Gospel Story Finder

My family was very poor while I was growing up, and we moved so often that I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Even though we faced a lot of hard times, we were rarely sad, but we were often hungry. I remember one day that was particularly rough at home. There was no food and my parents were arguing, so I left the house.
I went downtown to the local mall to try to entertain myself. I immediately went to one of my favorite stores, a candy shop with barrels of taffy and other goodies. My eyes caught on a tree made from breadsticks which were twisted, braided, glazed, and cooked to that perfectly baked, tan color.
My stomach growled as I realized that even though I was hungry and the delicious bread was right in front of me, I would never have it. I wanted to steal the bread; hunger and desperation were the obvious reasons, but I also felt fed up with not having a fair chance in life. I felt like no one cared about me, so I wanted to steal from society to let it know that it had failed me.
I tried to decide how I could steal the bread. I was 20 steps away … 15 steps away … 5 steps away. The decision was coming up. I was either going to take it or not.
But then I had a sudden, fleeting thought to ask God for help with my problems. I was frustrated, because I knew that God had seen me hungry, lonely, and tired before. Why was this situation any different?
“Things won’t change,” I thought. “God won’t answer me. Why would He help me now when He never has before?”
All I wanted was to satisfy my hunger with that bread. After all, it was only bread; what would it really cost the store? Why is it a big deal?
Then it hit me. I would be the one paying the cost of my anger and regret. As I passed the bread, I brushed it with my shoulder. I decided I would try one last time to do things God’s way.
I walked over to the warm food court, one of my favorite areas of the mall, and sat down at a long table. I had done the right thing, but I was still hungry. And I was in the same spot as before. I sat alone at the table and felt the heavy silence for at least an hour.
As I was sitting, lost in thought, I heard footsteps coming from behind me. Someone came up behind me and put a big plate with a double burger and fries in front of me. He patted me on the shoulder and walked away without saying a word.
I turned around and realized that it had been one of the restaurant workers. He silently returned to his job and never looked back at me. He didn’t want to be acknowledged, but I recognized him as a boy named Tim from school.
I was stunned as I looked down at my double burger. This was not just bread. It was a full meal.
Earlier, it seemed so much easier to just believe that there is no God and to take the bread. But now there was no denying that God knew me and my trials. Before I ate, I made sure to spend time thanking God for the food and for Tim.
I learned a lot about brotherly love that day, and I wanted to help others in the same way Tim helped me. I know that God was aware of me. He inspired Tim to share food with me to fill my physical hunger. And He answered my prayers and helped me feel His love so I could be spiritually filled as well.

The Church News published a story about a small ward in Ecuador that did just that.
For three decades the Church had thrived in the small town of Otavalo, and many had entered the waters of baptism. Not everyone in the village, however, shared those warm feelings. One man in particular hated the Church and everything about it. “Whenever the members wanted to build a new meetinghouse, this man opposed it. When graffiti appeared on Church property, it was rumored that he had taken part in it.”

One day an earthquake hit the Otavalo area and toppled the man’s house.
He appealed for help . . . to the city, then to the churches. But Otavalo is a humble community and few had the resources to do anything. . . .
And so it happened that . . . this man who hated the Church did something he thought he would never do—he knocked on the door of Rafael Campo, the high priests group leader. . . .

“. . . My house fell down and I don’t have the money to fix it. I know we haven’t seen eye to eye in the past and that I have no right to ask anything of you, but the fact remains, I have no house for my family and I wondered if . . . your church could help?”

Brother Campo had joined the Church 30 years earlier. He was one of the first to be baptized in all of Otavalo. He had personally witnessed the man’s often vindictive words and actions towards the Church.
[As the man spoke,] numerous thoughts passed through Brother Campo’s mind. . . . But, ultimately, the words that struck him with the greatest power were those of the Savior, “but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” (Matthew 5:39.)
“We have been teaching this for 30 years,” he told himself. “Perhaps it is time to practice what we have been taught.”

Brother Campo explained the situation to the bishop, and during a quorum meeting the next Sunday the bishop said:
“We all know this man. . . . We all know what has happened in the past. But the man does not have a home and he has come to us seeking help.”

The bishop passed around a list and asked the brethren who desired to help to indicate what they were willing to donate. There were 23 men in the meeting that day. When the list had finished circulating, 23 names appeared on it.
One offered to bring 5 pounds of nails. One said he had some framing wood. Another could bring 50 cement blocks. One offered sand, another labor.
The following day the quorum “assembled at 7 a.m. and built a modest but sturdy home for a man who only a few days before had been their greatest enemy.” (Taken from Neil Newell, “To Build a House in Ecuador,” Church News, 20 January 2001, 11.)

When the Twelve called and ordained patriarchs, we shared experiences. We learned the Lord has a special interest in the patriarch, who holds a unique position in the Church.
I recall a conference where the patriarch was very old. While his ordination would remain in force, it was time that he be excused from giving blessings.
The stake president recommended a man with much leadership experience. However, I did not get the feeling that he should be the patriarch.
I knew that the First Presidency had said to stake presidents: “Because a man has filled with credit a presiding office and has attained a good age is no reason why he should or should not make a good patriarch; … [He should be one who has] developed within [him] the spirit of the patriarchs; in fact, this should be [his] leading characteristic, … [a man] of wisdom, possessed of the gift and spirit of blessing as well.”
As the evening meeting was about to begin, an older man came partway down the aisle and, unable to find a seat, went to the back of the chapel. He was not quite as well dressed as most of the others and obviously had spent much time out-of-doors.
I whispered to the stake president, “Who is that man?”
Sensing what was on my mind, he said, “Oh, I don’t think he could be our patriarch. He lives at the far edge of an outlying ward and has never held any leadership in a bishopric or high council.”
He was invited to give the opening prayer, and he had said but a few words when that confirmation came, as it does by revelation, “This is the patriarch.”
As I recall, he had six sons and one daughter. The youngest was then serving a mission, as had his older brothers, who were married and scattered about the country, all serving faithfully in the Church.
“What about your daughter?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, “you have met her. She is the wife of a counselor in the stake presidency.”
I thought, “A patriarch, this man is a patriarch indeed!”
Before the general session, I met the aging patriarch in the foyer and said, “We are going to give you some help today.”
He said, “Oh, thank you! I would appreciate that very, very much.”
I said, “Let me give you the name of the new patriarch; then you and I and the stake president will be the only ones who know.”
When I named the man, he was startled and said, “Isn’t that interesting! I saw him among the people, coming into the building, and said to myself, ‘Wouldn’t he make a wonderful patriarch?’” It was an inspiring confirmation from the old patriarch.

Fast forward a little to 2009. I was blessed to study at BYU-Idaho to earn my bachelor’s degree as a part-time student and single mother of two. I was caring for my family while working full-time and taking classes. A few months before graduation, I had a surprise proposal while working in the Financial Aid Office here on campus. It is a beautiful memory for our family, and Rob and I have now been married for almost 10 years!

I learned something of how prophets feel about those who may be left on the outside looking in — or in other words excluded. It is a simple story, but one that for me conveyed a powerful message. Some years ago I had been asked to make a brief report to the Church Board of Education regarding some things that were being done here to allow more students to attend our school. (I notice from a recent press release that you continue working to make that happen.) I made my report with some emphasis on how many fewer had been denied admission during the current year than had been the case for the previous year. It was a significant number, in the thousands. In retrospect, I think I may have sounded more pleased with that progress than I wish I had. As the report was concluded, there seemed a momentary silence, and then President Hinckley asked: "What happened to the "few" who were still not admitted?" His thought was not about the many who were in, but rather about the few who were not. With prophets as with temples the point is the inclusion of all who wish it.

Tony loved trucks. He would sit on his front porch step and watch them pass his house. He saw a big yellow _________ carrying somebody’s furniture. Then he saw a green _________ pass by with its mixer turning. Mr. Jones drove by in his orange _________ loaded with firewood. A red _________ raced by, screeching its siren. Soon a letter carrier came down the street and stopped his white _________ in front of Tony’s house. The letter carrier walked up to Tony, holding a big brown box.
“Are you Tony Brown?” asked the letter carrier.
“Yes,” said Tony.
“Then this box is for you.”
Tony took the box into the house and opened it. Inside was a big blue _________ that he could use to haul and dump sand in his sandbox. He also found a card that said:
“Happy Birthday, Tony.Love, Grandma.”

A true story from the USA.
Savannah pulled the blankets over her head. Today had been a really bad day.
During school today, Savannah couldn’t focus on anything. She had felt tired, frustrated, and sad. There was a heavy weight in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. By the end of the day, all she wanted to do was crawl under her desk and hide.
Lately, Savannah felt sad almost all of the time. Her friends had tried to cheer her up, but sometimes Savannah didn’t want to be with them. They always seemed so happy. Sometimes she thought they would be happier without her.
What’s wrong with me? Savannah wondered. Why can’t I be happy like everyone else?
She felt as cold and lonely as the gray clouds outside. And now she just wanted to sleep.
Savannah heard her bedroom door open.
“Savannah,” Mom said, sitting on the edge of the bed, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Savannah said. “I’m just tired.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “I’m worried about you.”
“I’m OK,” Savannah said.
“All right.” Mom stood up. “Just remember that you can talk to me about anything. I love you.”
Savannah stayed in bed until dinner. That night, she couldn’t fall asleep. Her brain wouldn’t stop thinking about everything.
The next day she still felt worn out. It was another long day. Savannah got home from school and sat at the kitchen table. She sighed and looked out the window. It was snowing again.
“Savannah?”
Savannah turned and was surprised to see Grandma come into the room.
“Hi, Grandma,” Savannah said. “What are you doing here?”
Grandma sat down. “Your mom wanted me to come,” she said. “She’s worried about you.”
“I’ve just been really tired. I’m fine, though,” Savannah said.
Grandma smiled gently. “Did I ever tell you about the summer Grandpa and I moved?”
“I don’t think so,” Savannah said.
“I was sad all the time,” Grandma said. “I wanted to be happy, but I just didn’t care about anything. I felt so lonely.”
“But you had Grandpa and my mom.” Savannah looked down at her shoes. “Why would you feel lonely?”
“I couldn’t figure out what was happening,” Grandma said. “I had never felt that way before. I eventually went to the doctor.”
“What happened?”
Grandma put an arm around her. “I learned I have depression.”
“Oh, so you just felt sad?” Savannah asked.
“No, depression is more than just feeling sad,” Grandma explained. “My sadness didn’t seem to go away. I struggled to do all the things I normally did. And I had a hard time connecting with other people, even my own family. I really needed help.”
Savannah looked up. “What kind of help?”
“The doctor explained what was wrong, and we made a plan together to help me feel better,” Grandma said. “But sometimes I still felt sad. I spent a lot of time praying. When I was lonely, I imagined the Savior sitting beside me. I felt better thinking about Him.”
Savannah looked at the snow outside and shivered. “I feel sad a lot too. I try to feel happy, but sometimes I just can’t, and then I’m mad at myself for feeling that way.”
“I know, honey.” Grandma gave Savannah a hug. “That’s how I feel sometimes too. But you’re not alone. I love you, your parents love you, and Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ love you. They understand your pain and will never leave you.”
Maybe Grandma is right, Savannah thought. I’m not alone. The weight in Savannah’s stomach didn’t feel quite as heavy.
“I think I should talk to Mom,” Savannah said. “She wants to help me too.”
“That’s a great idea.” Grandma took Savannah’s hand.
Savannah smiled and leaned on Grandma’s shoulder. She didn’t feel quite so cold and lonely anymore.

There was once a group of villagers who instructed their young shepherd, “When you see a wolf, cry ‘Wolf! Wolf!’ and we’ll come with guns and pitchforks.”

The next day the boy was tending his sheep when he saw a mountain lion in the distance. He cried out, “Lion! Lion!” But no one came. The lion killed several sheep. The boy was distressed: “Why didn’t you come when I yelled?”

“There are no lions in this part of the country,” they replied. “It is wolves that we are afraid of.”

The young shepherd learned a very valuable lesson:
People respond only to what they are prepared to believe.

When I was in my last year of Primary, a wonderful older lady named Marth Christensen was our teacher. She helped us learn the Articles of Faith. To this day I still know the Articles of Faith because of what I learned in Primary. We visited Sister Christensen’s home often. It was always a wonderful experience to be there. She taught us cooking skills, and we made cookies and candy. Sometimes we took the treats we had made to somebody who was homebound. The examples of wonderful teachers taught me to serve.

I swim on a winter swim team at the Lexington Aquatic Academy. Our team practices all winter and has weekend meets. Right at the beginning, I told my coach that I could compete in the meets that were held on Saturday but not those held on Sunday.
In March we had the last meet of the season, the Kentucky State Championship. The relay race was scheduled for Sunday. A couple of the team members who usually swim the relay were ruled ineligible. The coach asked my mom if I could swim just that one race on Sunday. Mom told him that it was my decision. When he asked me, I remembered something my dad had told me during a family home evening lesson. He had said that it is easier to decide how to handle a situation before you are actually faced with it. That way, when you have to make a decision, it will be easier to do the right thing. I had made the decision not to swim on Sunday before I joined my team. That made it easier for me to tell the coach that I couldn’t swim the relay.
I thought the coach would be mad at me. But at the end-of-the-year banquet, he presented me with a plaque engraved with the words “Christian Attitude Award—John Netherton 1999.” He told the team how proud he was of me for having standards and then sticking to them even when others tried to convince me to do something “just this once.” A couple of families called my mom to tell her about all the nice things that the coach had said about me. We weren’t at the banquet to hear him because it was on a Sunday! One mom even asked my mom where we went to church.
I am grateful for gospel standards and for the chance we have to be an example when we try to follow the teachings of Jesus.

With 11 kids in our family, we eat a lot. We share extra produce with friends, and they share with us. One summer, though, we got more than we ever dreamed of.
We awoke one morning to find 150 torn plastic bags disgorging potatoes onto our front lawn. Why were they there? Where had they come from? Had a fiendish french fry franchiser gone insane? Had frivolous aliens traveling the states for food samples jettisoned Idaho potatoes in favor of Iowa sweet corn?
Nothing so exciting. Dad’s reputation as a pack rat reached the ears of a green grocer with potatoes that weren’t quite good enough to sell, but not quite bad enough to throw away. His solution was to give them to my dad, who brought them home, slit open the bags to let them air, and then, of course, left for work. Getting rid of them was left to us.
There were many suggestions. Drop them off a cliff and watch them splatter far below. Save them until they were really rotten and then throw them at each other. Let them ferment and use the alcohol to run the car.
Mom decided to stage the first and only GPPM (Great Potato Peeling Marathon). We began by sorting them. The good ones—probably about 1,000 pounds worth—were piled on the lawn. Out came the lawn chairs, towels, and the little kids’ wading pool full of water. Divided into teams, we began washing, wiping, peeling, and hauling them into the house to be canned in one of our three pressure canners.
Joshua, then two, came toddling out. Seeing what looked like a beach party, he ran over to the pool and jumped in. Up he sputtered from the slimy water with his mouth full of starch, his hair plastered with peels, and a betrayed look in his eyes.
We peeled until our fingers blistered. Countless quart jars later, we quit. The storage shelves were full, the lawn was clear, and I thought that I would never look another potato in the eye again.
My parents thought otherwise and called a family council to discuss how to eat them. Have you ever thought about how many ways there are to eat potatoes? There’s a Walt Disney song about Johnny Appleseed in which he says, “Apple fritters, oh so tasty, apple tarts, and apple pasty—You can cook an apple any way.” If I were a musician I would write a ditty like this, “Scalloped potatoes and au gratin, mashed, souped, but not rotten—You can cook a potato any way.” The P file in our recipe box expanded beyond the pumpkin section, and all of us tried a lot of new casseroles.

Snow had fallen all day, covering everything. Raybell and Linda had come out of their Primary class into the front foyer where everybody’s coats and boots were. “Look at Judy’s raggedy old brown boots,” Linda had said. “Judy is so mean. She’s always saying something rude, even to the teacher. And I know she stole my new pen that I got for my birthday.”
“How do you know?” Raybell asked.
“I saw her with it. I’m pretty sure it was mine.”
“I wonder if she stole my candy bar out of my desk too,” Raybell said.
“You know what we could do?” Linda whispered. “We could put snow in her boots.”
Before Raybell could say anything, Linda grabbed them and started out the door. Raybell went after her, and together they filled the toes of Judy’s boots with snow and put them back in place before Judy came out of her class.
When Judy came into the foyer, Raybell and Linda stood nearby and watched her. Judy pulled on one boot and quickly pulled her foot out again. Linda giggled a little, but Judy didn’t seem to hear. She looked into her boot and frowned. The look in Judy’s eyes made Raybell feel a little sick inside. Judy picked up her boots and went outside. As she passed Raybell and Linda, she looked defiantly into their faces. She emptied her boots, pulled each one on, and trudged across the snowy field to her house. Raybell and Linda stood on the church steps watching her and then went home without saying much.

Carol Conroy: “I was just baptized last Saturday. There are still a lot of things that are hard for me to do, hard to live, but there are so many great things in the Church. This weekend has been so far out! I have found a lot of answers to questions. Up until this weekend I really loved the Church and everything, but it was sort of hard for me to accept the Joseph Smith story—how he could have started this religion. Then just this morning I knew it was all true. What would this church be without him? I know he was real, a true prophet. It’s been a great conference!”

I would like to tell you about one of the most profitable experiences that I have ever had in my life. In 1943, I heard Adam S. Bennion give a talk on the value of great literature. He tried to get us to form the habit of appraising and doing something about becoming familiar with great human thought. You can sell the idea of the value of being familiar with great ideas to anybody, but most people lose their share of the benefit by saying, “I don’t have time to read.” We have time for everything else, but we do not have time to read; and as a consequence, we are pretty well forgetting how to read effectively.

But Dr. Bennion tried to get around this idea by saying: “Suppose that you didn’t have anything to do but read.” And inasmuch as we were then nearing the end of the Second World War he said, “Suppose that you were going to be a prisoner in a Japanese concentration camp for the next four years, and suppose that you would be allowed to take into the concentration camp with you the complete works of any ten authors. Which would you take, and what would you expect to get out of them?” It is a well-known fact that people get pretty hungry for great ideas when they get into a concentration camp where they are purposely deprived of good reading material. Then Dr. Bennion told us which authors he would take and why.

At that time I was teaching a class in salesmanship, and under his stimulation I decided that I would like to reread the Bible with the idea of getting out of it its salesmanship. The Bible is the world’s first book of religion, the world’s first book of knowledge, the world’s first book of poetry, the world’s first book of history, and the world’s first book of business success and the world’s finest sales manual.

A good example of this is found in a little story which I heard recently. A young boy was playing baseball with his friends when his mother’s voice came loud and clear, calling, "Charlie, Charlie!" He instantly threw down his bat, picked up his jacket and cap, and started for home.

"Don’t go yet; finish the game!" cried the other players.

"I must go right this minute. I told my mother I would come when she called," was Charlie’s response.

"Pretend you didn’t hear," said the boys.

"But I did hear," said Charlie.

"She won’t know you did."

"But I know it, and I’ve got to go."

One of the boys finally said, "Oh, let him go. You can’t change his mind. He’s tied to his mother’s apron string. He’s such a baby he runs the minute she calls."

As he ran off, Charlie called back, "I don’t call it babyish to keep one’s word to his mother. I call it manly, and the boy who doesn’t keep his word to her will never keep it to anyone else."

Years later Charlie became a prosperous businessman and president of a large corporation. His associates always said "His word is his bond," and during a press interview on one occasion he was asked how he acquired such a reputation. His response: "I never broke my word when a boy, no matter how great a temptation, and the habits formed then have clung to me through life." (Adapted from "True and Faithful," in Moral Stories for Little Folks, Salt Lake City: Juvenile Instructor Office, 1891, p. 122.)

A man told this story about his youth. It seems that when he was seventeen, he used to run with a gang of boys who had great times together. One night after they had been together, he heard the shouting of excited people coming toward his house. Being curious, he dressed and went downstairs to discover that a mob was approaching. It was not long until it arrived and from it sprang three or four of his friends, all members of the gang. One of them said to him, “Come with us, Joe. This man has hurt a girl and we’re going to lynch him.” Before Joe could ask any questions, they grabbed him by the arms and he was swept along in a swirling, shouting sea of humanity.
A mile from his house was a large oak tree. Almost before he knew what was happening, the mob had placed a rope around the accused man’s neck, placed him on a horse, and thrown the rope over the limb of a tree. The moment of death had arrived. Have you ever known such a moment when important things weigh in the balance?
A profound silence came over the mob. The last details of the lynching had been completed. Quite by chance or by the force of circumstance, Joe found himself right next to the horse. Suddenly, the leader—and every mob has such a leader—shouted at him. “Joe, kick that horse and let’s get this thing over with.” The tension within Joe could not be described. He’d never seen this man before. But here Joe was with all these people watching him, anxious for him to carry out the command. He felt the pressure as he hesitated, but then, blinded by emotion and the desire to have the approval of the mob, he kicked the horse. The man met his death.
The next day the mob discovered that they had lynched an innocent human being. This man had had nothing to do with the alleged crime. And for sixty-five years Joe tried to find peace. He wished again and again in the agony of his soul that at the moment when the mob took him along and he found himself by the side of the horse he had had the ability and courage to live as his conscience dictated.
But from his agony and suffering he reported that he learned many things. He learned that some people try to have many consciences. “This is the way I act with the gang because I want their approval. And this is the way I act in school or at work. This is the way I act in church, but this is the way I act on Saturday night.”

After a grueling confinement throughout the winter in Liberty Jail, the Prophet Joseph and his fellow Latter-day Saint prisoners were granted a change of venue for trial. Apparently to spare the state from the publicity of a trial, the guards allowed their prisoners to escape while en route to the new venue. They crossed the Mississippi River into Illinois on April 22, 1839, where they joined the Saints from Missouri, who had received a sympathetic reception from the citizens of Quincy, Illinois. That same day the Prophet hired James Mulholland to again keep a journal for him. From April to October 1839, Brother Mulholland recorded the Prophet’s activities in 15 pages of a handmade pamphlet titled “Minute Book.”

The epitome of celebrating the beautiful and overlooking the misfortune is the story of Thomas Moore.
Soon after he was married, Thomas Moore, the famous nineteenth-century Irish poet, was called away on a business trip. Upon his return he was met at the door, not by his beautiful bride, but by the family doctor.
“Your wife is upstairs,” said the doctor. “But she asked that you not come up.” Then Moore learned the terrible truth: his wife had contracted smallpox. The disease had left her once flawless skin pocked and scarred. She had taken one look at her reflection in the mirror and commanded that the shutters be drawn and that her husband never see her again. Moore would not listen. He ran upstairs and threw open the door of his wife’s room. It was black as night inside. Not a sound came from the darkness. Groping along the wall, Moore felt for the gas jets.
A startled cry came from a black corner of the room. “No!” she said. “Don’t light the lamps!”
Moore hesitated, swayed by the pleading in the voice.
“Go!” she begged. “Please go! This is the greatest gift I can give you now.”
Moore did go. He went down to his study, where he sat up most of the night, prayerfully writing. Not a poem this time, but a song. He had never written a song before, but now he found it more natural to his mood than simple poetry. He not only wrote the words, but he wrote the music, too. The next morning, as soon as the sun was up he returned to his wife’s room.
He felt his way to a chair and sat down. “Are you awake?” he asked.
“I am,” came a voice from the far side of the room. “But you must not ask to see me. You must not press me, Thomas.”
“I will sing to you, then,” he answered. And so for the first time, Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today:
“Believe me, if all those endearing young charms which I gaze on so fondly today, were to change by tomorrow and flee in my arms like fairy gifts fading away, thou would’st still be adored, as this moment thou art—let thy loveliness fade as it will.”
Moore heard a movement from the dark corner where his wife lay in her loneliness. He continued:
“Let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still—”
The song ended. As his voice trailed off on the last note, Moore heard his bride rise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up, and drew open the shutters.

One evening last year, just before Christmas, my husband, Heber, and I made our way through the deep snow of an unshoveled walk and rang the door-bell. We were immediately greeted by Brent, an eight-year-old boy. He invited us in. We exchanged greetings with others while Brent stood by, anxiously waiting for the first opportunity to pose a question. In a most forthright and direct way, he simply asked, “Have you ever shaken hands with the prophet?”
His eagerness gave me reason to believe that he may have rehearsed that question in his mind several times in anticipation of our visit. “Yes, Brent,” I said, “I have shaken the hand of the prophet.”
“Oh,” he said, “if I could just shake the hand of the prophet.”
Sensing the love and respect Brent obviously felt for our prophet-leader, and wanting to somehow provide a tie between the prophet and the young boy, I reached out my hand. “Brent,” I said, “this hand has shaken the hand of the prophet.” To that offer he grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. Then, letting go, he turned his right hand over from front to back to examine it thoroughly. “I’ll never wash my hand,” he said.
I suggested that he probably should wash his hand and just keep the memory in his mind. This suggestion was not acceptable to Brent. He had a better idea. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll wash my hand, but I’ll save the water.” That seemed like a good suggestion, although I supposed he was only joking.
A few minutes later, he came into the room carrying a plastic bag dripping with water. Before anyone could question him, he proudly announced, “I washed my hand,” holding the bag full of water for all to see. Brent sat on the floor facing the Christmas tree, his knees poking through his faded blue jeans. From the corner of my eye I watched him examine the bag full of water as if he were expecting to see some evidence that it was holy water.
As we continued visiting, Brent got up and, taking his treasure with him, left the room. He returned again, this time without the plastic bag full of water. He had determined a better solution. Brent stood there in the doorway with his faded gray T-shirt wet all the way down the front. Without hesitation he gave a complete explanation. “I drank the water,” he said.
Brent’s creative solution was not to be viewed as a joke or something to make fun of. He was serious. He was carrying something important—not on the outside where he could lay it down, but on the inside. The water from the hand that he had washed that had shaken the hand of someone who had shaken the hand of the prophet was now part of him, on the inside, and he wanted to keep it there. He seemed very pleased with his solution.
Would it really make any difference? I wondered. What did it really mean to Brent? It was much more than water I was sure. It was in sacrament meeting the Sunday before Christmas that I received a deeper understanding of what I felt this young boy, just recently baptized, was feeling and wanting. The sacramental prayer had been offered, and the sacred ordinances were being passed quietly and reverently. It was a time of recommitment and rededication, sorrow for wrongdoings, and resolve and hope with the beginning of a new year to do better.
The sister on my right passed the sacrament tray and held it while I raised the small cup of water to my lips. Into my mind came the thought, “I want to get this water on the inside.” I remembered the baptismal covenant; I thought of the symbolism of the water and the covenants made.

Daniel Baker of the Republic Branch, Colville Washington Stake, was awarded a medal and certificate from the Boy Scouts of America for his action in saving his younger brother’s life.

Dan’s two-year-old brother was choking on a piece of carrot and was unable to breathe. Dan, an Eagle Scout, used the Heimlich maneuver that he had learned in Scouts to help his brother.

In high school, Dan served as the student body vice-president, junior class president, and as president of his seminary class. He also received awards for being the outstanding history student and choir member of his school.

In his branch, Dan served as president of his priests quorum. In his spare time he enjoys hunting and fishing.