Gospel Story Finder

When she was just 16 years old, Silvia Henriquez Allred, recently called as first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, gained a love for Relief Society.
“Shortly after she was baptized, my mother was called as the Relief Society president in our branch in El Salvador,” Sister Allred explains. “She was overwhelmed, but my sister and I [who were also recent converts] told her, ‘It will be OK. The Lord will help you.’ And He did.”
As Sister Allred served as the Relief Society secretary alongside her mother, she was impressed by the opportunities that Relief Society offered in leadership, education, homemaking skills, and service—opportunities Sister Allred says are available “to every woman who embraces the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Thirty-five years later, long after I had finished my military duty, I received a phone call from a branch president of the Church in South Korea. He asked me if I remembered a Mr. Park from my military service.
“Of course I do,” I answered. I had served with Mr. Park, and he had respected my beliefs and had often protected me in difficult situations.
The branch president gave me Mr. Park’s phone number, and I called him right away. As I spoke with him, Mr. Park told me that during our time together as presidential guards, he had seen a light emanating from me and had felt that he should help me. Afterward, whenever he had a hard time, he said he thought about me.
Mr. Park told me that he had two sons he wanted to be like me. He had even taken his sons to church at a Latter-day Saint chapel. One of them had been baptized, though Mr. Park had not. That son, however, was now less active. Mr. Park wanted my help and advice.
I went to see Mr. Park a week later. We had a nice visit, and I soon began to meet with his son and encourage him to return to the Church. He humbly accepted my counsel, became active, and served a full-time mission. Through his letters home while serving a mission, he motivated his father and helped prepare him for baptism. On a summer day the year following our first visit, I baptized Mr. Park a member of the Church.
What a great miracle! Their lives had been changed because of the faith exercised by a young man 35 years before.

When 33-year-old Joseph Fielding Smith entered the Salt Lake Tabernacle on April 6, 1910, to attend general conference, an usher said to him, “Well Joseph, who is the new apostle to be?”
“I don’t know,” replied Joseph. “But it won’t be you and it won’t be me!”1
As the names of the Twelve Apostles were being read for a sustaining vote, Joseph suddenly received an impression that his name might be the next one mentioned. It was, and he was then sustained as the 12th man in that esteemed quorum.
Joseph’s humility and sense of humor were demonstrated when he returned home from the conference to inform his family of his new calling. He greeted his wife with a puzzling statement: “I guess we’ll have to sell the cow,” he said. Undoubtedly, she was surprised as she waited for further explanation. His simple response was, “I haven’t time to take care of it any more!”2 Thus commenced an apostolic ministry that lasted over six decades.

I used to have a monster crush on Tyson Davis. Used to. I mean, he’s gorgeous. But he knows it. Besides, he’s kind of a jerk.
I am not going to call him. No way.
But …
Last Sunday I saw Tyson at church. It was the first time he’d been there in about a year. He looked really sad and miserable. He was sitting in the back row, and if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d been crying.
He didn’t stay for the whole meeting. I sort of wish he had. I wanted to talk to him. He looked so sad.
Ever since I saw Tyson, I can’t get him out of my head. I feel like I should call him. I’m not going to, though. When Tyson first moved into the ward, I called him all the time. I invited him to do things with the Young Women and Young Men. He never did anything with us, though, and he treated me like a pest. He made me feel stupid.
I am not going to call him.
Besides, I’m late. I’m going to the church dance.
I make it all the way to my car and start backing out of the driveway before I finally sigh. “Okay, I’ll call him.”
The urge to do it is too strong to ignore. And I grumble to myself all the way to the phone. I’ll call him, and he’ll make me feel like an idiot. But at least then I can go to the dance in peace.
“Hi,” I say when his little sister, Kari, answers the phone. “Is Tyson there?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” she says. “Who is this?”
“It’s Michele.”
She’s silent for a moment. “From church?”
“Yep,” I tell her. “Michele from church.”
“He’s probably not here, then,” she says. “But I’ll check.”
I hear her put down the phone. I’m almost positive she is going to come back and tell me he’s not there. Apparently he’s having the six-year-old screen his calls. So I’m pretty floored when a minute later Tyson picks up the phone.
“Hello,” he says, “Michele?”
“Yeah.” He sounds friendly. Weird. Maybe Kari didn’t give him the whole message. “It’s Michele from church.”
“I know,” he says. “Hi.”
“Hi. Well, I was just calling—well, wondering, um, I saw you at church Sunday and you seemed really sad.”
Tyson is silent for a moment. “Yeah, I was.”
“I’m calling because there’s a dance at the stake center tonight. Maybe you should come.” I feel sort of lame inviting him, knowing how he feels about the Church. He’s been pretty clear he doesn’t want anything to do with us. Still, I can’t get my mouth to shut up. “Maybe it could cheer you up,” I tell him.
“Yeah, maybe.” He sounds thoughtful. “I’ll meet you there, okay?”
I nod, even though I’m talking into the phone. “Okay.”
“And Michele?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for calling.”
When I hang up the phone, I stand staring at it in amazement. Did I dial the wrong number? Was that really Tyson? Tyson Davis? Mr. I’m Too Good for Church Dances?
When I pick up Audrey and Shawna they don’t believe me about the conversation. “Tyson actually said he would come? Tonight? To the dance?” Shawna asks.
I nod. “That’s what he said.”
“He was being sarcastic,” Audrey decides.
When we get to the dance, we look all over the building. No Tyson. I dance for a while then go back to the parking lot—not really to wait for him but just because I have the feeling I should check it out. There I find Tyson sitting in his car.
I knock on his window, and he gives me a sad kind of smile. “Hi,” he says. He looks sort of embarrassed.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask.
“I couldn’t go in,” he says. “I was going to but, ah, I don’t know. I was hoping you would come out. I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I get in the passenger seat, and I’m surprised to see that he’s dressed up. I can tell he planned to go in. “What did you want to talk about?”
He’s silent for a moment. “When you called tonight it was weird. I’d been praying. I hadn’t done that in a long time—prayed, I mean. And then you called.”
He explains that his best friend, Seth, had died two weeks ago. He wasn’t from here. He lived in Florida where Tyson used to live.
“Seth was drunk and ran into a car,” Tyson says. “He died and everyone in the other car—a family—died too.”
Tyson wipes away a tear. “Seth messed up. He really messed up his life. I have too. I’ve messed mine up really bad. But I want to change. I really do. That’s what I was praying about, see, but it’s hard. My friends are partiers. That’s what we do. We party.”
Tyson’s silent for a moment. He looks tormented. “And I don’t have other friends. I mean, friends in the Church. I blew them off a long time ago. I was so mean to you. But then tonight you called.” He sounds full of wonder.
I didn’t know what to say. “I just felt like I should.”
“Yeah, see, that’s it,” he says. “You’re really close to God. He talks to you and you listen.”
Tingles run through my body. “Yeah, but Tyson, you can have that too. It’s the Holy Ghost. If you listen, He’ll talk to you.”
Tyson shakes his head. “I’m not like you. You don’t know what I’ve done. I’ve done bad things.”
“But Tyson,” I protest.
“Look, you don’t have to bear your testimony to me. I know what you believe. You live what you believe. I watched you all last year. You can’t know how it is for me. You don’t do things wrong.”
“I do too!”
“Well, not like me,” he says. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re the way you are. I needed someone to talk to tonight. I’m glad it was you.”
I blush, feeling totally complimented. “So, do you want to go into the dance?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” he says. “I thought I was. I want to change my life around. That’s what I want. But it’s harder than you think.”
“I don’t think it’s as hard as you think,” I tell him, pulling him out of the car. “It’s just a church dance.”
I take his hand. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you.”
“Mormon Michele, protector of the inactives,” Tyson says with a grin.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And don’t you forget it.” I give his hand a squeeze. “I mean it, Tyson. Don’t forget it.”

Just last month our youngest son, Chad, went to the temple with a beautiful, worthy young woman to be married for time and all eternity. As he took her hand and knelt at the altar, I looked into the mirrors on either side, and again I wanted to whisper, “Do you understand why it is so important to be clean and pure?” But this time I didn’t have to remind him, because the Spirit did the whispering.
To the youth of the noble birthright, look into the windows of eternity! See yourselves in the Lord’s holy temples. See yourselves living worthy and pure lives. Generations are depending on you! I testify that worthiness is possible because of the redeeming and enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I pray that it may be said of each one of us, “They shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy.” In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Recently a professor on this campus told me about two different students who came to him with confessions of cheating. Each had lied about completing reading assignments in order to receive a higher grade. As the days passed, both realized that they had cheated themselves. This incident plagued the conscience of one student, and she decided she must set things straight. The other was preparing for a mission and could not feel good about teaching others to keep the commandments and be honest. And so they sought for forgiveness, and inner peace was restored.

A few years later I was finished with school and was working as an apprentice cabinetmaker, putting away every pound I could for my mission.

One early winter day at work I got a call from Mum.

“Granddad’s all right,” she said. “But he’s had a stroke.”

When I arrived at Granddad’s farmhouse, I could hear him arguing with Nan as I threw my coat in the cloakroom.

“You’re not going to feed that rabbit food to me,” he bellowed. “I want bangers and mash (sausage and potatoes). It’s Thursday, and I’ve had bangers and mash every Thursday for 75 years.”

I peeked around the doorway and looked into his room. Granddad looked old and frail, but he had enough strength to sit up in bed and push away my grandmother’s hand as she tried to feed him from a plate of something green and healthy looking.

“She’ll let you go hungry then,” I said.

“Danny!” he called out and held his hand out for me to take. “I’ve been waiting for sumone to rescue me.”

“You’d better get used to the rules, or you’ll get no dinner,” I answered.

“Ahh.”

“Hello, Nan,” I said.

“Finally, someone to rescue me,” she said. “I’m going to nip into town for some things. Sit with your granddad, will you?”

“Sure.”

We heard her car rev up in the driveway. Granddad reached up and felt my arm. “Hmm, strong enough,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? I don’t know. I don’t think we should. Nan will be cross.”

“You do as you’re told.”

So I pulled over Granddad’s wheelchair and helped him in. I bundled up his legs and got our coats and Granddad’s cap. Then I scribbled a quick note to Nan.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked when we were outside the house. I hoped he would say ‘down the road,’ but he said what I expected.

“I fancy sum’ mushrooms,” he said, looking out toward the wet hills. I shrugged and began pushing his wheelchair over the pasture toward the first gate.

Pushing Granddad through the bumpy, slippery glens was hard work, but I didn’t really mind. He was happy and spent the next hour pointing things out to me as I grunted and groaned behind him.

When we finally reached the top of mushroom hill, I stopped to catch my breath, sitting beside Granddad’s wheelchair on the damp grass. It was cold out, and the town below was partly obscured by mist. All that rose above the haze were the trees and a few of the tall brick homes.

“I’ve always remembered what you told me here,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for more details.

“You know, about knowing where to look—for mushrooms and other stuff. A few years ago I knew someone who was a bit lost, so I began dropping hints that maybe church was a good place to look for answers. I think it helped.”

“Aye, nice to think I taught you sumthing,” he said.

I smiled. “You did.”

“How’s Stu? Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“He’s all right. I bet he’ll come see you soon. He’s going out with a really nice girl, and they’re talking of getting married in the temple.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu.”

“Yeah, he is.”

We sat quietly for a time, looking down the hill at the rolling grass and the mist that refused to clear from the town. We stayed until, bit by bit, the cold and damp crept under our wool coats. A wind picked up from the north, and Granddad began to shiver.

“Time to go, lad,” said Granddad. “Time to go.”

“You don’t want any mushrooms?”

“Na, couldn’t be bothered today. To be honest, I just wanted to come here again—with you.”

I stood up and obediently began pushing my grandfather away from our mushroom hill.

“How do you feel?” I asked, stopping the chair and putting my hand on his shoulder.

“I feel good,” he said, putting his hand on mine.

So I started to push again, Granddad and I quietly moving toward home.

With a realistic grasp of her limitations, Dian entered college and signed up for remedial help in reading. “I was tested, and my reading speed was slow. The lady who tested me said I probably wouldn’t make it through college. I remember walking out of there feeling frustrated. I thought, ‘Nobody can tell other people what they can do and what they can’t.’"
It was hard. It was discouraging. Dian charted a course of college study that took advantage of her creative skills and did not require an exorbitant amount of reading. She studied home economics hoping to become a teacher. She often had to work twice as hard as other students to complete papers and read assignments. Her parents helped in every way they could. Sometimes they would drive to Provo for the weekend and read Dian’s assignments with her. Yet Dian’s research and teaching projects showed her creativity and innovation. In moments of discouragement, this thought kept coming back to her, “You only have one life. You’ve got to be the best person you can be.”
Dian loved doing things. “If I saw an idea I liked, I’d go home and do it. It became part of me. I slowly built up a repertoire of things I could do. A creative idea is often just putting two things together to make a new thing. It’s often just a twist on something else.” It is this ability to do things in a new way that is Dian’s real talent. And she loved sharing them with others. She is a natural teacher and has charm that reaches beyond the camera.
For her master’s thesis, she organized and wrote a curriculum guide to teach outdoor skills. This became the basis for her national best-selling book, Roughing It Easy. But getting the book published was also an exercise in perseverance. She approached BYU Press to take on the job, but they turned it down. She kept working with an editor until the press reconsidered the project and agreed to publish the book. To promote the sale of her book, she started a series of lectures combined with local television, newspaper, and radio interviews. She prepared herself to go after opportunities. She made proposals to companies about how she could help them with product promotion. She became a favorite of the television talk show circuit not only because of what she talked about but by the force of her personality. Now she is a popular lecturer crisscrossing the nation regularly, talking to businessmen in Alaska one week and a group of teachers in Pennsylvania the next. She attributes her success to preparation. “I would watch for opportunities and be prepared. Sometimes I’ll think and work on a proposal for months before approaching a company.”
Where does Dian get her ideas? Since reading is not the best way for her to do research, she learns by talking to people. Whenever she travels, she strikes up a conversation with the person in the seat next to her. Whenever she’s standing in line, she talks to those around her. If she’s working on new party ideas, she’ll let that guide her conversation with strangers. She’ll ask, “What was the best party you’ve ever been to?” That not only gets the conversation going, it helps Dian learn about new ideas from which she can develop her own unique variations. “I can’t tell you how rewarding just talking to people will be. Everyone likes to talk about themselves, and I am genuinely interested.”
Even though Dian can tell you how to make an outdoor grill out of a tin can or how to take a shower under an umbrella, some of the ideas that still amaze her audiences are the ones she learned a long time ago. One of her favorites is boiling water in a paper cup. “I love to do things that stretch people’s imaginations,” says Dian. “At first they say you can’t boil water in a paper cup. But you can. When water in a paper cup is placed directly in a fire, the water keeps the paper below the combustion point.”
Another favorite idea is starting a fire with double O steel wool and batteries. If two batteries are held end to end and steel wool is stretched to make the connection on both ends, it causes a spark capable of starting a fire in shaved kindling.
Dian also likes to cook eggs and bacon in a paper sack. In fact, this skill was the one she demonstrated to Johnny Carson on his late night television talk show. Based on her appearance on that show, she received dozens of invitations to talk, essentially initiating her nationwide popularity.
Growing up, Dian learned a lot about not letting other people’s opinions of her abilities influence what she did. Every time she met an obstacle to her learning or development, she put her talent of figuring things out to work. She would watch and listen until she found a way to succeed.
“If only people would just prepare themselves to succeed,” Dian wishes. “It’s their lives, if they would just do something with them. They are the captains of their ships. Sometimes people don’t realize their own value. I think the Church teaches us so beautifully that each of us is someone special.”
Discouraging times come to everyone, and Dian has had her share. She has learned of ways to deal with those “down” times. “When I was going to school, I didn’t bury myself. I had trouble in one area, but I was succeeding in another. To cheer myself up, I would get out of where I was and get with people. That is the biggest solution to life. When you are discouraged, get out of the environment you’re in and go help somebody. When you come back, you can face your problems a little better.”
Now it seems ironic that a little girl who didn’t read very well is the author of nationally best-selling books. Dian Thomas worked on her enormous creative talents instead of being stymied by what she couldn’t do as well. “Instead of saying I can’t do it, I learned to say, how can I do it.” Succeeding as a writer and lecturer defied what some people believed about her. Her success is just like boiling water in the paper cup: people say it can’t be done, but it can. Dian discovered the combustion point of her talent.

Homes are also private places, so unfortunately, we often let down. In our homes and with our families we sometimes become our worst selves with the people who matter the most in our lives. I distinctly remember one morning when I was 14 years old. Before I left for school, I was cross and unkind with my parents and my brothers. After I left the house, I was polite with the bus driver and friendly to my peers. I felt the discrepancy of my actions, and a huge feeling of remorse came over me. I asked the teacher if I could be excused for a few minutes to call home. I apologized to my mother for my behavior and told her how much I loved and appreciated her and promised to do better at showing it.

In the spring of 1950, he began to worry more about an annoying hoarseness. Cancer was diagnosed, and he was operated on. Doctors removed all of one and part of the other vocal cord, which would leave him with a raspy voice.
Under total anesthesia after having been operated on, he was being wheeled back to his room. Still drugged, Spencer sensed his table stop by an elevator and heard the orderly, angry at something, profaning the Lord’s name. Half-conscious, he managed to say, “Please don’t say that. I love Him more than anything in this world.” The orderly answered softly, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

I’d like to tell you another story about my growing up in Tooele. Bevan Anderson at the time was bishop of the Tooele Fifth Ward. Brother Anderson is a stalwart in the town, a faithful soul. When my father was stake president, he called Brother Anderson as a young bishop. Shortly after he was called, my father had the overwhelming feeling that he should release him. He couldn’t understand this because you don’t call bishops and then suddenly release them. But he had this terrible feeling that Bishop Anderson should be released, even though he was worthy, strong, and faithful, and as good a bishop as you’ll find anyplace. But still there came the feeling that he should be released. My father fought this feeling; he didn’t want to release him. As time went on, finally, Bevan Anderson came to him and said, “For some reason, I feel I should be released.” And he was then released as bishop.

Called to take his place was O. T. Barrus. You’ve got to understand a little about Bishop Barrus’s background. Going way back, he had a heritage of faithfulness in the Church. But, in recent years Brother Barrus had not been as active in the Church as he should have been. He was a good man, but the world had gotten in the way a little bit, and he wasn’t active. The Barruses had a son by the name of Dean Barrus. Dean was one of those persons who was all-everything. In everything he did, he was outstanding. He wasn’t cocky or proud. He was a humble, nice person that everybody loved. He played basketball well, he played football well, he was governor at Boys’ State. In everything he touched, he was a leader. He was one of those special souls the Lord sends from heaven every once in a while.

About this same time World War II broke out, and young Dean Barrus found himself on Navy duty. As fate would have it, the ship he was on was sunk by a submarine and his life was taken. My father tells of a very sacred and personal experience after the release of Bishop Anderson. He said, “I was given to know that in the heavens young Dean Barrus, because his life was taken so early, was given the opportunity to have fulfilled a desire he had for his family.” It was Dean Barrus’s desire that his father might be called as bishop, that through this action, he might be drawn into Church activity and through this be put in a position where he could use his talents to serve other people in the kingdom. So it was, without anybody’s being able to explain it, Bevan Anderson was released with a good feeling and the realization that is what the Lord wanted, and O. T. Barrus was called as bishop and later as stake president—a strong and faithful member of the Church and a person who did much good before the Lord called him home.

This sequence of events taught me some very significant lessons about a person’s call and about a person’s release. It also taught me something as a priesthood leader because there have been occasions in my own leadership duties when I felt that someone probably should be released. You see, a release is as providential as a call so it’s no punishment. We serve because we’re called, and we’re released because we’re called.

That was in June 1974. One year later there was another change of a historic nature. It was announced that Churchwide June Conferences held in Salt Lake City would be discontinued. One of Ruth’s most memorable experiences came during the last June Conference session held in the Salt Lake Tabernacle. Traditionally, every year the leaders of the MIA sang “Firm as the Mountains Around Us” during the opening session. It was the last time that Ruth May Fox’s hymn for youth would be sung in such a setting. The song was announced, and then the conductor arose. But instead of raising his arms to lead the singing, he called for President Funk to come forward. “Because of her great love for youth and her dedication to them, we feel it only fitting that she conduct this song at this special time.” Surprised but willing, she was assisted by the Brethren nearby to climb onto the conductor’s stand. With exuberance she led the thousands of leaders packed into the Tabernacle in singing: “O youth of the noble birthright, Carry on, carry on, carry on!”

During the monsoon when heavy rains swelled the Ciliwong, a monkey PLOPPED in front of Kancil while she was nibbling on tender young liana leaves. Kancil reared back on her tiny hooves and her large eyes rolled wildly. “Why scare me so, Monyét (monkey)!” she cried.
“Hurry, Kancil,” Monyét urged, “your grandmother is gravely ill. She wishes to see her family one more time. I’ve just risked my life leaping from branch to branch over the Ciliwong to find you. Hurry, before the river bandjirs (floods).”
Kancil dashed toward the Ciliwong, but the fast-rising waters were already touching the upper banks. Her familiar stepping boulders were hidden under the rushing waters. How was she to get across to her seriously ill grandmother?
Just then a large tree trunk, felled by the storms, came floating by and halted in a whirling eddy at the river’s edge.
Kancil lifted one tiny hoof to see if the trunk were solid. Then she noticed nostrils and beady eyes. She stepped back and did some quick thinking. “Hello there, Buaya!” she shouted over the roaring river.
Buaya’s piercing eyes never left Kancil. He had not forgotten his humiliating defeat in front of his girl friend and this time he vowed he’d get even.
“Guess what I just heard!” Kancil shouted even louder.
Buaya only stared, hoping to lure her into the water.
“Monyét claims the Kancil family far outnumbers the Buaya family!”
“Impossible!” cried Buaya, his eyes looking even beadier. “The Buaya family has always outnumbered every family in the jungle.”
“Monyét says there are more of us than you!” Kancil switched her short tail while keeping a wary eye on Buaya.
“‘Tis a lie!” Buaya’s tail slapped the water in disgust.
“Ask Monyét!”
Buaya’s eyes searched the tree branches overhanging the Ciliwong, but Monyét was nowhere to be seen.
“Why don’t you call all your family members together and I’ll call mine. In an hour we’ll meet again and count them and get this over with once and for all!” Kancil shouted.
Kancil had to make her preposterous proposal twice because Buaya never quite trusted her. But Kancil’s eyes looked so big and anxious and sincere that Buaya dove into the river and within half an hour was back with sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces, grandparents, and other distant relatives.
When Buaya saw only Kancil on the riverbank, his tail slapped the water. “Where’s your family?” he shouted.
“On the other side. I sent Monyét to tell them about our argument, and they’ll be waiting to be counted. In the meantime let’s start counting the Buaya family.” Kancil continued smoothly, “You line up side by side in rows across the river and I’ll count you. When I’m finished, you shall count my family.”
The crocodiles lined up side by side, feet touching, and Kancil jumped from back to back, counting, “1, 2, 3, …” until she reached 207. Then she jumped onto the shore. “Thank you friends!” she shouted, making a curtsy by bending one slender hoof under her tiny body, “for making a bridge. I was in desperate need to get across!”
All the crocodiles’ tails churned the muddy river into a bandjir that overflowed the banks for miles. But Kancil ran ahead of the spreading flood till she was safe with her grandmother.

Don Stout was drafted during World War II. In 1943 he wrote me a letter from Europe. The tank in which he was riding had turned upside down in a pond of water, and he and his comrades were there for several hours not knowing if they were going to drown or suffocate. He shared some of his experiences with me, and then in the last paragraph he said, “Vaughn, I want you to know I have never had a beer or a cigarette, never a drink of liquor or tea.” He said, “I have never had coffee or even a cola drink in spite of all the pressure from the boys in my company.” I told a friend about Don’s not drinking or smoking, and he said it was impossible; no man could do that. And I said, “If Don said he did it, he did it.”
I was 12 when I read his letter, and even then I wept as I thought about him, and I decided right then and there that I was going to walk in high places like Don Stout.

From a young age, Elder Richard G. Scott had a desire to do what was right, even when faced with peer pressure. One summer during high school, he worked on an oyster boat off Long Island, New York, USA. His coworkers tried to get him to do things he knew were wrong. Because he consistently said no, he gained their respect. One night when one of them fell overboard, Richard was the only one who could save his crewmate—because he hadn’t gone partying like the others. He said, “Finally, when they understood I would not abandon my principles, we became friends. Then privately, one by one, they asked for help.”1
Richard was outgoing. He was elected high school class president, played the clarinet, and was drum major for the marching band. He did well in school and had many friends, but he felt lonely and lacked confidence. He realized later, after becoming active in the Church, “that those feelings need not have been part of my life if I had really understood the gospel.”2
By age 22, Richard was thinking about marriage and a career. But the woman he was dating, Jeanene Watkins, encouraged him to serve a mission. After praying about it, that’s exactly what he did. “That decision thoroughly changed my life and laid the foundation … for a marvelous experience in life together.”3
As a missionary in Uruguay.
Two weeks after he returned from his mission to Uruguay, they were sealed in the Manti Utah Temple.
His wedding day with Jeanene Watkins. July 16, 1953.

Now I knew. My older brother, Jim, didn’t like me! I had overheard him on the telephone telling Brother Busbie, our Scout leader, that he didn’t want to be in the same patrol with me at the Camporee on Saturday. He said that I always did things wrong and that if I was in his patrol, they’d lose the competition for sure.
After I heard what he said, I went up to my bedroom and closed the door. I lay on my bed and put my face in my pillow. I stayed there a long time and thought it over.
This Camporee was to be one of the biggest Scouting competitions ever held in California. Patrol would be matched against patrol and troop against troop, and I knew that my brother really wanted his patrol to win. He just didn’t seem to remember that when you’ve just turned twelve, you want to do everything right but sometimes you don’t know how.
“Stanford!” That was my mother calling me for dinner.
I sighed and rolled off the bed. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a skinny boy with messy, blond hair, sad eyes, and a mouth that drooped at the corners. I didn’t look at the boy very long, because the more I looked, the sadder he became.
The morning of the competition, we met at the church and rode out to the Camporee together. I was new in Scouts, so Brother Busbie had to put me in one of the three existing patrols—the Bears, the Trail Hogs, or the Screaming Eagles. Jim’s patrol was the Screaming Eagles. Brother Busbie looked at Jim and at me and back at Jim, then said, “Stanford, you go with the Screaming Eagles.” My brother didn’t talk to me much after that.
An important event came early in the morning. Each patrol had to clear an area, build a proper fire with flint and steel, mix up some batter, cook a pancake, then give it to their Scoutmaster to eat. The first patrol to finish was the winner. It was meant to be a team effort, so every member of the patrol had to do something.
My brother was the leader of the Screaming Eagles, and I could tell that he was trying to figure out what job he could give me that I wouldn’t mess up. Finally he assigned me to add water to the pancake mix and stir it up.
The whistle sounded, and we rushed to our places. One boy cleared the area with a rake, and another made a circle of rocks. Another gathered bark and kindling. It was Jim’s job to start the fire with flint and steel, and I watched in admiration as he worked. He could usually get a fire started in about six seconds.
Our fire was going! More boys added larger pieces of wood. Someone placed the frying pan over the flames. Then it was my turn.
I always get nervous when I’m under pressure, and this was the most important thing I’d ever done. My hands shook as I poured water into the pancake mix. My heart pounded, and my throat went dry. The smoke from the fire filled my eyes with tears. Suddenly I became horribly aware that I had poured too much water into the bowl. I hadn’t made pancake batter—I had made pancake soup!
Jim stared at me. All the other boys stared at me. Brother Busbie sat farther away on a log near the other leaders, but they all saw what I had done, and they stopped talking to see what I was going to do next.
I looked at Jim and saw the disappointment in his eyes, and I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t let him down. I couldn’t let the Screaming Eagles down. I looked desperately around. Then I saw the clods of dirt.
This wasn’t dirty dirt, the kind that you drag in from the yard and that clings to your shoes and smears itself all over your mother’s kitchen floor. This was clean dirt. It was in nice, tidy clumps that you could pick up in your hand. I grabbed a clump and threw it into the batter. I grabbed another one, an especially large one, and tossed it in too. I stirred until the batter was smooth and thick, then handed it over to the next boy.
The pancake fried up beautifully, and we were still ahead of the other patrols. Everyone was cheering wildly. Brother Busbie was a good sport—he just smothered his pancake with butter and drowned it with syrup, then took a bite.
He chewed. He choked. He gulped down half a glass of milk. Then he took another bite.
I looked over at Jim. He had turned all red and was doubled over, clutching at his stomach. Tears poured down his cheeks, and he was making loud gagging noises as if he couldn’t get enough air. It took me a second to realize what was happening: My brother was laughing harder than I’d ever seen him laugh in my whole life.
We won the contest. Brother Busbie managed to choke down the last bite of pancake a few moments ahead of the next Scout leader. I figured that he deserved a medal and so did all the other leaders who had seen what he had done. When it was all over, I walked up to Jim. I looked straight at him and said, “We won.”
He didn’t get mad or make fun of me, like I thought he would. He just put his arm around my shoulders. “Yes, we did,” he said. “But you know, I just realized something. Winning is great, but, well, working together is important too.” Then he paused and added, kind of under his breath so that no one else could hear: “You’re not such a bad kid, Stanford.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I answered, right out loud.

That’s exactly how it used to be with me. If I wanted to go out, they would put me through the third degree before I could do anything. I would always argue and get real upset at them, and it would always end up in a shouting match. Then I decided to try something. Before I made any definite plans, I would ask them if they objected to whatever it was I wanted to do. I’d tell them who I would be with and where I would be.
Then if I changed plans and went somewhere else, I’d call. Pretty soon they didn’t seem so unreasonable. They trust me and my choice of friends and places to go now. People are right; parents do just want what’s best for you!

Approximately 18 months ago, in the fall of 2017, my 64-year-old brother Mike informed me that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He also told me that he had received a priesthood blessing from his home teacher and that he had met with his bishop. He later texted me a picture of the Oakland California Temple taken from the hospital where he was receiving treatment, with the caption “Look what I can see from my hospital room.”
I was as surprised by his comments about home teachers, priesthood blessings, bishops, and temples as I was about the cancer. You see, Mike, a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, hadn’t regularly attended church for close to 50 years.
As a family, we were almost as intrigued with his spiritual progress as we were with his progress in fighting the cancer, largely because of his now frequent questions about the Book of Mormon, the sealing power, and life after death. As the months passed and the cancer spread, a need for additional and more specialized treatment eventually brought Mike to Utah and the Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Shortly after his arrival, Mike was visited by John Holbrook, the ward mission leader of the ward that served the care facility where he was now living. John commented that “it was obvious to me that Mike was a son of God” and that they quickly developed a bond and a friendship, which led to John becoming Mike’s de facto ministering brother. There was an immediate invitation to have the missionaries visit, which my brother politely declined, but a month into their friendship, John asked again, explaining to Mike, “I think you’d enjoy hearing the gospel message.” This time the invitation was accepted, leading to meetings with the missionaries, as well as visits with Bishop Jon Sharp, whose conversations eventually led to Mike receiving his patriarchal blessing, 57 years after his baptism.
In early December of last year, following months of procedures, Mike decided to stop the cancer treatments, which were causing severe side effects, and to just let nature take its course. We were informed by his doctor that Mike had approximately three months to live. In the meantime, the gospel questions continued—as did the visits and support of his local priesthood leaders. On our visits with Mike, we often saw an open copy of the Book of Mormon on the bedstand as we discussed the Restoration of the gospel, priesthood keys, temple ordinances, and the eternal nature of man.
By mid-December, with his patriarchal blessing in hand, Mike actually appeared to be gaining strength, and his prognosis of at least another three months seemed likely. We even made plans for him to join us for Christmas, for New Year’s, and beyond. On December 16, I received an unexpected call from Bishop Sharp, who informed me that he and the stake president had interviewed Mike, had found him worthy to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, and asked when I would be available to participate. The ordinance was scheduled for that Friday, December 21.
When the day arrived, my wife, Carol, and I arrived at the care facility and were immediately met in the hallway near his room and informed that Mike had no pulse. We entered the room to find the patriarch, his bishop, and his stake president already waiting—and then Mike opened his eyes. He recognized me and acknowledged that he could hear me and was ready to receive the priesthood. Fifty years after Mike had been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, I had the privilege, assisted by his local leaders, to confer the Melchizedek Priesthood and ordain my brother to the office of elder. Five hours later, Mike passed away, crossing the veil to meet our parents as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood.
In response to that invitation from a prophet of God, remarkable efforts to minister to the one are taking place all over the world, in both coordinated efforts, as members faithfully fulfill their ministering assignments, as well as in what I’ll call “impromptu” ministering, as so many demonstrate Christlike love in response to unexpected opportunities. In our own family, we witnessed, up close, this type of ministering.
John, who was Mike’s friend, ministering brother, and a former mission president, used to tell his missionaries that “if someone is on a list that says ‘not interested,’ don’t give up. People change.” He then told us, “Mike changed mightily.” John was first a friend, providing frequent encouragement and support—but his ministering didn’t stop at friendly visits. John knew that a minister is more than a friend and that friendship is magnified as we minister.
Knowing that he would soon die, my brother Mike commented, “It’s amazing how pancreatic cancer can make you focus on what’s most important.” Thanks to wonderful men and women who saw a need, did not judge, and ministered like the Savior, it wasn’t too late for Mike. For some, change may come sooner; for others, perhaps beyond the veil. However, we must remember that it is never too late and no one has ever wandered so far from the path that he or she is beyond the reach of the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ, which is limitless in its duration and scope.

If you have a smartphone, tablet, or laptop with you, please google something; look up “John F. Kennedy Honolulu 1963." Hopefully within seconds you will see images of our 35 th president when he visited the island of Oahu to address the Conference of Mayors. He was there to urge the mayors to help pass legislation that would guarantee black Americans equal rights.
On June 8 th of that year, his plane touched down a little after 9 p.m. local time. President Kennedy spoke to the crowd assembled on the tarmac and commended the people of Hawaii for being a great example of how persons of differing races, cultures, and religions could live together so peacefully and prosperously.
After finishing his brief remarks at the podium, he moved forward to the people behind the restraining fence. He started shaking hands with anyone he could reach over the fence. I maneuvered my body forward into tight spaces between people, jumping up and down several times to see how close he was getting to where I was positioned in the crowd. Suddenly, the man behind me grabbed me and hoisted me high over his head onto his shoulders. Instantly I was shaking hands with the president of the United States. I was shocked, excited, surprised, elated, and terrified.
Five minutes later, President Kennedy drove off in the same 1961 Lincoln convertible that carried him to his death in Dallas five months later. I must admit to you that being asked to share a devotional address has brought some of those exact same emotions to me: shock, excitement, surprise, happiness, and terror. I welcome them all.

I was about nine years old when two foreign missionaries first visited my family in the Philippines. I was impressed with their grooming and friendliness, but I couldn’t understand a word they said. They taught in English, and only Mama and Papa understood them, because both were schoolteachers.
I still recall the day Mama threw down the Book of Mormon and refused to read any more. She had heard some lies about the Church and was upset that Papa was allowing the missionaries to teach us.
Papa just picked up the book and calmly said, “Open your heart and listen to the teachings. This book is true. Read this, and you’ll know it is true.”
I don’t know exactly what happened, but six months later I was surprised when Mama announced we were going to be baptized. I knew little of the Church, and I didn’t want another baptism. But I couldn’t resist my parents’ will, so I was baptized.
Joseph Smith, however, remained a big concern. I couldn’t believe he was a prophet of God, and every time someone taught about him I wanted to shout, “That’s not true!” But I couldn’t utter it. When I was asked to share my testimony, I repeated words I had heard others speak.
Though I did not believe Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, I did believe some of the Church’s teachings and enjoyed attending church—except for the first Sunday of the month. Over and over I would hear the members bearing testimony that Joseph Smith was a prophet. It irritated me. I eventually became so angry that I didn’t want to attend church. I made up excuses not to attend, but Papa wouldn’t allow any of his children to be left at home on Sundays.
I was about 14 years old when Papa enrolled me in seminary. That really bothered me. I wasn’t interested, and I felt forced to attend. The first meeting, I purposely arrived late. But to my surprise, no one was at the chapel except Brother Cedillo, the custodian. He turned out to be my seminary teacher.
When the other students arrived, Brother Cedillo asked if any of us had read the Book of Mormon. Nobody answered. He opened the book and asked us to read with him, beginning at 1 Nephi 1:1. I do not remember what else my teacher said that day, but I do remember the powerful testimony he bore of the Book of Mormon. I was touched in my heart, and as I walked home I felt happy. I couldn’t understand why.
That night I resolved to read the Book of Mormon. I started reading after dinner, with a prayer that I could understand. I kept reading till midnight. As I read, I imagined the characters in the Book of Mormon acting out the scenes as if I were watching television. I didn’t understand some of the words, but as I read of the sufferings the prophets in the Book of Mormon endured for testifying of the truth, tears rolled down my cheeks. I had been angry at members of the Church for doing the same thing the prophets had done! I pictured myself as one of those who had persecuted the prophets—and realized how ungrateful I had been.
I continued reading the next day and into the night. I couldn’t sleep until I finished reading the Book of Mormon. When I finally closed the book, I knelt and asked God for forgiveness. In my prayer, I testified that I knew the Book of Mormon was true. And I knew that if the Book of Mormon was true, then Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, because he translated the book. As I said “amen,” my face was wet with tears. I felt at peace and filled with joy.
The experience helped me later when I served a full-time mission in the Philippines Cebu Mission. It helped me understand better my investigators’ concerns about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. Today my heart still fills with gratitude for the great blessings God has given me and my family.