Gospel Story Finder

As a professional counselor, I learned that I could use my own personal experiences to not only feel empathy for my clients but also to provide perspective (different lenses through which to view the world) in order to help my clients see beyond failure, anger, or fear to the possibility of hope and resolution. Let me illustrate by sharing one useful experience.

Many years ago, when I was a little thinner and more physically fit, I completed a 30-day wilderness survival course. During the third week of that extraordinarily rigorous experience, we were left in groups of four or five students (without an instructor) and expected to find our way from one point on a topographical map to another point– a distance of 40 or 50 miles through some of Utah's roughest terrain. After two days of trudging through the snow in the tops of the Henry Mountains in Southern Utah and getting lost on several occasions as we made our way down into the valley, my companions and I were extremely grateful on the third day to be able to identify our location on the map with certainty. We arrived at a stream in the middle of a beautiful meadow. All we had to do was follow this river to our rendezvous point. It would be impossible for us to get lost again. We gleefully walked along the riverbank, stopping occasionally to enjoy the scenery. The river was wide, slow, and shallow. When we chose to switch to the other side, it was easy to cross the stream by jumping from rock to rock. There came a time, however, when there was no bank. What started out as a grassy meadow had become something of a canyon. As I kept jumping from rock to rock, I remember thinking, "If only I can keep my boots dry. I hate wet boots!"

The stream was still slow, wide, and shallow, and when there wasn't a rock to jump to, it was a relief to find out that I could walk on flat sandstone with the water only a few inches deep. The water still would not get inside my boots. But, after an hour or so of this kind of careful walking, the canyon had become narrower, and there was no place to walk without getting my boots wet-inside and out. We were not interested in turning around and finding another route to the rendezvous point; we had spent too much time and energy getting this far, so we bravely continued with water just above our knees. I remember thinking "If only I can keep my pack dry. It would really be a disaster if all my clothes and my blanket got wet." Fortunately, the water was quite clear, and I was able to see where to walk in order to stay in the shallower parts of the river.

After an hour or two of this kind of progress, I noticed that the canyon was becoming disturbingly narrow, and the inevitable happened– there was no shallow spot. We still were determined to press forward rather than backtrack, even though the bottom half of my pack was now drenched. Then, after another hour or so of carefully making my way in chest-high water, I took a step and felt nothing beneath my feet. My thoughts had evolved from "If only I can keep my boots dry," to "if only I can keep my pack dry," to "if only I can stay alive!" I paddled desperately for about 50 feet or so. And, finally, there was a welcome sight– a break in the canyon wall and a sandy bank. We climbed out of the water and examined our packs. Everything was soaked! We made a fire, and as I sat there drying myself, my clothes, and everything in my pack, I felt only gratitude. I was alive and well! I remember reflecting on what a waste of time it had been to worry about getting my boots wet.

Now, having had that experience and other similar experiences, I can respond to a client with empathy. I can say or think, metaphorically, "I can see that you don't like to get your boots wet," or, "You're worried about getting your pack wet," or, "You must be afraid you are about to drown." I know what it feels like to be afraid you are going to drown. But even though I have empathy for my client's feelings, I won't share my client's anxiety because I also have a vision of that client sitting on the bank by a fire (metaphorically speaking) and feeling only gratitude.

Gene Perrett, comedy writer and humorist, said, “Humor is serious business.” He is a writer for many of the top comedians. He shared an experience Bob Hope had:
Bob Hope was to present an award to a gentleman by the name of Charlie Boswell. . . . Charlie Boswell was this country’s outstanding blind golfer. That’s what the award was for. These gentlemen play a great game of golf. They have an assistant line the club up, but they swing themselves, and they hit the ball a ton. They really play a great game.
When he got to the podium, Bob Hope couldn’t resist kidding him a little bit. He said, “Outstanding blind golfer, huh. I’d like to play you sometime.” Charlie Boswell said, “Mr. Hope, I would love to play you a round of golf.” Hope said, “I don’t think you understand. I only play for money.” Charlie Boswell said, “I like to have a little side bet going, too. It makes things more interesting.” And Hope said, “But what kind of a handicap would I have to give you?” Charlie said, “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hope, I’ll play you even up.” Hope was delighted. He said, “What time?” Charlie Boswell said, “Midnight.”. . .

He’d never forget her first football game. She’d been so excited that she could hardly sit still, dressed in a new red sweater, a matching ribbon on her ponytail. His friends had fought to sit next to her, buying her candy from the concession stand. They’d asked her how old she was and where she went to school. Tessie had loved every minute of it, laughing at his friend Hank’s dumb jokes and cheering more loudly than anyone else when the game got exciting. He’d set her on his shoulders so that she could watch the final few minutes, then held her hand tightly so that she didn’t get lost in the crowd.

That had been the first of many games he and his friends had taken her to, and pretty soon she’d known everybody. She’d loved the football games best, but basketball had been fun, and she could cheer for Hank during the baseball season. David had occasionally taken her to the movies or the beach, and she’d baked him chocolate chip cookies with cereal in them, her own special recipe.

When my oldest son was a baby, I received a call at my office. Someone had broken into my home. My greatest concern was for the welfare of my wife and son. Many of our belongings were taken, including our passports and visas, which we had just processed in order to attend a course abroad. Despite the lost possessions, I felt greatly blessed because my wife and son were not at home when the burglary took place. That was certainly a blessing.
The Lord opened the windows of heaven and placed the right people in our path who were able to help us process once again the documents we needed to attend the course. And despite the inner turmoil a burglary can create, my family and I received the blessing of spiritual reassurance that all would be well.

In a virtual family home evening a few weeks ago, our daughter described a scenario that helped her to feel love from God by feeling love from her earthly father. Even though it happened over twenty years ago when she was a teenager, it was indelibly imprinted in her heart. At a moment when she was struggling, John enveloped her in an understanding hug. As she prayed that night, she distinctly felt that same reassuring hug from her Heavenly Father.
Feeling this kind of love from Him, provides comfort—even joy, and keeps one pressing forward.

Though the efforts of the campaign have improved many lives, not all the benefits have been physical. Namibia resident Olavi Ndafediva’s sister, who is a member of the Church, volunteered in the local campaign in 2006. One day she told Olavi she couldn’t make it and asked him to go in her place. “After that day,” he said, “I decided I had to find out more about a church that helped my people so much.” After joining the Church, Brother Ndafediva participated in the 2009 campaign.

Seven-year-old Joseph was only sick for two weeks, but the terrible fever eventually led to four operations. The worst complication was an infection in the bone between the knee and ankle on Joseph’s left leg. The skin there swelled tight, and for over two weeks Joseph suffered terrible pain in his leg. Twelve-year-old Hyrum showed great love for his little brother. He sat beside Joseph almost day and night, pressing the swollen leg in his hands, trying to help Joseph endure the pain.

Twice the doctor attempted to drain the infection and reduce the swelling, but it didn’t work. Finally he told Joseph’s parents that the leg ought to be removed before the infection spread to the rest of Joseph’s body. But Lucy Mack Smith, Joseph’s mother, insisted that they try again to save the leg.

Dr. Nathan Smith, who knew more about this disease than any other doctor in the United States at that time, was one of the doctors who treated Joseph. He agreed to try one more time to cut out only the infection. Before he began to operate, he wanted to bind Joseph to the bed, and to give him some brandy to dull his senses. Joseph refused both helps. “No,” he claimed. “I will not touch one particle of liquor, neither will I be tied down; … I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms.”* He also wanted his mother to leave the room so that she wouldn’t have to see him suffer. The surgery was extremely painful. When Dr. Smith broke off the diseased part of the bone, Joseph screamed.

When the surgery was finally over, Joseph was sent to visit his Uncle Jesse Smith at a seaside town, Salem, Massachusetts, to help him recover. But though both his life and leg were spared, for three years he walked with crutches, and for the rest of his life—especially when he was tired—he walked with a slight limp.

Elder R. Conrad Schultz has enjoyed playing basketball since he was young, so it was a surprise to everyone—himself included—when he quit his Oregon high school team as a senior. “At the time I didn’t know why I needed to quit,” he says. “But now I know.”
The day after he left the school team, a friend invited him to play for his ward team. Although not a Church member at the time, young Conrad agreed, and he helped take the team to the All-Church tournament in Salt Lake City. They placed among the top teams in the tournament, and afterward team members were able to attend a banquet where the featured speaker was Joseph Fielding Smith, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
“When I came back from the tournament, I wanted to know more about the Church,” says Elder Schultz. “So I took the missionary discussions.” While fasting and praying, he received a strong witness that Joseph Smith was a prophet and the Book of Mormon was the word of God. He was baptized shortly thereafter, in 1956. Two years later, in June 1958, he commenced his service in the Gulf States Mission.

Here is a true story that relates a simple experience of a nineteen-year-old who became a remarkable one. He was magnified and had great powers beyond his natural abilities as the Lord acted through him. There was a young nineteen-year-old admirer of Joseph Smith, Philemon Merrill, who had come with other loyal followers to rescue their prophet from the hands of sheriffs Reynolds and Wilson. While returning to Nauvoo, the company rested “in a little grove of timber.” One of the lawyers for the sheriff and the kidnappers boasted of his wrestling powers. He offered a wager that he could throw any man in Illinois. Stephen Markham, a bodyguard of Joseph’s and a huge man, also an experienced wrestler, took up the challenge. The boaster threw Stephen, and a taunting shout went up from the Prophet’s enemies.

As the taunts continued, Joseph Smith turned to young Philemon Merrill and said: “Get up and throw that man.”

The boy was about to refuse, to excuse himself by saying he was not a wrestler, but the look in the Prophet’s eye silenced his tongue. “He arose to his feet filled with the strength of a Samson.” Philemon “lifted his arms” and told the lawyer to take his choice of sides.

“The man took the left side with his right hand under,” which gave him a decided advantage. Philemon Merrill’s friends protested, but young Philemon felt such confidence in the words of the Prophet that it made little difference to him what advantage his antagonist took. As they began to grapple, Joseph instructed him, “‘Philemon, when I count three, throw him!’

“On the instant after the word dropped from Joseph’s lips,” Philemon Merrill, “with the strength of a giant, threw the lawyer over his left shoulder, and he fell striking his head upon the earth.”

Little wonder it is reported that “awe fell upon the opponents of the Prophet when they saw this, and there were no more challenges to wrestle during the journey” (George Q. Cannon, Life of Joseph Smith the Prophet, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1964, pp. 450–51).

When I went on an overnight field trip with my school, I decided I would still have scripture study. I even invited three friends to join me. One was a member of the Church, but my other two friends were Baptist and had never read the Book of Mormon.
Although we had our scripture study in the back of a moving bus, I could feel the Spirit. Each of us picked out a few verses to share with the group. I chose many from the Bible but also some from the Book of Mormon and the Doctrine and Covenants.
After we finished, my friends asked to look at the Book of Mormon. I showed them the Articles of Faith as well and told them about Joseph Smith. I also took the time to look at their Bibles, which were a different version from the one we use.
I feel so blessed to know that we have both the Book of Mormon and the Bible. And I can’t wait for the day when I will be able to share them both as a full-time missionary.

For her master’s thesis, she organized and wrote a curriculum guide to teach outdoor skills. This became the basis for her national best-selling book, Roughing It Easy. But getting the book published was also an exercise in perseverance. She approached BYU Press to take on the job, but they turned it down. She kept working with an editor until the press reconsidered the project and agreed to publish the book. To promote the sale of her book, she started a series of lectures combined with local television, newspaper, and radio interviews. She prepared herself to go after opportunities. She made proposals to companies about how she could help them with product promotion. She became a favorite of the television talk show circuit not only because of what she talked about but by the force of her personality. Now she is a popular lecturer crisscrossing the nation regularly, talking to businessmen in Alaska one week and a group of teachers in Pennsylvania the next. She attributes her success to preparation. “I would watch for opportunities and be prepared. Sometimes I’ll think and work on a proposal for months before approaching a company.”

While I was stationed at an air base in Wyoming during World War II, it was announced in our branch sacrament meeting that the following week a branch conference would be held and that there was a good possibility that the mission president would bring a visiting authority from Salt Lake City with him. As we came to branch conference the following Sunday morning, we were introduced to that visiting authority—a man whom none of us had ever seen before. It was Elder Spencer W. Kimball, the newest member of the Twelve out on one of his very first assignments. His manner was kindly, his testimony so sure, but he expressed concern that such a high calling should come to one such as he.
Then with renewed confidence, he said in effect, “Brothers and Sisters: I don’t know exactly why the Lord has called me, but I do have one talent to offer. My father taught me how to work; and if the Lord can use a worker, I’m available.” Yes, the Lord could use a worker! In fact he needed a hard worker who might possibly be ready to assume prime responsibility at a most significant time.

David Houle, the Mountain View cross-country coach, encourages his team to visit a nursing home in American Fork, Utah. A group from the team goes every Sunday night.
Jason Blackham, an academic all-state cross-country runner who is now on a mission in the Brazil São Paulo East Mission, says Kathy, a 40-year-old woman with multiple sclerosis, was one of his favorite people to visit. “She was bright and clever; it was just her body that didn’t work,” he says. She died in the spring of 1992. “Quite a few of us attended the funeral.
“Service really humbles you,” says Jason. “It makes you thankful for what you have and for your healthy body.”

Since I have talked a little earlier tonight about repentance, let me repent a bit myself—or at least do the confessing part and hope even now there is a way for me to make some restitution where that is still possible. My confession is that I wish I could go back to my youth and there have another chance to reach out to those who, at the time, didn’t fall very solidly onto my radar scope. We are so vulnerable in our youth. (And I certainly consider you in your youth. In fact, you look younger to me every year of my life!) We want to feel included and important, to have the feeling we matter to others. In your years people deserve to have true friendships—the real value of which, like our health, may never be realized until we face life without them. I think that my problem was not that I had too few friends but almost too many—maybe more friends than anyone I know. But it is the associations I didn’t have, the friends I didn’t reach that cause me some pain now all these years later.

Let me cite just one case, which will be guilt enough for tonight. In 1979 we held in St. George our 20-year class reunion for Dixie High School. We had great high school years filled with state football and basketball championships and a host of other “hometown, USA” memories. My life was straight out of Happy Days. I was Richie Cunningham before Ron Howard was Richie Cunningham. We even had our own Fonzie—black leather jacket and all. Anyway, an effort was made to find current addresses for the entire class and get everyone to the reunion.

In the midst of all that fun, I remember the terribly painful letter written by one very bright—but, in her childhood, somewhat overweight and less than popular—young woman who wrote something like this:

Congratulations to all of us for having survived long enough to have a 20-year class reunion. I hope everyone has a wonderful time. But don’t reserve a place for me. I have, in fact, spent most of those 20 years trying to forget the painful moments of our school days together. Now that I am nearly over those feelings of loneliness and shattered self-esteem, I cannot bring myself to see all of the class and run the risk of remembering all of that again. Have a good time and forgive me. It is my problem, not yours. Maybe I can come at the 30-year mark.

(Which, I am very happy to report, she did.) But she was terribly wrong about one thing—it was our problem, and we knew it.

I have wept for her—my friend—and other friends like her in our youth for whom I and a lot of others obviously were not masters of “the healer’s art.” We simply were not the Savior’s agents or disciples that he intended a group of young people to be. I cannot help but wonder what I might have done to watch out a little more for the ones not included, to make sure the gesture of a friendly word or a listening ear or a little low-cost casual talk and shared time might have reached far enough to include those hanging on the outer edge of the social circle, and in some cases barely hanging on at all.

The older members of the Farr West Third Ward, Plain City Utah Stake, were invited to an evening of formal dining and dancing hosted by the ward’s Young Men and Young Women.
The young people, dressed in their best, picked up their special guests in chauffeur-driven cars. They served dinner, provided a photographer to record the event, and led a sing-along.
The young hosts had earned the money to hold the dinner by sponsoring a spook alley during the week preceding Halloween.

When President Heber J. Grant was a young man, his bishop once said, "What are we going to do with that Grant boy?"

His father, Jedediah M. Grant, had been a member of the First Presidency, and he had died early and left a widowed mother to take care of this boy. The bishop did not think he would amount to much--but he became President of the Church!

When he was in school, an English teacher assigned the class to collect some examples of bad English, to write down the mistakes. He went to Church and heard a speaker who was an immigrant and could not speak English very well. He did not say two sentences until he had made mistakes. This young Heber Grant thought, "I'll fulfill my assignment."

He did not have paper to write on. In those days the boys and the men wore shirt collars and cuffs that were made of celluloid, a kind of plastic. You could write on them. So he got his cuff out, and when the man made a mistake, he wrote it down. He was collecting mistakes in English. Then the same thing happened! He forgot the mistakes and began to listen. The power of the Spirit took over. He left the room both inspired and ashamed.

I have felt impressed to share a personal witness of how life's greatest test, task and commandment blend together to bless and develop us.

On Saturday, December 20, 2008, it was a busy day in the Miyasaki home. My wife helped with the finishing touches of our local High School's Operation Merry Christmas. We then cooked breakfast for the basketball team, and after running several more errands, she was getting ready to go score keep at the upcoming basketball games when she complained of chest pains. I deducted it was probably just her fast paced morning, and instructed her to just lie down and rest for a bit. My daughter came and told me that the pain still persisted and I called my sister, a nurse for counsel. She suggested I take her to the Community Care Center for examination. On the way to Rexburg from our home in Sugar City, my wife said in a tearful voice, "I'm too young to die". I scolded her for even thinking that she would die, but little did I know, that in less than one minute, she would state, "I feel like I'm going to faint", and then she went into cardiac arrest. As she went limp, I reached over and placed one hand on her head, offering a short priesthood blessing. I maneuvered my way to the hospital, steering with one arm down the center of the road, and with my other arm headlocking my sweetheart's limp body to keep her upright, until we arrived at the Emergency Room. I ran in and shouted, my wife is not breathing, and quickly the medical personnel rushed her to the emergency room.

I heard the overhead address system call out repeatedly, "Code Blue, Emergency Room". I watched the flat line on the heart monitor, fear overcame me and I called my daughter to tell the family their mother was not breathing nor had a heartbeat. Just as I hung up the phone, in the next miraculous moment, they revived her life.

She was transferred to the hospital in Idaho Falls underwent successful surgery, but still unconscious, the physicians warned me that they did not know how much damage was left by the minutes she was without oxygen before she was brought back to life. For 24 hours they reduced her body temperature to the high 80's to keep the swelling in her brain to a minimum.

I recall sitting by her side during that time, holding her cold hand, wondering what might our future be. Would she be less than what she had been? Would she be able to walk, talk, and think? How would our life now be changed?

I remember wondering what I should pray for. A blessing was given, could I pray for more than what she was blessed? What was the will of the Father? Did He want her to be here or did He need her in the next life? Or if she were to survive and be less than normal, did God desire me to live a life of serving my sweetheart?

On Monday morning, some 40 hours since hearing those words, "I'm too young to die", my Darla opened her eyes. During the next two days, she showed remarkable progress, and it looked as if all was well and normal. She was talking, walking, eating, making jokes, and began stating her worries. The doctors were enthused, and reported Darla would be moved to the rehab floor on Wednesday, which meant we were close to release, possibly on Christmas day. It was now Tuesday night, and after the visitors and family all left, Darla and I were alone in the room, holding hands, I offered a prayer of thanks.

After the prayer, Darla asked me, "Why did this happen to me?"
I responded, "Probably to learn some important lessons."
After a moment, Darla said, "I don't know of any lessons I have learned," then she asked, "what have you learned?"
I then rehearsed to her many lessons that I had learned, but one of the great lessons I rehearsed was from the teachings of Paul found in Ephesians 5:25: "Husbands, love your wives even as Christ also loved the church."

My discovery that night, was the answer to the question, "how do we take hold of the good root?"
We do it by following the example of our Savior. We taste of the sweetness of the blessings of the atonement when we abide by his invitation of "...that which ye have seen me do even that shall ye do."[12]

During the night after that sacred conversation, my Sweetheart suffered a severe stroke. The doctors after examining the MRI results reported that the bleeding in her brain was so severe, that Darla had lost her ability to speak, think, and be mobile. They posed a possible surgical intervention that at best preserve a vegetative state, but even at that stated her chance to survive the surgery was 50/50. Without surgery, they speculated she would die within a few hours.

As patriarch, I gathered our family into a hospital room. There I announced to them the state of my wife, their mother, their sister, and grandmother. The scene was heart wrenching. We had to make a quick decision. Should it be surgery with the best possible results a vegetative state, or let fate take its course and have Darla with us only a few more hours. A beautiful, heart searching family prayer was offered by my son, Jared, and the will of the Lord was revealed. Darla's mortal mission was complete, and we must submit to the will of the Father.

Brothers and Sisters, submission to the Father's will in all things is a pattern of love. It is the essential characteristic of the atonement and receiving the blessings of the atonement. It shows we trust in Him, that we love Him most, and in turn we can love others best. He then can bless us in ways that we cannot see nor comprehend. We then can produce fruit that we and He can lay up against the season.

Six days had now passed since we made the decision, and Darla was in an unconscious state throughout this time, her body hanging on to mortality, but day by day growing closer to death. On this sixth night, we had a dinner of take out Chinese food, which of course included the fortune cookies. We joked about how lame the messages of fortune had become, my message echoed this as it read, "the evening promises romantic interests". We all shared a laugh about my untimely message of fortune. For when one envisions romance, certain images appear of a night out, possibly going to a nice dinner, having wonderful caring conversations, and then cuddling and loving each other. That was certainly not in my cards that night.

I discovered that night what true romance really is. That last night of being together in this mortality was filled with pure love and romance. After my family had left, and it was just my sweetheart and I in the hospital room, I told my unconscious Darla that this would most likely be our last night together. I shared with her that I was ready to let her go and asked if she was ready. I noticed her eyes twitching, something that I had not seen for a week. I asked her if she could to respond by squinting her eyes once for yes and twice for no. She responded with a squint. It was evident her spirit was alive and was able to communicate with me. She responded that she was also ready to go on.

We then started the night with a prayer. I then read scriptures to her from sections 130, 132, and 138 from the Doctrine and Covenants, Alma 7, 42, and 43, and from the 5th book of Ephesians. I shared with her my testimony and lessons I had learned from each of those scriptures. We prayed again. During the time in the hospital, I tried very hard not to counsel the Lord, and not ask for things that were contrary to His will. I tried to really pray in the name of Christ, and to have the mind of Christ. That night as we prayed, I felt the feeling that anything I asked that night would be granted, and so I offered my sweetheart, pure, clean, and ready for service in the next life. I then laid my hands on my eternal companion's head and gave her the last priesthood blessing in this mortality. Then, after this most beautiful night, positioning chairs so I could lay down next to Darla, we then held hands the remainder of the night, all night long.

That, my friends, was truly a night of romance and pure love. Not a penny was spent, there was no fancy dressing up, no expensive dinners, not one dependency on outside entertainment. Yet, our spirits were molded into one, our hearts were bound, we were one in purpose though soon our paths would be temporarily separated, never would our eternal destiny differ.

As I went through this ordeal, there was nothing more I desired than for my sweetheart to live. We had a future with plans of serving in the temple, going on missions, and enjoying our family. Because of loving God first, I was able to love my Sweetheart the best. Because of submitting our will to the will of the Lord, we were blessed with so many miracles and continue to be blessed.

Let me explain a hard lesson I learned during the third year of our mission. Very unexpectedly, Heber was rushed to the local hospital in Richmond, British Columbia with what the doctors diagnosed as a life-threatening condition. A virus was attacking the valves of his heart. As he was wheeled into a hospital room on a gurney, I followed close behind praying every step of the way. There in the room was a very sick man sitting on the edge of the other bed. He looked emaciated. His eyes appeared to be crossed, his mouth was drooping, and his gown was off his shoulder revealing dark tattoos down both arms. I immediately turned my back. I didn’t like the feeling I had. He looked to me like a man who had made a lot of wrong choices. My thoughts told me I didn’t want to be in that room with him.
As soon as Heber was settled with medication that relieved the pain and put him to sleep, I took a seat in a folding chair and began pouring out my heart pleading with the Lord for my husband’s complete recovery. In my anguish I thought I heard the words, “You reach out to others and I’ll take care of you.” I immediately reflected on our total commitment to the missionaries, the members, the nonmembers, the investigators, and asked myself, “what more can I do?” Again the whisperings of the spirit, “you reach out to others and I’ll take care of you.”
I found myself turning to look again at the old man with the tattoos. Could he possibly be one of the “others” I wondered? I was prompted to get him a drink in a little paper cup. He thanked me and seemed appreciative. Later I took him a second drink. This time I had the Book of Mormon in my hand. He asked me about the book. When I told him it was the Book of Mormon he stumbled over his words admitting that he used to be a Mormon and asked if he could borrow it when I was through. When I handed the book to the patient he reached for it like a hungry man would reach for food, maybe remembering that it contained the bread of life.
I went back to my chair and found myself praying for the old man. When the night nurse came in he said to her in his muffled voice, “get the big chair at the end of the hall.” The nurse explained, “Oh Mr. Kapp is much too sick. He will not be getting up tonight.” The man insisted. “Get the big chair.” The nurse wheeled in the big chair and he said pointing to me, “it’s for her.” Can you believe that in his hour of struggle he was thinking of my comfort? I went once more to get him a drink of water, the only thing I could think to do in appreciation for his kindness. This time when I returned to the big chair he had arranged for my comfort, things were different. Not with the brother in the bed close by, but within me. He looked different than before. His eyes looked very tired but not crossed, and his speech was slow, but not slurred. And in an amazing way I realized that the tattoos, which had been so offensive to me, were not the ones on his arms but the ones in my heart.
During the long night I continued praying for Heber and also my new friend. In the process, I experienced a healing. Not physical, but spiritual. In the morning the curtain that had been drawn around the patient’s bed was opened and the bed was empty. He had passed away during the night. I realized in soberness that one of his last acts was for my comfort. Into my mind came the words of Elder Maxwell, “Empathy at a time of agony is part of divinity.” I realized then that this brother’s concern for me, was more Christ like than my first judgment of him. I asked myself, “why did I just loan him the book, why didn’t I offer to read to him?” But that opportunity was gone. I felt a love for this man, my brother, who had concern for my comfort when he was in need himself.
I related this experience to a group of sisters in the northern part of the province. When the closing prayer was given by someone who had been labeled, “less active,” she closed in a tone of deep emotion with these words, “Oh God, help us to love one another and look past each other’s tattoos.”

A few years ago, my friends had a beautiful baby named Brigham. After his birth, Brigham was diagnosed with a rare condition called Hunter syndrome, which sadly meant that Brigham would have a short life. One day while Brigham and his family were visiting the temple grounds, Brigham pronounced a particular phrase; twice he said, “One more day.” The very next day, Brigham passed away.
I have visited Brigham’s grave a few times, and every time I do, I contemplate the phrase “one more day.” I wonder what it would mean, what effect it would have in my life to know that I had only one more day to live. How would I treat my wife, my children, and others? How patient and polite would I be? How would I take care of my body? How fervently would I pray and search the scriptures? I think that, in one way or another, we all at some point will have a “one more day” realization—a realization that we must use wisely the time we have.

With fascination I watched one evening on television the story of a family in the Midwest. It included the father and mother and three sons and one daughter.

The father and mother determined when they married that they would do all they could to see that their children were exposed to the very best educational experiences.

They lived in a modest home. They observed modest ways. But they nurtured their children with knowledge. Every one of those children achieved in a remarkable way. Every one was well educated. One became a university president; the others became heads of large business institutions, successful individuals by any measure.