Gospel Story Finder

When Elder Widtsoe was released as president of the mission in 1934, I started correspondence with Elder Joseph F. Merrill, who succeeded him. He arranged to send me the Millennial Star, which I received until 1940 when World War II interrupted the subscription.
In January 1937, Elder Richard R. Lyman, successor to President Merrill, wrote that he and Elder Hugh B. Brown would be in Rome on a certain day. I could meet them there and be baptized. However, the letter was delayed because of war conditions, and I did not receive it in time.
From then until 1949, I was cut off from all news of the Church, but I remained a faithful follower and preached the gospel of the dispensation of the fulness of times. I had copies of the standard works, and I translated chapters into Italian and sent them to acquaintances with the greeting, “Good day. The morning breaks—Jehovah speaks!”
On February 13, 1949, I sent a letter to Elder Widtsoe at Church headquarters in Salt Lake City. Elder Widtsoe answered my letter on October 3, 1950, explaining that he had been in Norway. I sent him a long letter in reply in which I asked him to help me to be quickly baptized, because I felt that I had proven myself to be a faithful son and servant of God, observing the laws and commandments of his kingdom. Elder Widtsoe asked President Samuel E. Bringhurst of the Swiss-Austrian Mission to go to Sicily to baptize me.
On January 18, 1951, President Bringhurst arrived on the island and baptized me at Imerese. Apparently, this was the first baptism performed in Sicily. Then, on April 28, 1956, I entered the temple at Bern, Switzerland, and received my endowment. At last, to be in the presence of my Heavenly Father! I felt that God’s promise had been fully fulfilled—the day had come indeed when the source of the book was known to me and I was able to enjoy the effects of my faith.

President Snow was a powerful, creative, and effective leader because he knew who the real Leader is. He taught, “The great work now being accomplished—the gathering of the people from the nations of the earth had not its origin in the mind of any man or any set of men; but it emanated from the Lord Almighty.”5 In response to a gathering of Church members who honored him on his 85th birthday, he said, “I feel that whatever I have accomplished that it is not Lorenzo Snow, and the scenes that have brought me to this position as President of the Church—it is not Lorenzo Snow, but the Lord has done it.”6

He taught this truth throughout his ministry, but he was reminded of it in a sacred and personal way just before he became President of the Church. He became the senior Apostle in the Church at the death of President Wilford Woodruff on September 2, 1898. Considering himself inadequate to carry this responsibility, he went alone to a room in the Salt Lake Temple to pray. He pleaded for guidance but felt no answer to his prayer, so after a time he left the room and entered a large hallway. It was there that the answer came. The resurrected Savior stood before him, about three feet (1 m) off the floor, and told him how to go forward with the leadership of the Church. To learn more about this experience, see chapter 20.

After Porter’s release from jail, he walked most of the way to Nauvoo, Illinois. He arrived at Joseph Smith’s house on Christmas Day in 1843, as the Prophet and his friends were having a supper party. “During the festivities,” Joseph recounted later, “a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, and apparently drunk, came in and acted like a Missourian. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and … to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell.” (History of the Church, 6:134–135.)
It is believed by those who knew Porter Rockwell best that it was on this occasion that the Prophet Joseph promised Porter that if he remained faithful to the Church and didn’t cut his hair, he would never suffer death from a bullet. From then on, Porter wore his long hair braided and tucked into a bob at the back of his neck.

It is also important to recognize that the Church is a church of action, not just words. An example of how the youth of the Church can function in espousing good causes was demonstrated in 1970 in the Salt Lake Valley. A black congregation had great difficulty in completing their chapel. They approached the leaders of our church for assistance. It was felt that this was a wonderful opportunity for our Aaronic Priesthood-age young men and women to band together and raise funds for others in need. Literally thousands of young Mormon men and women engaged in projects from washing cars to babysitting to mowing lawns in order to raise thousands of dollars to assist their neighbors. At the conclusion of the drive, a wonderful banquet was held with representatives from the various bishop’s youth committees and the black congregation. There was no marching, carrying of banners, or loud oratory; but rather, in an orderly, enthusiastic spirit, under the direction of their own organizations, these Latter-day Saint youth demonstrated how other Mormon youth can go about espousing a good cause—this one appropriately designated as “Operation Good Samaritan.”

Let me share an experience I had as I graduated from “that other school.” We were in the process of job interviews, and most of the people in my class had interviewed with a particular company and with a particular person. All of my associates had reported to each other all of the questions the interviewer would ask and also shared thoughts as to what answers he was looking for. Can you imagine? Talk about phoney!

I wasn’t myself in that interview. I answered with what someone else had said. I failed that interview so badly. I tried to tell that man what I thought he wanted to hear instead of what was in my heart and my true feelings.

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!’”
And so it can be for each of us.

For the first 18 years of my life, I followed my parents and grandparents to church every Sunday. Witnessing their joy instilled in my heart the desire for own children to find joy in attending church and communicating with Heavenly Father. Growing up in the Free Church of Tonga, I saw how committed the ministers were in teaching us to always put God first in our lives. This brought great blessings to me. We migrated to Auckland, New Zealand, seeking a better life, unaware that God was preparing us for a greater purpose.

In 2019, one of the missionaries who found and invited us to follow our Saviour, Jesus Christ, told my wife, Lupe, and me a story. He said that in 1990, he and his companion knelt in prayer, seeking to know the will of the Lord. They were led to a particular street where they knocked on every door, but no one wanted to hear their message.

As they were about to leave, he felt impressed to go back and try again. Obedient, they began knocking on the same doors they had knocked on before, and when they got to the sixth house, I was sitting outside. So began my knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

These two beautiful missionaries taught me about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness, about The First Vision, and the Book of Mormon. They taught how Joseph Smith, seeking to know what church he should join, read the book of James and prayed to God with faith his prayer would be answered.

The missionaries bore testimony that in answer to his prayer, God the Father and His beloved Son Jesus Christ appeared to Joseph Smith, that he was called to be a prophet, and that the gospel of Jesus Christ was restored through him.

This was all new to me, but they promised that I could know for myself if this did happen. They gave me a Book of Mormon, with an invitation to read, ponder, and apply Moroni’s invitation to ask God if the book is true.

When they returned two days later, I explained that after reading the introduction, the testimony of the witnesses, and the account of Christ visiting the people in 3 Nephi, I pled with God to know if it was true. I felt warmth all over me but didn’t understand what that was. The elders then taught me that the Holy Ghost was bearing witness to my spirit, which brought excitement to my heart. My mother and three younger brothers joined our next lesson, and we all got baptised into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

With tears of joy, this former missionary, Tomasi Takau, shared his experience from over 30 years ago, blessed now to witness the fruit of his labour. Because of the prayers, faith, and courage of Elder Tomasi Takau and his companion, Elder Johnson, I served my own mission in Wellington, New Zealand, from 1991 to 1993, then met and married my wife, Lupe, in the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, and we now have four sons and a daughter, with two grandchildren and a third due later this year.

What a joy it was for Lupe and me to cross paths with Tomasi Takau’s son, who is now serving a mission in the Kingdom of Tonga. Looking into the younger Elder Takau’s eyes, I thank his father for bringing the joy of the gospel into my life and praying sincerely with his companion to know God’s will all those years ago, and I also thank this young man for answering the invitation from President Russell M. Nelson for every young man to serve a mission. “The worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10).

My life changed because two missionaries had the courage to submit to the will of the Lord and to knock a second time. I know Heavenly Father hears and answers the prayers of His children. I’m grateful for my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and I know we are led by a living prophet of God. Jesus Christ is the Saviour and Redeemer of the world. May we bind ourselves to Him who has all the power to heal, forgive, and bless our lives.

“You got a dog?” he finally asked Steve.
“No.”
“Well, let me tell you something. You get yourself a dog before your wife gets too set in her ways.”
“You like dogs?” he asked Cathy.
“They’re okay.”
“They’re a lot better than okay,” the man said. “A dog’ll never let you down, never complains when you don’t get home on time.” Fumbling for his wallet, he pulled out a picture and handed it to Steve. “Ain’t she something? She’s real pretty, huh?”
“Yes,” Steve answered.
“She’s part German shepherd and part wolf. But you know what?” the man continued. “My wife hates that dog. It’s her own fault, too.”
He bent the empty can in two and tossed it into the already full wastepaper basket. He wiped his mouth and continued his story. “My wife’s got false teeth. When the dog was just a pup, my wife left the teeth on the kitchen table overnight. Well, you know how pups are when they’re young. When we got up next morning, there were pieces of false teeth all over the place. That pup chewed up my wife’s teeth! Ain’t that something?” He reared back in his chair, laughing crazily.
The laughing brought Oscar from the garage; he added some other details about how long it took to get another set of false teeth and how his friend’s wife wouldn’t go out in public until they came. That started them both laughing again.

No doubt about it, I was a bit cocky and thought I was the best missionary to ever hit Switzerland. The Missionary Training Center had humbled me somewhat (the hardest two months of my mission), and in Switzerland my greenie trainer had done a good job of keeping me from rising over the Alps. I realized that I had a language to perfect and discussions to learn, but I was still living on past achievements, sports victories, and pre-mission status. This is probably why a few flames of refiners’ fire were thrown in my path.
After two months in the field, I received a new companion, only one month more experienced than I. We were both excited about the work and full of anticipation and energy. We learned how to teach with each other, practiced the language together, and enjoyed being new as a team. He had also been active in sports and other activities at home. I would relate to him all my hero stories, and if they weren’t too courageous in truth, I would make them sound fine and noble by adding a little spice. He must have thought I was the next one to be translated by the way I carried on about myself.
Both of us could settle for nothing but the best. This soon led to a feeling of pride and superiority. Everything we set out to do became a major competition. I would not be outdone. Whatever the occasion, I was determined to be the best.
It became a question of who would remember more of the discussions, who would get more mail, who could pray longer, who knew the gender to a particular German word, or who could ride his bike faster (that is, longer without something going wrong).
I suppose many companions (or marriage partners) get those negative feelings and think everything they do is better than what the other does. This was at a maximum with my companion and me. It got so bad, at times I would find myself hoping he wouldn’t get in the doors while tracting so I could prove to be better at the next house. I don’t mean to say that our interaction was total strife or anger, but it was not how we should have been acting as a missionary pair.
It was at this time that the Lord chose to send us his way of solving our problems. He placed before us a challenge capable of humbling us: Hans.
We met Hans at a street display. My companion saw him standing back timidly, hoping only to get a glimpse of what some silly Americans were doing. I suppose he must have been a bit surprised when my companion approached him and asked if he could explain what the pictures meant. Hans came and listened intently, and Elder Perkinson secured his address. We didn’t think about Hans until later when we were in that area again.
We made our way to his house on a cool September evening. I was amazed at the size and location of the place; it was a nice, well-to-do area. The condition of the house was another story: weeds, tires, oil spots, rubble, and piles of rotting trash were strewn about the front yard where a garden should have been. I thought that perhaps someone was moving or cleaning, but then again, what I viewed inside changed that opinion all together.
I pounded on the thin and knobless door as my companion tried to connect two wires together where a doorbell had once been. The house appeared to be vacant until a light from the top of the hallway came through a small window and a thin shadow made its way down the stairs. We heard a screech of wood on cement as our new investigator ripped the weakened door back from its frame. There in the bright porchlight stood our man, grinning with excitement at his first visitors in ages. As he opened the door, we were struck by an unsettling smell. This was certainly a challenge I had never expected to find on my mission.
I looked at Elder Perkinson, and he met me with the same puzzled face. We had no choice, so we walked into the front hallway.
The house must have been at one time stately and well-built, but the remains now disguised all appearance of quality. Boxes, trash, dirt, groceries (old and new), shoes, and assorted pieces of junk were scattered in piles along the corridor. The walls, which were once white, now had a coating of grime.
He led us to his room on the top floor, like a kid would show his friends his snake collection. He clearly had no awareness of the disorganized surroundings in which he was living. All of the rooms were filled with old items; however, his room was among the worst in the house. I gulped and tried to act nonchalant, but my eyes couldn’t avoid sweeping back and forth. If my mother had seen this, she would have thought my room back home was a king’s chamber.
There were no chairs, so we sat on the bed. Hans sat on a vacuum cleaner lying in the middle of the room. Undoubtedly it had been there for years without being used.
For the first time, I looked at this young man before me, and it all became clear. He sat there alone, scared, thin, and insecure. He was 33 years old, the age of many aspiring and influential men. I could see in his face the pain and suffering he had endured and the times he had been ignored and turned from. I couldn’t help thinking of the story “Cipher in the Snow.” Right before my eyes I saw that little bright-eyed, white-faced boy who fell in the snow on the way to school.
He related to us some of, the events of his life: his parents had died seven years ago, and he was left the house and all the bills to be paid. From other sources and from looking through some of his old school papers, we gained further insight into his earlier life. The marks and comments on his schoolwork didn’t seem too poor, but his writing and drawing ability didn’t increase from about the eighth grade.
We began the missionary discussion, and I had to concentrate to keep my eyes from wandering. My companion began with the Joseph Smith story, and I finished up with the second half of the discussion. I really felt proud of my companion, and I don’t think I could have done it without him. We felt good; we realized later that it wasn’t what we said, but rather the fact that we were interested in him that made us feel good. He hardly spoke but looked at us bright-eyed and was interested.
It was our practice to pray at the end of each discussion, but as I looked at the soiled carpet below me, I wasn’t sure what to do. I could see myself being stuck to the floor after the prayer, not being able to rise, but I couldn’t think of any valid excuse, so I closed my eyes and dropped. I believe my companion said the prayer, and something told me inside that this lonely man across from me was going to be baptized. It seemed to me then that it would take a miracle for Hans to become a Latter-day Saint and live as an example to others, but the thought remained.
The following Sunday he showed up for church. The meeting had just started, and I walked to the front door to check for late-coming members. There Hans stood in a thin, soiled, turtleneck shirt, shivering from cold and fright. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked as if he were turning to go away again. I called to him, and a big smile made its way across his lips.
We sat in the corner. As the service ended, I stood with our visitor in the foyer. The members were forming in groups all around us, as the Saints do in every ward in the world, but we weren’t getting too much attention. Then my companion and I thought up a good plan. All we had to do was to bring the members to him. We took turns bringing warm and talkative persons to meet him. As one of us introduced, the other looked for someone to talk to our investigator. The members didn’t talk long, but they were open and friendly. For Hans, it was paradise. He had never received so much attention and such feelings of love in his life. He asked us later that week if he could come every Sunday.
In the next two weeks, we taught him most of the discussions. After each evening, he would show us his entire collection of model airplanes, his 500 stacks of airplane magazines, and his photos of airplanes and everything with wings. That was one of his hobbies or fantasies. He had lived his whole life in a fantasy, because he never had enough faith in himself to actually do anything. We knew that the gospel could change him and would give him a good chance to improve his life. The members would accept and love him, and he recognized it.
We challenged him for baptism, and he accepted everything without question. Besides the regular commandments, we felt there should be a few other things to help him. For this reason we prepared the “B” or “Bath Discussion.” This included his house, his yard, and everything else that needed cleaning up. This didn’t appear easy, and we tried to think of the best and most tactful way to say it. I remember rehearsing a dialogue all day, but we ended up just giving it to him straight. He took it surprisingly well.
The week before the baptism was a trial and tribulation for both Hans and us. I don’t know who’s to blame, but someone didn’t want us to baptize Hans. Both my companion and I got terribly sick; his wheel got stuck on my fender while we were riding and all his spokes flew out; I got hit by a train, and came within inches of being killed; and finally we had to look for a new apartment and didn’t know where we were going to stay until the last day. We baptized Hans, however, just three and a half weeks after our first visit. He came to the church showered and shaved and even wore a new pair of socks. I hardly recognized him. We could already see a part of our vision coming true. I had the great opportunity of baptizing him. He had never worn a tie, so we told him he could go without. Having him stand there in those pure white clothes was fancy enough for us.
As with all baptisms, the real work begins afterwards. We began that Saturday with the cleaning of his house. We worked like dogs, digging out the dirt, junk, and refuse. A sister in the ward, who lived just a few blocks away, came to help. I’ve always admired the courage of pioneer women, but I’ll never forget this act of kindness and fortitude. She started washing dishes and then cleaned out the cupboards. She kept scrubbing and washing till all was spotless.
“This is brotherly love,” I told myself. “This is how the Lord expects his children to help one another.”
Hans continued to improve and came to church every week. A year later I saw a picture of him in a suit. He looked fantastic.
I learned a lot of things from Hans and this whole sequence of my mission. I realized how important each one of our Father in Heaven’s children is, and how the gospel can help anyone in any situation. As my mother once wrote in a letter, “The gospel is a hospital for the sick and not a museum for the whole.” It was certainly true in this case. I know our Heavenly Father helped us in the changing of this man’s life.
The vision of Hans didn’t end there, however. He became, in his own little way, an example to his fellowmen. One month later we visited a lady across the street from Hans. She had seen the change in the house and in Hans himself and knew it had to be the Mormons. She called the same member who had helped us with the cleaning and told her to send the missionaries. Five minutes from the time we entered the home of this great family, we had challenged them to be baptized. What a thrill it was to know that Hans was the one whom the Lord chose to show them the fruits of the gospel.
It all started with Hans. We helped him to find a new life and he helped us as companions. From this time on, it was no longer a question of outdoing each other or being the best, but rather how we could help Hans or the other investigators. He was an example for us of true humility and how the Lord blesses his children.
I know now that the Lord loves us and wants us all to be happy, even the meek and the poor in spirit.

Some years ago, I found myself in an auditorium at the Churchill College of the University of Cambridge in England for an annual meeting for the company I worked for. On that occasion, I had the privilege to receive from the company’s global president and CEO an award in behalf of my team for the excellent work we performed that year.
As company leaders from all over the world, representing 80,000 employees, clapped their hands and praised our team for our achievement, I thought, “This must be my best day of work ever!” The atmosphere of that moment was exhilarating.
Upon reflection, I decided that receiving an award at Cambridge was my second-best day of work. The best and happiest day at work was in a much more humble setting: a little bakery with no audience or standing ovation. It was just me and my dad. That day, he taught me to love and value work and helped me feel the joy of making something from scratch with my own hands. I learned that hard work is satisfying to both the body and the soul.
I can still hear the applause and the words of encouragement coming from that audience at the University of Cambridge, but more dear to me is the memory of my day at the bakery with my father and the smell of those loaves of bread as they came out of the oven.

We were living in a small town in Georgia, USA, when my father died at just 55 years old. Most of our family lived in another state. Never had the 2,000 miles (3,200 km) between us felt greater than at that time.
My husband was the bishop and I the organist of our small ward. With all the emotions and stress of helping with funeral plans, I was feeling especially weary that Sunday when it came time for our sacrament meeting closing hymn: “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152).
Halfway through the second verse, my grief overcame me. Somehow I played through the end of that verse, but my hands were shaking and my eyes so full of tears that I had to stop with an entire verse left. I couldn’t stop crying.
A brief pause followed as the congregation realized the organ had stopped. But then ward members started singing a cappella. The singing wasn’t perfect. We were few, after all. But the Spirit made up the difference. Through my tears and embarrassment, I could feel the love of many as they sang.
God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you;
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you.
God be with you till we meet again.
When the hymn ended, the music leader held me as I sobbed through the closing prayer. Several people then came up to the organ with tears in their eyes to say how sorry they were about my father.
Later, I told the music leader I would be playing the piano at the funeral. It probably seemed like a bad idea after what had just happened, but my dad so enjoyed hearing me play the piano. I wanted to play for him. I realized then how close he had felt during the closing hymn.
I am so thankful for the hymns. I testify that music can teach and comfort us in ways that words often cannot. As the First Presidency wrote in the preface to the hymnbook, “Hymns … comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.” I am also thankful for the love of a good ward when I was so far away from my own family. I know that my father and I will indeed meet again.

Mark Fallentine, 17, of Frenchtown, had planned on sleeping in, then spending the day getting ready for a school dance. “Friday night, I got two calls from the priests quorum about the cleanup. Then Saturday morning I got a call from the branch president. So I went. But after we got out and started working, I felt really good about it. And now, just driving by the highway and looking at it, I can say, ‘Hey, I worked on this, and it looks real nice.’ It taught me that I ought to participate even when at first I don’t want to.”

One night, my family went over to our friends’ house. My brothers and I were playing with their kids, and we went into the TV room and started watching a show. When my mom came to check on us, she told us she didn’t want us to watch that show, so we shouldn’t go into the TV room again. Then she left. But I went into the TV room anyway and watched the show.
That night, my mom asked if I went back into the TV room. I told her that I didn’t. The next morning I felt so terrible that I started crying. I went to my mom and said, “I lied! I’m really sorry!” She gave me a hug and thanked me for telling the truth. But I still didn’t feel good. I went into my room and knelt down and prayed. I told Heavenly Father I was sorry for disobeying my mom and lying to her, and that I didn’t like the feeling I was having. When I finished praying, the terrible feeling was gone. I felt happy again.

Niya was playing in front of her home when her aunt called her inside. “Niya, will you go to the greengrocer’s shop and buy some carrots for dinner?” her aunt asked.
“Yes!” Niya said happily. She liked going to the shop, and she liked helping her aunt.
Niya took the money her aunt gave her and walked down the road to the nearby shop.
“I need to buy some carrots for dinner,” Niya told the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper put the carrots in Niya’s bag and told her how much they cost. Niya handed him the money.
“Here’s your change,” the shopkeeper said as he handed her back some money.
Niya thanked him and started walking home. As she walked, she looked at the money the shopkeeper had given her. “He gave me too much change,” she thought. “Now I can have this money for myself!”
But then Niya stopped walking. “Heavenly Father won’t be happy with me if I keep this money,” she thought. “I must be honest in my words and actions.”
Niya turned around and went back to the shop. “You gave me too much money back,” she told the shopkeeper as she handed him the extra money.
The shopkeeper took the money. “You are a good girl,” he said. Then he put some apples in a bag and gave them to Niya. “Thank you for being honest. Please take these apples and enjoy them with your family.”
Niya felt warm and happy inside as she walked home. She knew Heavenly Father was pleased that she had chosen to be honest.

Initially I speak to the worthy young men of the Aaronic Priesthood. When I was a very small boy, my father found a lamb all alone out in the desert. The herd of sheep to which its mother belonged had moved on, and somehow the lamb got separated from its mother, and the shepherd must not have known that it was lost. Because it could not survive alone in the desert, my father picked it up and brought it home. To have left the lamb there would have meant certain death, either by falling prey to the coyotes or by starvation because it was so young that it still needed milk. Some sheepmen call these lambs “bummers.” My father gave the lamb to me, and I became its shepherd.

For several weeks I warmed cow’s milk in a baby’s bottle and fed the lamb. We became fast friends. I called him Nigh—why I don’t remember. It began to grow. My lamb and I would play on the lawn. Sometimes we would lie together on the grass and I would lay my head on its soft, woolly side and look up at the blue sky and the white billowing clouds. I did not lock my lamb up during the day. It would not run away. It soon learned to eat grass. I could call my lamb from anywhere in the yard by just imitating as best I could the bleating sound of a sheep: Baa. Baa.

One night there came a terrible storm. I forgot to put my lamb in the barn that night as I should have done. I went to bed. My little friend was frightened in the storm, and I could hear it bleating. I knew that I should help my pet, but I wanted to stay safe, warm, and dry in my bed. I didn’t get up as I should have done. The next morning I went out to find my lamb dead. A dog had also heard its bleating cry and killed it. My heart was broken. I had not been a good shepherd or steward of that which my father had entrusted to me. My father said, “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” My father’s remark hurt me more than losing my woolly friend. I resolved that day, as a little boy, that I would try never again to neglect my stewardship as a shepherd if I were ever placed in that position again.

Brethren, after more than sixty years, I can still hear in my mind the bleating, frightened cry of the lamb of my boyhood that I did not shepherd as I should have. I can also remember the loving rebuke of my father: “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” If we are not good shepherds, I wonder how we will feel in the eternities.

When Zack and his dad drove into the Jenkins’s yard on Thanksgiving Day, he saw his cousins setting a ladder next to a tree.
“Hurry, Zack!” called Amber.
“You’re just in time,” said Penny.
Zack jumped out of the car into the soft snow. “In time for what?” he asked. He and his dad lived in an apartment far away from any relatives. They had never spent Thanksgiving with the Jenkins family before.
Penny held up the basket in her hand and said, “We’ve made all kinds of treats for the birds. It’s a family tradition.”
What’s a tradition? Zack wondered. He was about to ask, when William said, “Come on—you can be first on the ladder, Zack, since it’s your first time here.”
Zack’s dad helped William hold the ladder steady while Zack climbed up it. Penny handed Zack a popcorn-and-suet ball from the basket. Zack reached as high as he could and hung the ball on a branch.
Everyone took a turn climbing the ladder and hanging up a treat. Soon the tree looked splendid decorated with popcorn-and-suet balls, pinecones spread with peanut butter, orange and apple slices, and milk-carton feeders filled with crunchy seeds.
“Let’s go inside now and watch the birds through the window,” said Penny.
“What’s a tradition?” Zack asked as he trooped inside with the others.
“A tradition is something you do every year at the same time in the same way,” Penny said.
Grandpa Jenkins greeted them at the door. “Yes, and it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without a feast for the birds,” he said.
Just then another car came up the driveway.
“Hurray!” everyone shouted. “Here comes Aunt Irene with the pies.”
“It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Irene’s pies,” said Grandpa. He took the pies and gave her a hug.
Grandma looked over from the stove. “Set them on the counter, please, next to the pickles,” she said. Her face was warm and red from basting the turkey in the oven.
Zack sniffed the savory kitchen smells. “Wow! Pumpkin pie!” he exclaimed.
“Aunt Irene makes two kinds of pie—pumpkin and apple—every year,” Amber told him.
Another family tradition, thought Zack. Traditions are great! He smacked his lips and helped the other grandchildren set the table. His dad helped the uncles bring in extra chairs. The aunts mixed the salads. William fed the dog. Outside in the tree the birds chirped over their feast.
At last dinner was ready to eat, and everyone sat down. After a blessing on the food was said, each person shared aloud some of the special things he or she was thankful for that year. While they ate, they told funny stories and laughed.
As each course was finished, the aunts cleared dishes from the table. Empty dishes began to pile up on the counter where the pies and pickles and salads had been before. When the counter overflowed with dirty dishes, the aunts stacked more in the sink. When the sink was full, they piled more on the stove.
When the last slice of pie had been eaten, Grandma smiled and sighed as she put her apron back on.
“Now for the ‘dirty dish disaster,’” Aunt Nora muttered, echoing Grandma’s sigh.
But Penny, Amber, William, Grandpa, and all the uncles put on their jackets and caps and mittens.
“What’s going on?” asked Zack.
“It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without a walk in the park after dinner,” said Grandpa, patting his full stomach.
“The river is frozen hard enough to walk on. It’s fun. Grab your jacket and come with us, Zack,” said William.
Zack ran for his jacket. In the kitchen he stopped. Grandma and Aunt Nora were at the sink. It was spilling over with sticky dishes and dirty pots and pans. The other aunts were putting leftovers in the refrigerator and pantry. “Aren’t you going on the walk?” Zack asked them.
Grandma shook her head. “We stay here and attack the dirty dishes,” she explained.
“We always do,” said Aunt Nora.
“We have plenty of practice,” said Aunt Irene.
Penny and William and the others waited at the door for Zack and his dad.
Some people go for a walk. Others stay and do the dishes. Is this a tradition, too? wondered Zack.
“Aren’t you coming, Zack?” asked Penny.
Zack walked slowly over to the sink. “Dad and I do the dishes every night. I guess that’s our tradition,” he said as he took off his jacket and picked up a dish towel.
Zack’s dad nodded and rolled up his sleeves.
Then Amber took off her coat and said, “I can dry too.”
William took off his jacket. “I was on the dish-scraping crew at summer camp.”
Grandpa gave a little cough. “I suppose it won’t matter if we delay the walk a bit.”
Soon Zack, his dad, and all the rest of the Jenkinses were busy in the kitchen, scraping and washing and drying dishes. Grandpa put them away because he knew where they belonged in the cupboards.
“Well, I never!” Grandma kept saying.
When the kitchen was all cleaned, the sun was beginning to set. The blue sky was streaked with red and orange. Many of the birds were gone. Zack was worried. “Did we break your after-dinner Thanksgiving tradition?”
“You sure broke the ‘dirty dish disaster’ tradition,” said Aunt Nora, helping Grandma on with her coat, “and it’s about time!”
“Yes, you’ve helped us replace it with a better one!” declared Aunt Irene.
Zack gave a happy grin as they all went out in the fresh November air for their walk together—a new Jenkins family tradition.

Over the years, Gus and his father regularly visited Sister Joyce Miller, at the time a less-active member of the Church who was battling cancer.
“The thing I remember most about Gus as a young boy was that whenever I asked him to say a prayer, he would stand up and do it,” Sister Miller says. “A lot of young boys and girls roll their eyes when you ask them to do something like praying. Not Gus.”
Now the young man who stopped by was a deacon with a priesthood responsibility. “I wasn’t active when they first started visiting me,” Sister Miller continues, “but their visits meant everything. I wanted to come back to church, but I was smoking and didn’t want to go because I was afraid people would smell the smoke on me.”
“All I knew is we always went to Sister Miller’s house and had fun when we home-taught her. I didn’t think any different of her when I found out she smoked because we were already really good friends,” says Gus. “I was pretty impressed and proud of her when she did stop smoking because I have heard how tough it is to quit.”
When she did stop smoking, Sister Miller began going to church again. “I was so glad because I liked seeing her. I would be able to see a smile on her face and be able to tell she really liked being at church,” Gus adds.

An example I often use in my Eternal Family class is of a husband who observed his wife turning back and forth in front of a mirror. Since her birthday was not far off, he asked what she would like for her birthday. Still looking in the mirror, she replied, “I’d like to be six again.”

Well, on the morning of her birthday, he rose early, made her a big bowl of Lucky Charms, and then took her to a Six Flags theme park. After five hours enjoying every ride, he took her to McDonald’s, where he ordered her a Happy Meal with extra fries and a chocolate shake. Then it was off to the movies, with popcorn, soda, and candy. They finally wobbled home, and with a big smile he asked, “Well, dear, what was it like being six again?”

Her eyes slowly opened, and her expression suddenly changed: “I meant my dress size.”

“Don’t scuff your new school shoes, Richy,” said Mother as the family left the meetinghouse. “Remember, they must last until spring.”
Richy liked to walk home from Sunday School alone. He enjoyed strolling across the green meadow and by the majestic cottonwood trees that grew beside the river. The wide cottonwood leaves reminded him of flakes of gold in the autumn sunlight.
Richy walked along the bank beside the whispering water, thinking how refreshing it would feel to his burning feet jammed inside the stiff leather shoes.
However, Father had often told Richy not to go wading on the Sabbath. “It isn’t a day for pleasure. The Lord gave us this day to rest and to count our blessings,” he would say.
Cold water on my hot feet would certainly be a blessing, Richy reasoned. But even as he sat down to remove his shoes and stockings, the boy was sure that his father would not approve of him cooling his feet in the water on the Sabbath.
Still, he rolled up his trousers and put his socks inside the new shoes before placing them carefully beneath some willows in a thicket. Then he ran down to the riverbank and splashed into the water.
Richy enjoyed the grainy feel of wet sand squishing between his toes and the push of chilly water against his ankles. But finally the lowering sun warned him that he had waded too long and would surely be late for dinner.
Out of the river, Richy ran back to the meadow. The summery feel of green grass under his feet was a delight, but he knew that he had to put on his new shoes again and hurry home.
“But where are my shoes?” Richy asked himself in panic. The willows all looked alike. He searched everywhere, but his shoes were nowhere to be found. Finally, he gave up and slowly started home, feeling more worried with every step. He decided that early the next morning he would carefully search for his new shoes in all the willows along the riverbank.
When I get home, Richy thought, I’ll walk quietly through the kitchen and into my bedroom. If I put on my old shoes, Father might not notice.
But later when the screen door slipped out of his hand and banged shut, the sound brought Richy’s parents into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” his mother asked. “We’ve been so worried about you.”
His father started to talk but stopped when he looked down at Richy’s bare feet. “Young man, where are your shoes?” he demanded.
Richy’s heart was pounding, but he just couldn’t tell his parents that he had carelessly lost the shoes, bought with money saved a few coins at a time in Mother’s cedar handkerchief box. Without stopping to think, he blurted out, “Some boy stole them.”
Father looked upset. “You mean to tell me that a boy knocked you down and took your shoes?”
“Oh, no,” Richy said quickly. “My feet were so hot that I took my shoes off while I rested under a tree. I guess I feel asleep. When I woke up the shoes were gone.”
His father asked, “Do you have any idea who took them?”
Richy felt a painful tightness in his chest. Never before had he told his parents a lie. But if I say I waded in the river and that I couldn’t find my shoes, he thought, Father will be furious with me for breaking the Sabbath, and Mother will be upset because I was careless.
So Richy’s answer was, “No, I don’t know who it could be.”
Mother was puzzled. “But who in this town would steal your new shoes?” she asked.
“We must find out. We can’t afford another pair. Besides, whoever took them should be punished,” Father declared.
“Well,” Mother said, “you must eat your dinner now. Afterward we’ll talk about what to do.”
Richy was too upset to eat. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’ll just go in and put on my old shoes.”
Because Richy had disobeyed his father, lost his shoes, and then lied about it, he experienced a feeling far more painful than the pinching new shoes had ever caused.
Later, sitting quietly with his family before sacrament meeting began, Richy saw a new family from Denmark, looking lonely and shy, enter the meetinghouse. Richy thought, It must be very hard to come to a strange country. I’m sure life here is much different than it is in their homeland when they don’t know our language very well.
His thoughts were interrupted when he heard his mother whisper to his father, “Look!”
Richy looked too. A tall boy came down the aisle with his parents. He wore a brown shirt, trousers too short for his long legs, and Richy’s new shoes!
Richy felt as though he were being held tightly by the throat because he couldn’t swallow. All through the meeting he kept his eyes lowered, too miserable to listen to the speakers.
After the closing prayer, when everyone stood up to leave, Richy’s father said sternly, “Son, come with me.”
Together they went to Bishop Feldon. “Bishop, I’m afraid a problem has come up,” Father said gravely. “We must ask you to speak to Brother Pedersen before he goes home. Richy’s shoes were stolen this morning and the Pedersen boy is wearing them.”
Richy’s legs felt like quivering twigs as he followed his father and the bishop outside. They waited beside the steps where he looked up at the sky. He thought it should be a shimmering, cheerful blue, but it only looked empty. Crimson leaves on the trees were just leaves. Richy discovered that nothing in the world outside looked right when he felt so wrong inside.
Richy glanced quickly at Lars and his family, who were stopped by Bishop Feldon. The tall boy smiled timidly as though he were saying, “I am very lonely in this strange country. Will you be my friend?”
Richy tried to smile back, but he couldn’t. Instead, tears came to his eyes.
“Richy,” his father said, “I want you to tell the bishop and Brother Pedersen and Lars about your shoes being stolen.”
Richy took a deep breath. He had never felt so awful in his life. Finally he swallowed what seemed like a big lump in his throat and then in a steady voice he said, “My shoes weren’t stolen, Father. Lars just found them.”
Surprised and confused, Father asked, “What do you mean, son? How could he just find them?”
In a trembling voice Richy explained, “My feet hurt so I took off the shoes to wade in the river. I hid them in some willows. But I couldn’t remember where and Lars must have come along and found them.”
Father sighed deeply. “Richy, you broke the Sabbath and that is a sorrow to me, but the lie you told has made other people worried and unhappy too.”
Richy lowered his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know a lie could make me feel so miserable and cause other people so much trouble.”
His father nodded. “I guess you didn’t, however a lie always causes trouble.” Then he turned to Brother Pedersen and said, “I’m very sorry that this whole thing happened.” But the pain inside Richy grew worse as he saw the disappointment on Lars’ face when he realized that the sturdy shoes he was wearing so proudly must be given back to Richy.
The older men continued to talk, but Lars walked over and sat down on the grass. He gestured for Richy to sit beside him. Sadly he unlaced the shoes, took them off, and held them out to Richy. Then Lars pointed to his right foot. His big toe stuck through a hole in his stocking.
Lars began to laugh. The sound was so bright and happy that Richy laughed, too, and the hurt inside him melted a little.
Father will punish me, he thought, and he should. To tell a lie is very bad and I will try never to do it again.
Gradually the hurt inside Richy was lessened when he remembered that even though he had done wrong, he could be forgiven.
Again Lars laughed, wiggling his big toe, and Richy laughed with him because the sky was blue again, the leaves were golden red in the sunlight, and he had a new friend.

Fish Sticks appeared out of nowhere.
One late summer evening, just when I was beginning to think I might get a college dorm room all to myself, there he was, standing in the doorway and grinning like a self-satisfied explorer who’d found a lost tomb.
“Frank Calio,” he said, sticking out his hand into the room and willing me to get off my bed to shake. “You can call me Fish Sticks.”
I shook his hand and then he disappeared down the hall. A minute later he reappeared with two envelope-yellow suitcases and a laptop computer. He threw the suitcases on the bed and popped one open.
“What are you in for?” he asked, not looking up from his unpacking.
“Huh?”
He turned to me and spoke slowly. “What are you stud-eee-ing?”
“Oh. I don’t know yet. Maybe business.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “I’m music education. Gonna be a junior high music teacher.” He stood up straight and ruffled his hair like a mad scientist. “I’m going to be rich, I tell ya. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“Not,” I said.
He nodded, then rearranged his hair. It was long in the front, and he let it hang in his eyes.
“Why do I have to call you Fish Sticks?” I finally asked.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“But that’s what people call you? Is it your nickname?”
He flipped his front hair to one side with a quick half-turn of his head. “Yep.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I may tell you about it one day,” he said. “If I like you.”
That first year, Frank spent most of his time at the music building—in class or teaching piano lessons to local kids. On Saturday nights, if there wasn’t a dance at the institute, we’d order pizza and watch TV in the lounge.
One night in January, when there was nothing good on, Frank finally started talking.
“You know, I taught myself to play the piano,” he said.
“I taught myself to whistle,” I added, spinning the empty pizza box on one finger.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I was gonna tell you about Fish Sticks.”
I dropped the pizza box on the floor. “I’ll be quiet. Tell me.”
He pushed the remote to mute the TV. “I was about ten,” he said, “and I learned to play a few songs out of the Primary songbook. You know, just simple tunes. But that got me hooked. And after a while I figured out a few real pieces—classical pieces.”
“You like classical?”
“Love it,” he said. “Anyway, all that time I dreamed about something. You know how most kids dream about playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series? Well, I spent my teenage years inside at our piano playing Bach or Chopin. And I dreamed about playing at Carnegie Hall. You know, my fingers flying along the keyboard in a blur, the music rising to a crescendo, the crowd carrying me off on their shoulders.
“That is a pretty weird dream for a kid.”
“I guess.”
“So you must be pretty good … at the piano.”
“Uh, no. I started taking lessons when I was about 14, but I’ve never really gotten what you’d call good.”
“C’mon, you can’t be that bad. You got into music school, didn’t you?”
“I got in ’cause I know my theory.”
“Oh.” I tried to remember where the conversation had begun. Oh, yeah. “What’s this got to do with Fish Sticks?”
“Okay. One afternoon I was playing the piano. It was hot, the window was open, and a couple of my friends walked by and heard me. So they climbed up, you know, to look in the window—and they saw me playing. That’s when they laughed and called me Fish Sticks.” He shrugged. “And it’s true. When I play the piano my fingers move like stiff, frozen fish sticks.”
He held his stumpy fingers up and wiggled them for my benefit.
I nodded. “But why would you want people to call you Fish Sticks?”
“That’s another story. I’ll tell you one day if I get to liking you a bit more.”
Just before summer vacation, I bumped into Frank on campus. Looking for any diversion from studying for finals, I walked with him to the music building.
As we walked, Frank repeatedly flipped the hair out of his face. Sometimes, on a windy day, and in a frustrated attempt to free his face of hair, I’d seen Frank spin his head and body a full 360 degrees, often losing his balance and staggering to stay upright.
When we reached Frank’s practice room, a young girl was waiting. She was about ten, with long fingers and large brown glasses that sat awkwardly on her bony, high-cheeked face. She was quiet.
“Hey, Cheryl!” Frank said, barging into the room while throwing his book bag to the side of the piano. “You been practicing?”
An almost inaudible “Yes,” from Cheryl, like she was talking through a pillow.
“Fantastic,” Frank snapped back, holding up his hands like a triumphant boxer. Cheryl and I couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“I just picked up a new book on alternating melodies. Just off the presses. You up for something a little challenging?” Frank asked.
Cheryl shrugged.
“Okay!” He made a show of pulling the book out of his bag, like it was a rabbit. Cheryl watched closely as the blue and gray cover emerged. “Looks fun, huh?” he added, sarcastically. “Those crazy people playing football in this spring weather don’t know what they’re missing.”
He cracked the book open and placed it over the keyboard. Cheryl swallowed at the intimidating lines and lines of black notes.
“Just ten minutes of theory,” he said. “Then we’ll learn a song. Okay?”
Cheryl shrugged again and placed her long fingers on the keys.
There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.
When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.
“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.
They stopped talking and considered.
“We just got here,” one said.
“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.
“Good,” said Frank.
One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.
I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”
They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.
He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.
I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.
Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.
He raised his hands above the keyboard.
“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.
He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.
That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.
“So, how was it?”
“What?” I played dumb, stalling.
“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”
“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.
He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.
“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.
“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”
I looked over at him.
“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”
I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.
We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.
“So why didn’t you?” I asked.
He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”
I waited for more.
“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.
I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.
“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.
“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”
I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”
“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”
Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.
“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”
I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.
“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”
Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”