youth in my stake very well because it was so spread out.
At the peak of my confusion, my stake put on a dance festival. I love to dance, so I immediately signed up for the dance team. I think that was the best thing I ever did. I got to know most of the youth in my stake that I never would have known otherwise. These people have been welcoming and friendly, and best of all, they have the same values I do.
Since making these friends, I have been so much happier. The people I hung out with before didn’t have my values, and I felt so trapped and weak. The people in my stake have made me a stronger person, and I’m grateful for them.

As a young missionary, Elder Gordon Hinckley found himself in a foxhole of a different sort. From the spiritual trenches of England, he became so discouraged that he wrote his father he might as well come home.

His father wrote back: “Dear Gordon, I have your recent letter. I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.”29

Stung by that counsel, Gordon Hinckley threw himself into the work. After his mission, his mission president sent him to tell the First Presidency why they needed better missionary materials. That visit to Church headquarters was supposed to last 15 minutes and ended up lasting over 70 years. Gordon B. Hinckley’s entire life was about forgetting himself and going to work. His willingness to sacrifice kept his feet moving on a disciple’s path.

As I prepared for my daughter’s wedding, my mind was so occupied with wedding plans that I rarely thought of anything besides my checklist. One morning I looked at my long list of tasks. I was making progress, but I still needed to do some deep cleaning. I had been putting off cleaning the kitchen blinds, so I decided to tackle that chore.
As I climbed on the counter with my rags, brushes, and cleaner, I could see that it was going to be a dirty job. While I worked, my mind wandered to the story of Martha and Mary, the sisters who had welcomed the Savior into their home. While Martha “was cumbered about much serving,” Mary “sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word.” Martha asked Jesus to tell her sister to help with the chores, but the Savior told her that “Mary hath chosen that good part” (see Luke 10:38–42).
“Today I will just have to be Martha,” I thought. The truth was that I had been Martha for several weeks, “cumbered about” with mundane chores and wedding preparations.
My mind wandered again, and I tried to remember when my blinds had last been cleaned so thoroughly. I thought of the two girls who had come to help me get ready for a gathering at my house two years earlier. Together they had scrubbed my kitchen from floor to ceiling, including the blinds. That memory reminded me of their mother, an old friend I hadn’t talked to in years.
At that moment I picked up the phone and dialed her number to tell her about my daughter’s wedding. I didn’t expect her to answer because she taught school, but I happened to call during her planning hour. We spent the next hour laughing, crying, and sharing. She had recently been through a difficult divorce and had been feeling alone and abandoned. As we talked, our spirits were lifted and our hearts were comforted.
I marveled at the way the Lord was able to work through me even while I was doing something as mundane as cleaning blinds. I marveled even more at the truth that He knows and loves each of us enough to send help at the very hour and moment we need it.
That night I smiled as I put a check mark on my list next to “clean the kitchen blinds.” Though I felt a sense of satisfaction from completing the chore, I felt a greater sense of gratitude knowing I had been an instrument in the Lord’s hands. He had shown me how I could be a Mary who chose the “good part” even as I was a Martha “cumbered about” my chores.

My mother was a recent convert to the Church when she was called to be the Relief Society president in our small branch in San Salvador. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. She was in her 30s, had very little formal education, and her whole life had been devoted to the care of her husband and seven children. But the branch president called her anyway.
I watched my mother rise to the occasion. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts such as teaching, public speaking, and planning and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She influenced the women in the branch. She served them and taught them to serve one another. The sisters loved and respected her. She helped other women to discover, use, and develop gifts and talents; she helped them become builders of the kingdom and of strong, spiritual families. She stayed faithful to the temple covenants she made. When she passed away, she was at peace with her Maker.
A sister who served with her as a counselor in the Relief Society wrote me a letter years later: “Your mother was the person who taught me the way to become what I am now. From her, I learned charity, kindness, honesty, and responsibility in our callings. She was my mentor and my example. I am now 80 years old, but I have stayed faithful to the Savior and His gospel. I have served a mission, and the Lord has blessed me greatly.”3

The first day I saw Frances, I knew I’d found the right one. The Lord brought us together later, and I asked her to go out with me. I went to her home to call on her. She introduced me, and her father said, “ ‘Monson’—that’s a Swedish name, isn’t it?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Good.”

Then he went into another room and brought out a picture of two missionaries with their top hats and their copies of the Book of Mormon.

“Are you related to this Monson,” he said, “Elias Monson?”

I said, “Yes, he’s my grandfather’s brother. He too was a missionary in Sweden.”

Her father wept. He wept easily. He said, “He and his companion were the missionaries who taught the gospel to my mother and my father and all of my brothers and sisters and to me.” He kissed me on the cheek. And then her mother cried, and she kissed me on the other cheek. And then I looked around for Frances. She said, “I’ll go get my coat.”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

Brethren, let’s treat our wives with dignity and with respect. They’re our eternal companions. Sisters, honor your husbands. They need to hear a good word. They need a friendly smile. They need a warm expression of true love.

The brisk spring morning had been an exhausting one. It was the first day our modest lumber crew had been in action all season. My father, my two brothers, and I constituted our wood-hauling team in Idaho’s Targhee National Forest. For the past three summers, my family had sold firewood to pay for family vacations and other extras my parents’ income didn’t provide for. We considered ourselves experienced in our humble profession, and prided ourselves in knowing we could load our four-cord* truck as fast as any wood hauler in the valley.
“Whew! How ’bout we take ourselves a little soda pop break, kids?” Dad said.
I hated pop breaks. I loved the thrill of finishing a load in record time and getting home to a hot shower. Somewhat annoyed, I peered over the truck bed and saw my exhausted dad talking to another muddy, tired-looking man. I heard the man ask Dad, “Do you have a shovel?”
“We sure do. Are you stuck?”
The man nodded with discouragement.
“Well, let’s take a look,” said Dad, who always insisted on helping. “Sit tight, kids. We’ll be back in a minute.”
Dad spoke with complete sincerity, but as my aging father limped into the forest with his bad hip and knee I wondered if his heart was really in it.
As soon as they had disappeared into the thickness of the trees, my brother Kevin threw up his arms in disgust. “He’s doing it again.” Brad and I knew what Kevin was referring to. Our father knew no limits when it came to service. Inconvenience wasn’t in his vocabulary.
“I bet we end up digging that guy out,” whispered Brad, poking gloomily in the dirt with a stick. The day suddenly felt a century long.
The rustling in the trees alerted us that Dad had returned from his service project. “I don’t know kids. It looks pretty bad.” Dad’s head was slowly shaking. “Let’s go give him a little tug and see if we can’t break him loose.”
After loading our supplies into the truck, we rounded the grove of trees and surveyed the scene. I witnessed a truly depressing situation. The truck was situated in the worst possible place, a low valley meadow where all of the late-spring run-off would settle and create a greasy swamp. The monstrous six-cord truck was sunk past its axles. Firewood weighed heavily on the bed of the truck increasing the complexity of the problem. That’s how we were introduced to the Lopez family, a wood-hauling crew consisting of Mr. Lopez, his wife, and their two small children.
Dad took us aside, looked at us, and began carefully and sternly convincing us of our responsibility. “Now if you kids think you’ve had a hard day, just think how those two kids are feeling. What you don’t realize is that this is their dad’s job. If they don’t get their wood, they don’t eat.”
Dad was right. These people were in some serious trouble, and we had to help them. Besides, how hard could it be to tow them out?
Feeling like good Samaritans, we quickly hooked up our truck to the Lopez’s. Two spins of our tires later Mr. Lopez frantically waved his arms signaling my dad to stop. Between the weight of both trucks and the soft, marshy earth, our truck had sunk to its axles too.
The despair that came over our newly formed group was like a thick, scratchy horse blanket too heavy to remove. But then Dad came up with a solution. About 100 yards from our imprisoning muck we saw a black truck.
“Hey! Hey you over there! Do you think you could help us out of here?”
The stranger nodded slowly and climbed into his truck. When he saw what he had agreed to deal with, he said shortly, “Won’t pull ya loaded.” And with that, he made a graceful exit to his truck.
I looked at my dad and shot him the “You have got to be crazy” glance. He replied with the “What can I do?” shrug. We had no options available. All of us—including the Lopezes—scrambled to the top of the mountain of firewood in the back of our truck ready to destroy our entire day’s labor. As we worked side by side with one another, a strange feeling settled among us. I began to feel a bond with the Lopezes. If we didn’t work together, nobody was leaving tonight. A feeling of appreciation for one another was developing.
Little by little, our truck bed’s load was lessened until it was finally empty. Immediately, it sprang forward like a cheetah pouncing on its prey.
“Well, let’s get started on the Lopez’s truck. It’s not going anywhere loaded.”
The familiar process began yet again. Except this time, the mountain was Mt. Everest and the troops were showing signs of fatigue. The day began to haze over as the sun slowly set behind the mountain skyline.
Mr. Lopez was astoundingly strong, lifting enormous blocks like they were Tinkertoys. By the time we’d emptied the truck, the piles of firewood scattered about the muddy meadow surpassed any I had seen before. And the routine was the same. Once the Lopez’s truck was unloaded, it leaped forward from the sticky mess. Both trucks were now free.
Without hesitating, the Lopezes began throwing the burly logs into the back of our truck. We were touched by their grateful actions, and as a result found hidden strength to finish this eternal load of firewood. I never saw my brothers work harder. Our companions had set a feverish pace, and our pride wouldn’t let us lag behind. When the last block was toppled on, I headed for the truck to climb in but was stopped by my father’s voice.
“There’s one truck left, kids.”
Like we hadn’t noticed.
Kevin shook his head in unbelief. “Dad, I don’t think I can do it.”
Dad looked at his crew and smiled. It was a smile that said, “I know you can, and you will.” It was a smile filled with genuine love for his fellowman. It was a smile that told us in 20 years this would make a great family reunion tale.
We loaded that six-cord truck that night for a total of 20 cord of wood we had moved in one day. We never saw our friends again, but a strange bond developed between us that day. Our dad taught us a great lesson of service, one that would have a lasting effect on us. Because our dad had so strongly insisted on helping that family, we learned how wonderful service really feels.
The sore muscles are gone, but we still feel a love for the Lopez family. And I know that in 20 years, ours won’t be the only family reunion where this story is told.

Near my home in the north woods of upper Michigan, there once stood an old turn-of-the-century home. For years it had been abandoned, its black, weather-beaten frame cracking with age and crawling with snaky tendrils of ancient vines that wrapped and coiled themselves across the windows and around the doors. Various out-buildings were scattered here and there, but they were barely distinguishable beneath the creeping tangle of brush and brier. The house towered three stories high and cast a forbidding shadow on the bleached and withered ground. This shadow had spread throughout the community and entered the fearful heart of every child around.
When I entered the ninth grade, however, I decided it was time to get over being frightened of the old place. I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t use it for a party. Now, being the only Latter-day Saint in my high school, I had heard and tolerated some pretty cruel things. I figured I could stand up to jokes and criticism for not smoking and drinking, but what I couldn’t take was hearing over and over again about how Mormons just didn’t know how to really have fun at parties. Because of that, my bishop (who was also my dad and a biology professor at the nearby university) came up with an idea to prove my friends wrong. On Halloween night he would temporarily move into the local neighborhood haunted house. But by then—thanks to the efforts of my dad, brother, and missionaries—it would be transformed into a terrifying realm of horror and fright. According to plan I invited about 20 of my closest nonmember friends. Since all of them lived in town, about six miles away, I assumed none of them had ever heard of the old Sutinen home. I assumed correctly.
At 7:00 the party began at my house; and after about an hour of games, pizza, and root beer, I suggested we visit a poor old man named Toivo. I explained he lived alone but always had treats ready for any trick-or-treater who dared venture down the lonely, overgrown trail that led to his home. My suggestion was enthusiastically received until they saw Mr. Sutinen’s home. Even I, who knew my dad waited within, felt a shiver of fear creep along my spine, like a spider on a web of nerves. We approached cautiously toward where the house loomed up, outlined starkly against the moonlit sky. To add to the eerie effect, a single light flickered from behind the drawn curtains. Ghostly wisps of fog clawed at our legs, and branches whipped wickedly against our faces. We were considering bravely marching on, when shrill laughter split the tomblike quiet. Some of the group turned, running wildly for home, while the rest huddled near and bombarded me with questions. “Are you sure this is the right house?” “How long have you known this man?” “Are you positive he’s harmless?” and finally, “If this is a joke, you’re gonna be sorry!”
Reassuring them that everything was fine, I boldly knocked upon the blistered door. Like something out of a horror movie, the door slowly creaked open, and I gazed into the red-rimmed eyes of a madman. With a start I realized this white-haired maniac was my father!
“Trick-or-treat,” my friends whispered as Toivo Sutinen ushered us into his parlor. This room was dimly lit by two flickering candles perched on large polished skulls. Nice touch, Dad, I thought as I gazed at the skulls, the cobwebs, and the coffin set back in a corner.
“Wall now, ain’t dis a surprise. Ten purdy gerls cum ta visit ol’ me,” muttered Mr. Sutinen in a slurred drawl. “Ah was jist gunna eat ma supper. Join me, hey?”
Carol, the Good Samaritan of our group, slapped “old” Toivo on the shoulder and heartily agreed. The rest warily glanced around. And Mary, still hovering near the door, asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Uh, Mr. Sutinen, what were you planning to eat?”
“Why, ma favorite,” happily responded Mr. Sutinen, “barbecued bat wings!”
Too late we noticed the dozens of murky specimen bottles crowding the counters and shelves of the kitchen.
“Unless, of course,” finished Mr. Sutinen, whacking something near him, “you want ta wait until Mabel here thaws out.”
Looking up, we saw a row of frozen cats hanging stiffly from the rafters!
This, of course, made sense when one remembered my dad was a professor of biology and used such things in his labs. But to my friends it was a ghastly spectacle and required a hasty exit by the nearest door—which was locked! Mary promptly began to cry, and several others looked like they wanted to. I begged my friends to stay and humor this crazy old man a little while longer, and they agreed.
“Wall, ah kin see yer not hungry,” cheerfully said the old man, picking up one of the candle skulls. “Why don’t ah take you on a tour of ma home?”
Happily accepting any excuse to leave the kitchen and its occupants, we followed Toivo Sutinen up the rickety, wooden steps and into a narrow hall.
“First room on the left here was ma dear Mildred’s” explained Toivo opening the door wide and allowing us to enter.
Except for a dusty end table on which lay a bloodstained knife, everything in this room was covered with enormous sheets. Avoiding eye contact with the knife, we halfheartedly listened to Mr. Sutinen reminisce about his dear departed wife. Uncomfortably we began to realize he was talking about Mildred as if she were still alive.
“Yep, ma heart was near broke, couldn’t stand it no more. So went out late one night and brought ma Mildred back home.”
With a flourish, Mr. Sutinen pulled back the bed sheet. And there, in all her skeletal beauty, lay the former “Mrs. Sutinen”!
That was too much; my dad had gone too far! Screaming frantically we ran from the bedroom and down the stairs. We must have triggered something because as we ran ghosts in Victorian dress swooped past, bats squeaked, and howls echoed through the empty corridors. The door was now wide open, but as we bounded down the steep steps, something huge and hairy jumped out from behind a nearby tree.
I don’t remember much after that except a lot of screaming and running. Within minutes we were safely back in the security of my home, breathlessly reliving each terrifying moment. My mother insisted I tell my friends the truth, but it took some doing to convince them crazy Toivo was not only my father but the “minister” of my church.
Later, when my dad, brother, and the missionaries returned, everyone wanted to ask them questions. I’m not sure that much gospel doctrine got discussed that night, but all in all the experience had a positive effect on my friends. Two of them later joined the Church and four others seriously considered it. The greatest result, however, was that from then on there wasn’t a single Church activity that wasn’t attended by as many nonmembers as members.
A couple of years ago, the old house burned to the ground. I’ll never forget that day. Standing with a crowd of interested bystanders and frustrated firemen, I remember thinking that no one would be sorry to see this place go. It had stood too long, frightening children, and reminding others of ghosts, goblins, and things that go bump in the night. With a crash the house collapsed, showering sparks and ashes on everyone. For a brief moment I felt a twinge of regret. And then it was all over. The firemen doused the glowing coals with buckets of water, and the crowd broke up.
As I wandered back down the path that led to my home, I thought once more of that terrifying, yet zany, Halloween party. It was ironic, but comforting to know, that a place of such indescribable horror had served as a site where good opinions of the Church had been formed and, I hoped, would be nurtured for many years to come.

“Did you mow the lawn?”
Jeff huddled lower as he manipulated the joystick of his video game. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away.
“I asked, did you mow the lawn?”
Jeff sighed. “No, Mom, I didn’t mow the lawn—OK?”
She ignored his sarcasm. “No, it isn’t OK. You need to turn off the video game now and get the lawn mowed.” She waited a few seconds, but Jeff didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
Suddenly the television clicked off.
“Hey!” Jeff griped. “What happened?” Then he saw his mom calmly slip the remote control into the laundry basket balanced on her hip.
Jeff grumbled as he stomped outside, dragged the mower out, started it up with a couple of angry yanks, and shoved it over the lawn. It took only about forty-five minutes, but he was still irritated when he finished.
“Satisfied?” he asked his mom, who was up to her elbows in bread dough. He jerked the refrigerator door open, looking for something cold to drink.
“Not really,” she replied. “Are you?”
Jeff stopped. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said, “the lawn’s mowed, but are you better for having mowed it? Are you satisfied with a job well done? Are you happy for having contributed to the family?”
“No!”
“Then you did it wrong,” she said and went back to kneading the dough.
Jeff returned to the television, but he couldn’t concentrate. His mother made no sense. The lawn was mowed, right? How could she say he had done it wrong?
Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He wandered into the kitchen. “So,” he asked, “how many ways are there to mow a lawn?”
“Not ways, really—more like reasons for doing it. Ask around,” she advised him. “Don’t ask people how they mow lawns, ask them why they do it.”
Jeff was happy to get out of the house. He wandered down the street, thinking. There could be only one reason people mowed lawns—because lawns grew and needed mowing and, in his case, because his mother made him do it. But he had the feeling his mother had something else in mind.
Down the block, Jeff saw his friend Chris whistling as he strode along. When he saw Jeff, he hollered, “I’m on my way to the store. Come on.”
Chris pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it under Jeff’s nose. “The first of many, Jeff-o,” he chortled. “My lawn-mowing business is going to rake in the dough! I’ll be rich, rich, rich! Money may not grow on trees, but it does grow in lawns!”
Jeff laughed, then paused. “So why, exactly, do you mow lawns?”
Chris looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “For the money, of course. That’s the only good reason I can think of!”
They walked on, Chris bragging about the things he’d buy before summer was over. Jeff, however, was thinking. So far he’d found two reasons to mow a lawn: fear of punishment and the promise of a reward.
They were almost to the store when they heard an old mower ka-chunking through grass. As they rounded the corner, they saw Daniel finishing up the last bit of his front lawn.
“Want to go to the store with us?” Chris asked.
“Can’t,” Daniel panted. “I still have to mow the back lawn.”
Jeff grabbed the opportunity. “So why are you mowing the lawn?”
“Because grass grows.” Daniel said it very slowly, like he was answering a foolish question.
Jeff turned red. “No, I mean, do you get paid for mowing it? Or will something happen to you if you don’t mow it?”
Daniel just shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone in my family has chores, and today mine is mowing the lawn. Why fight it? I just want to get it out of the way so that I can do more interesting stuff.”
Jeff and Chris nodded in understanding, then headed on down the road.
So that’s what Mom meant, Jeff thought. You can do something because you’re afraid of being punished, or because you’ll get rewarded, or because there’s no point in arguing about it—you might as well just get it done.
Certain that he had found the answer his mother wanted, Jeff poked Chris in the ribs, and they raced each other to the store.
They were slowly heading back when they met Daniel pushing his mower down the street.
“Where are you going with the mower?” Jeff asked.
“The Merrill’s place.”
“Don’t you know that Brother Merrill’s in the hospital?” Jeff asked. “He fell off the roof last week when he was repairing shingles.”
“Yeah,” Chris added. “There’s nobody there. His wife spends every day at the hospital.”
“True,” Daniel said, pushing past them, “but the grass still grows.” He hurried on his way as his two friends stared after him.
“Uh, I have to be getting home now,” Jeff said.
Chris nodded. “Me, too. See you later.”
They did see each other later—about fifteen minutes later—when they both arrived at the Merrills’ home, pushing their lawn mowers.
Daniel was glad to see them. “I’ll do the front lawn if you guys handle the side and back. We can be out of here before Sister Merrill gets home. It will be a surprise.”
It was a hot day, and the grass was tall from more than a week of neglect. When they finished, the lawn looked beautiful. Jeff now knew what his mother had meant about satisfaction. The boys didn’t say much. They just grinned as they pushed their mowers in a line down the sidewalk, each turning with military precision when he reached his own street.
Jeff put the mower away and went inside. The smell of fresh-baked bread filled the air, and a pile of clean, neatly folded laundry was on his bed. He wandered into the kitchen where dinner was cooking and sat down at the counter, elbowing aside plates and silverware that were ready to be set out.
His mother smiled. “Where have you been?”
Jeff grinned back. “Turns out that there are four reasons to mow a lawn. You can do it because you’re afraid you’ll be punished if you don’t. You can do it because you’ll be rewarded if you do. Or you can do it because you have to and it’s easier to just do it than to complain.”
His mother nodded. “You said there were four reasons,” she prompted.
“Yeah.” Jeff looked down, then met his mother’s eyes. “I guess the last one is really the best one,” he admitted. “There’s nothing really wrong with the other reasons for mowing a lawn, but you only get that satisfaction you talked about if you do it because it’s the right thing to do—because it’s an act of service.”
His mother nodded. “And it isn’t true just for mowing lawns,” she said, giving him a hug. She turned to give the spaghetti sauce another stir. “We’ll eat when your dad gets home. Jeff, could you …”
She turned around and saw that he was gone—along with the plates and silverware. Then she heard a shout from the dining room.
“Hey, Mom, where did you hide the napkins?”

Recently I stopped at a grocery store to quickly pick up a few things for dinner. As I turned the corner, I came face to face with an older gentleman. I smiled, as I was relieved that we hadn’t collided. He smiled and said, “Thank you for your smile. I needed it.” I also needed his smile. Smile—it will make a difference for you and for others. What would life be like if we couldn’t give and receive smiles?