Gospel Story Finder

Standing by myself in the cabin, I scanned the room for my tape player and my notes for the devotional. Finding the items, I bent over to grab them, then realized I hadn’t the energy to do so. I dropped to my knees. The objects in my hand looked like pieces of Salvador Dali’s art as my eyes filled with tears. For nearly the first time all week, I had a moment alone. That was the real reason I’d left the group—under the pretense of needing supplies for the devotional—to be alone.
A nonmember best friend, Amber, and I had been acting as youth camp leaders at girls’ camp for the past week, and while I’d never loved anything more, I’d also never found myself working so hard. There had been midnight trips to drop off bags of garbage in the dumpster. One night, there had been bears to fend off with only flashlights. On another night, I accidentally boiled daddy long leg spiders while attempting to cook minidonuts on a camp stove. Amber and I had washed dishes long after everyone else had deserted. Birthdays, including Amber’s 16th, had been celebrated; devotionals had been given; hugs offered. Many embraces were shared in particular regarding our Sunday School teacher who had passed away the day before camp began. He’d been an especially good friend of our camp director, and with the funeral during the week, there’d been even more responsibility on our shoulders as well as aches in our hearts.
I stared at the stories and tapes in my hands. My throat hurt, and every word I’d said that evening had been like swallowing thistle. My back ached as well from carrying two girls’ packs on the six-mile hike after they’d become sick. I rubbed my eyes. Somehow I had to find the energy to be strong one more night, but the thought of walking to the fire pit we’d reserved for the evening was extremely unappealing. And what about Amber? I was convinced she hated the whole thing, and I hated myself for ruining her sweet 16th birthday.
With a sigh, I snapped. My head bowed, and a hot tear ran down a dirty cheek. I was out of power.
Out of power once again, I was in the cabin staring at my knees. The Lord may have cared enough to help with things as trivial as precalculus and malfunctioning calculators. Those drained batteries found power to make it through one class period. Surely he could help with this power failure. I closed my eyes, trapping a bead of moisture in my lashes. “Dear Heavenly Father …”
Taking a deep breath, I wiped my eyes, then began to stand up. The door burst open. One of the girls from our ward stood there, and I hoped I was enough in the shadows that she wouldn’t see the crimson embroidery in my eyes. She had been borrowing some things from me all week and was wondering if she could have my last something-or-other. I nodded, suddenly feeling even more exhausted. What type of answer was this?
As she turned to leave, she called over her shoulder, “Oh, it sounds like another ward is at our fire pit, so I guess we’ll have to have the devotional here.”
“But we’d reserved it!” I wanted to protest. The last night was always spent around a fire! I ran my hand through my hair, which by that point was desperately in need of a good shampoo, and angrily put the papers and tape player back where I’d grabbed them from.
The forced smile on my lips softened into a sincere one as the girls, leaders, and bishop filed into the cabin. Only then did it dawn on me. What a blessing not to have to go on a hike to the fire pit! What a blessing not to have to deal with building a fire and distributing marshmallows and graham crackers! It was only the start of the miracles. The dragon in my throat decided to take a nap, and the devotional rolled smoothly along. After we gave out humorous awards to all our campers, there was the testimony meeting. The Spirit filled the cabin, and tears filled my eyes as I listened to my sisters and best friends share their sweet testimonies.
I was the last to leave the cabin that night. In the dark, as I headed towards my own cabin, I reflected on the week. The murmur of girls getting ready for bed called a grin to my face, and I offered a silent prayer of gratitude. I’d entered that cabin a parched sponge, very much like my worn-out batteries from months before. I’d left it recharged. The instruction booklet for my calculator insists it cannot run without a continual source of good power. Neither can a spirit.

One Sunday when I came home from church, I saw my neighbors playing outside. I wanted to play outside too, but I couldn’t because in my family we don’t play outside on Sunday. I felt sad. My dad told me that when he was a little boy he wanted to play outside on Sunday too. He told me he had been blessed in his life for keeping the Sabbath day holy, even when it’s hard. I decided I was going to choose the right and keep the Sabbath day holy.

I was six years old when my father brought Bimbo home. He was a tiny black and white fox terrier puppy, so small he could fit into my father’s overcoat pocket. Having a pet is fun, but it also requires work. My big brother, Alan, and I had the responsibility of feeding our puppy and giving him water every day. As Bimbo grew, bathing him was one of our jobs, and we were always just as wet as Bimbo before we were through. We loved our puppy and treated him like a member of the family.

My dear mother-in-law, Regina Weaver Merrill, who was on my side from the time I first began to date her daughter, was a meek, tender soul with a rich alto voice. Her favorite hymn was " Have I done any good in the world today," I think because it matched her character so well.

Before she married, she sang professionally with her cousins. They called themselves the Melody Weavers. Her life was full of service and kindness. Her death by cancer included one of the most sacred moments in our family history. I have shared this before elsewhere.

Regina had been in a coma for three days. A tiny pulse indicated her life's ebb was nearly complete. I took my turn sitting with her in her room, her frail body taut with pain. What do you do in such moments but pray and thank Heavenly Father for this wonderful human being.

I had to return with our children to Hawaii, leaving Carolyn in Salt Lake City to care for her mother with her two sisters. When Carolyn called to report Regina's passing, she told me of her remarkable experience the day before she died. Regina was still in a coma when Carolyn had a great desire to pay one last tribute to her mother. Singing to her seemed to be the most appropriate way. She sang several hymns, concluding with I Know That My Redeemer Lives. As she was singing this sacred hymn she heard an amazing sound. At first she thought it was a groan. But then she realized it was singing. It was her mother, singing a perfect alto part. Surrounded by unseen angels, they continued through the verse, a mother-daughter duet, singing the inspired words of testimony. In one verse, Regina even raised her feeble arm and gently beat time. He lives, my kind wise Heavenly friend/ He lives and loves me to the end. /He lives and while he lives I'll sing, / He lives my Prophet Priest and King. / He lives and grants me daily breath, / He lives and I shall conquer death. / He lives my mansions to prepare, / He lives to bring me safely there.

When the hymn was concluded, Regina whispered her last words in mortality, "You are on your own now, my dear."

The miracle of that experience was that Heavenly Father would give Regina strength and allow her to become coherent one last time, not for final advice or instructions about "things" or a funeral program, but to sing her love and to leave the precious legacy of her testimony of the Savior Jesus Christ.

I love to go sledding. We have the best hill by our house that all of the neighbor kids enjoy sledding on. One beautiful day, Mom asked my sisters and me if we would like to go. Of course I said yes. Just as we were leaving, one of my best friends, Braiden, called to see if I could play. I invited him to go sledding with us. He hurried over to my house, and we took off for the hill.
The hill was just as icy and fast as I had hoped it would be. We were having a lot of fun going down the hill! Then my friend said his hands were freezing. He had forgotten to bring his gloves. I felt bad that he had such cold hands. I quickly took my gloves off and gave them to him. We kept sledding for another hour or so. My hands were probably freezing, but I didn’t care because I was happy about giving my gloves to a friend. I know Jesus Christ would do the same for His friend. I want to always try to do what He would do. I had the best day ever on the hill because I felt warm inside.

Having optimism combined with an eternal perspective leads to the third result of hope: we do not give up easily. We do not give up on ourselves, and we do not give up on others. We persevere even when there is opposition. Let me share an experience I had while I was pursuing my graduate degree.

I had been working on my PhD at the University of Utah for about three years. I had taken all the necessary classes and I had completed most of my experiments in the area of laser spectroscopy. The final task was to write my thesis which I estimated would take about six to eight months. It was at this critical time that my funding ran out. It was a complete surprise to me and was quite devastating. We also had a premature baby earlier in the year, our first child, and had large medical bills. I was ready to throw in the towel and give up on my PhD. I started looking for a job, and I even applied for a few. It was my wife who wouldn’t let me give up. She saw the bigger picture. She recognized that it was important for me to have a PhD and that was the very best time to get it done. Well, she was right, and I was blessed for sticking with it! I was able to complete my thesis in a shorter length of time, and it was my wife’s graduate advisor who directed us to my post-doctorate job at Utah State University.

Two weeks ago Elder Dallin H. Oaks, Elder Robert K. Dellenbach, and I attended a regional conference in Holland. While meeting with the Saints, I recalled the miracle of the potatoes which took place in that nation in November of 1947.
In the first week of November 1947, ten huge trucks moved across Holland. They headed east and contained a costly cargo—seventy-five tons of potatoes, a gift from the Dutch Church members to the Saints in Germany.
Many months earlier, in the spring of 1947, the members within the Netherlands Mission were asked to begin a welfare project of their own, now that they had received much needed welfare supplies from the members in America. The proposal was welcomed with enthusiasm. The priesthood went to work, and within a short time every quorum had found a suitable piece of land for the project. The recommended crop: potatoes. At the various branches of the Church there was singing, speaking, and praying, at the end of which the potatoes were entrusted to the soil. Soon there came news of good prospects for the harvest, and cautious estimates were made as to how large the yield would be.
During the time the potatoes were growing, Walter Stover, president of the East German Mission, visited the Netherlands Mission in Holland. During his visit, with tears in his eyes, he told of the hunger of the Church members in Germany. They were in worse condition than the Saints in the Netherlands. Supplies had not yet reached the Saints in Germany as quickly as they had the Saints in Holland.
When Cornelius Zappey, the Netherlands Mission president, heard the condition of the German Saints, he couldn’t help but have compassion toward them, knowing how they had suffered. The thought came; the action followed: “Let’s give our potatoes to the members of the Church in Germany.” I’m sure he worried, for the German armies and the Dutch armies had been in conflict with each other. The Dutch had been starving. Would they respond? A Dutch widow who had received a sack of the potatoes heard that the bulk of the potatoes was to be given to the members in Germany, and she stepped forward and said, “My potatoes must be with them.” And this hungry widow returned her sack of potatoes.
What are the words of the Lord pertaining to such an act? “Verily I say unto you, That this poor widow hath cast more in, than all they which have cast into the treasury. … She of her want did cast in all that she had.”

When he became an Apostle, President Monson was assigned to watch over the Church in Eastern Europe. The members there had very little money, and it was hard for them to buy new clothing. While visiting East Germany, President Monson noticed a man at church whose suit was very worn. The man’s name was Brother Adler.
After the meeting President Monson changed into a pair of pants and a shirt he had packed in his suitcase. He then handed his almost-new suit to Brother Adler and said, “I think this will fit you.”
Brother Adler was surprised. Before he could say anything, President Monson offered his shoes as well. The shoes were too big for Brother Adler, but a man standing nearby said the shoes would fit his son. President Monson handed his shoes to the man and wore an old pair from his bag.
For the next 20 years, President Monson took extra clothes every time he visited East Germany. His generosity blessed many people. Before one Church meeting began, he looked at a young man sitting in the congregation and said, “That’s a fine suit you have on.”
The young man replied, “It should be. It’s yours!”
President Monson’s example teaches us to show love for others as we serve them.

I just knew that we were going to have a baby brother. After all, there were already five boys in our family—James, Joseph, Ammon, Adam, and me, Alex—so we were ready for another baby brother.
Every night for weeks we talked about Benjamin David—that’s what we were going to call the new baby. At night the five of us would lie in bed and talk about little Benjy.
“Alex, do you suppose he’ll be able to go fishing with us this summer?” James asked.
“Well,” I answered, “I don’t know about this summer. He won’t even be able to walk by then.”
“Then I’ll bring him back a big crawdad,” Ammon insisted, sitting up in bed. “He’ll want to play with something.”
I laughed. “Maybe we’d better wait awhile before we bring him any crawdads.”
“Yeah, they might bite his toe or something,” Adam said and giggled as he hugged his green blanket.
“We’ll have to teach him to ride a bike,” Joseph suggested, “so he’ll be able to ride down to the park with us.”
“I’ll let him ride with me for a while,” I volunteered.
“And we’ll teach him to wrestle,” James added.
“Why, Benjy will be the best wrestler around,” I bragged. “And he’ll play football and baseball just like a pro.”
Sometimes Dad stayed in our room after tucking us into bed and telling us good night. He listened while we talked and bragged about little Benjamin David. Dad didn’t say much at first. Then one night, just a little while before Mom went to the hospital, he asked, “What are you going to do if you get a little sister?”
Our talking stopped. “Oh, we’re not going to have a sister,” Ammon said. “We’ve already decided that. There are going to be ten boys in our family. If you and Mom want some sisters after that, it’s OK with us, but we need to get the ten boys first.”
Dad thought for a moment. “Sometimes Heavenly Father sends a girl,” he said quietly.
“A girl!” Joseph said. “We can’t have a girl. A girl can’t wrestle and play football and fish and race and ride to the park with us on our bikes. Besides,” he grumbled, punching his pillow, “girls are sissies.”
“Yeah,” James agreed. “And we’ve already told everybody that we’re going to have a brother. We’ve already picked out his name.”
“But if you do get a little sister—”
“Dad,” James cut in, trying to be patient, “we’ve already decided on a brother. Besides, what would we tell our friends?”
“Your friends have sisters,” Dad said.
“Yeah,” I said, “but we don’t want to be like them. We’re the only family around that has five boys in a row.”
“And we don’t want to mess things up with a sister,” James added. “Our family’s just for boys.”
“Your mom’s a girl,” Dad pointed out.
“Oh, it’s all right for moms to be girls,” Joseph said. “We’re not saying that Mom can’t stick around.”
“Yeah,” I chimed in, “Mom’s super, even if she is a girl; but a family only needs one mom, so we only need one girl, and Mom’s it.”
The next week Grandma Cluff came to stay with us, so we knew it was almost time for Benjamin David to show up. We were getting so excited that we could hardly go to sleep at night. Adam had already started sleeping in my bed. He was getting too big for the crib anyway, and we wanted the crib ready for Benjy.
Then one morning when we got up, Mom and Dad were gone. Grandma was in the kitchen fixing breakfast. She smiled at us and announced, “Your dad took your mom to the hospital last night.”
“Benjy’s here!” Adam squealed.
Grandma smiled again and dropped another slice of bacon into the frying pan. “I hope so,” she said. “We’ll know as soon as your dad comes home.”
It wasn’t five minutes later that we heard Dad’s car pull into the driveway and the car door close. All of us rushed to the door as Dad came in. He looked really sleepy, and he hadn’t shaved his whiskers, but he had a big smile on his face.
“Where’s Benjy?” Adam shouted, climbing into Dad’s arms. “I want to see Benjy.”
Dad laughed and gave him a squeeze.
“Where’s Mom?” Ammon pulled on Dad’s trousers until Dad lifted him up with Adam.
“How big is he?” Joseph asked.
“Does he look strong?” I wanted to know.
“Does he look like he’ll be a good wrestler?” James demanded.
Dad laughed again and walked into the kitchen, still carrying Adam and Ammon. He sat down at the table, and we all crowded around him so that we could hear all about Benjamin David.
“When can we see Benjy?” Joseph asked.
Dad looked around at us and held up a hand. “Hold on a minute,” he said, grinning. “Benjy didn’t come this time. Marni Nadine came instead,” Dad said proudly.
“Marni Nadine?” James asked, pushing away. “Why, we’ve never talked about any Marni Nadine.”
“And who wants to name a perfectly good baby brother Marni Nadine?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Joseph spoke up. “That’s a sissy name. Everybody would think he was a girl. Let’s just call him Benjamin anyway.”
“But you don’t have a baby brother,” Dad said. “You have a little sister.”
“A sister!” We stared at each other and then at Dad.
Dad gave a huge sigh. “Heavenly Father doesn’t always send what we expect, but whoever He sends is always very special. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“But why did He have to send a girl?” Ammon muttered, getting down from Dad’s lap. “Who’s going to play football with us?”
“And who’s going to go fishing with us?”
“And why have a girl right in the middle of ten boys?”
“Because,” Dad explained patiently, “a girl is what Heavenly Father wanted to send.” He thought for a minute. “This must be a very special baby girl. Not just everyone gets to have five big brothers.”
We didn’t say much after that. We ate our breakfast quietly while Dad and Grandma talked about Mom and Marni Nadine. I had never been more disappointed. All I could think of the rest of the day was that we had been cheated out of getting out baby brother.
The next morning, when Dad went to get Mom and Marni Nadine, we stayed home with Grandma. I tried to get the others to play football with me, but they just sat on the front steps and stared glumly down the street.
Adam was the first to see the car. He jumped up and rushed out to greet Mom and Dad. I guess he’d forgotten that Benjy wasn’t going to be in the car. Dad picked him up and carried him around to Mom’s side and opened the door. The rest of us crept around the car while Dad helped Mom out.
Mom smiled at each of us and hugged the bundle as she carried it into the house. Even though I was still disappointed that Benjamin David hadn’t come, I was curious to see what a baby sister would look like up close.
Mom sat down on the sofa, and we all pushed up close as she began peeling the covers back. Mom held up a little mouse of a girl with a round head and just a tiny bit of brown hair. Her eyes were shut tightly, her cheeks were soft and fat, and she was kind of red all over.
All of us just stared. Then Ammon went close and touched Marni on the cheek with his fingertips. He turned around and grinned. “She’s soft.” He touched her again. “Real soft.”
Mom looked at me. “Would you like to hold her, Alex?”
“I’ve never held a sister before,” I mumbled, backing away.
“Then I’ll hold her,” James volunteered.
“No, I’ll hold her,” I declared, pushing forward. “Just because I’ve never held a sister doesn’t mean that I don’t know how.”
I sat on the sofa next to Mom, and she laid Marni Nadine in my arms. My baby sister was so tiny and light that I hardly knew I was holding her. I was afraid to squeeze hard, because I didn’t want to break her.
“What do you think Alex?” Dad asked as Marni stretched and rubbed her fist against her cheeks. Her eyes cracked open a little, and then she closed them.
“She’s all right, I guess,” I mumbled. “She’s kind of cute—for a girl.”
“Girls are supposed to be cute,” Dad said.
“Then she’s not ‘kind of cute,’” James argued. “She’s the cutest sister in the whole world.”
“You’re right,” Joseph agreed. “If we’re going to have a sister, she’s not going to be just an ordinary sister. She’s going to be the cutest sister around.”
“Yeah, and besides,” I added, “there’s no reason why we can’t teach her to fish, ride a bike, and play football. Just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean that she has to sit around and do nothing. Our little sister will be able to do anything she wants, because we’ll help her. And remember what Dad said. Not just every sister gets to have five big brothers!”

There are so many great young people. One who comes to mind was a well-dressed, good-looking young man, sharp, well-spoken, and contemporary in every constructive way, but he was obviously deeply distressed as he rose to offer a greeting in behalf of the university student body of which he was president. His audience was made up of regents and trustees of institutions of higher education meeting in conference at his school. The group had listened to a series of speeches from educators, noting with approval the abandonment on college and university campuses of the doctrine of in loco parentis, a term that means, as you may know, “standing in the place of a parent.” The schools, the speakers said, no longer accept the responsibility of standing in the place of a parent to the students who attend them. Knowledge, intellect, reason—these are the goods with which these institutions deal; the private life of the individual is not their proper concern.
The young student president said what many of us were thinking:
“I’ve listened to your announcement of the abandonment of the principle of in loco parentis,” he said, “and feel there is something you should know. If in fact the school is no longer interested in or willing to fill that role—if it doesn’t care about us as persons, as good parents would care—then that leaves a great many of us with no parents at all anyplace.”
No further explanation was made, and none was needed.

“I never asked God for anything that He didn’t then give me,” my wife, Deborah, said. This statement still astonishes me even though I was with her throughout its fulfillment. And it probably astonishes all those who know of Deborah’s seven-year struggle with systemic lupus, her two-year fight with breast cancer, and her eventual death on September 19, 1990. But those who are amazed and astonished may not understand priesthood blessings or their fulfillment. It was with difficulty that I learned for myself what it means to hold the priesthood and to exercise it to bless others.
Although my parents were both active in the Church and faithful to its precepts, I don’t remember the priesthood being a specific spiritual influence in my childhood. I don’t recall being sick enough to need a blessing and have no memory of priesthood blessings administered to others in my family.
This lack of emphasis on priesthood blessings carried over into my own family when I married and my wife and I had children. I gave priesthood blessings if someone was seriously ill or was having an operation. I also gave my wife a few blessings for emotional help, but those occasions were rare.
Giving a blessing was always a positive experience for me. But a lack of understanding and a shortage of self-confidence limited my exercise of this priesthood function. I struggled to know the words to say, unsure if what came into my mind was really what God wanted.
This situation changed little when my wife discovered she was suffering from systemic lupus. Those years of battling a disease of exhaustion and discomfort were aided by only occasional priesthood blessings. My wife was aware of my uneasiness about giving blessings and seldom asked for the additional spiritual help she may have desired.
In March 1989, when the doctor announced that my wife had cancer, our lives were altered. Because of the exotic nature of her cancer, it had eluded physicians for two years. By the time it was finally diagnosed, it had spread and her chance for recovery had significantly diminished. Knowing we were in a struggle we could not win on our own, we further opened our lives to spiritual help. Our ward fasted for Deborah, and we gratefully accepted the care of the Relief Society. Her battle became one fought by many. A friend who had endured the same chemotherapy my wife was about to receive confided that during the most difficult periods of the treatment, he had requested and received priesthood blessings. He advised us to do the same—to seek spiritual help in order to tolerate the effects of the treatments.
The chemotherapy was difficult. My wife experienced all the expected reactions. She was sick for several days after a treatment. She spent most days in bed, and eating was a chore. But little by little we learned how to confront each challenge as well as possible.
During this difficult period, my wife, as our friend had advised, called on me for priesthood blessings. I gave her a blessing to help ease the anxiety she experienced the first week of chemo. Through a priesthood blessing, the fear accompanying an operation—though not completely eliminated—decreased. Long periods of vomiting stopped and sleep replaced restless nights as I laid my hands on her head and blessed her. These blessings gave us promises of help and comfort, intermingled with glimpses of the future. They filled us with warmth and joy.
I wish I could say that giving blessings became easier for me then, but I can’t. I gave the requested blessings, but my difficulty in exercising the priesthood persisted. I never mentioned my discomfort to my wife, but she could sense my reluctance. However, these were difficult trials, and she knew she was entitled to help and I was the conduit through which she could receive it. So when she needed help, she asked.
Before giving any blessing, I knew what I wanted to bless her with: I wanted more than anything to bless her to be healed. And she wanted that too. But that blessing never came. What did come were blessings of comfort, which didn’t take the trial away but made it easier to bear.
Slowly I began to understand better how the priesthood and priesthood blessings work. Giving blessings wasn’t a tool to get what I wanted but rather a way to receive needed help. I learned to trust in the Lord and His will instead of what I thought needed to be done. I gained confidence that the words that came to my mind were indeed the words God wanted me to say. And while giving blessings has never become easy for me, I have learned to trust in the feelings I have while giving blessings.
After Deborah completed her treatments, we began the difficult phase of waiting to see if the drugs had been effective. We enjoyed this time free of doctor’s appointments, tests, and treatments. However, in the back of our minds was the fear that some cancer had been able to survive the onslaught of the poisonous anticancer drugs and was reestablishing itself.
Little by little, small physical signs convinced us of our greatest fear: the treatments had not been successful. The doctors were upbeat, but we knew it was a matter of time.
The last six months of Deborah’s life were incredibly calm. After one last procedure failed, we decided to discontinue the treatments and to go home and enjoy what time was left. Some may not believe that it was a wonderful few months, but it was the best time of my life.
During this period some concerned friends and family suggested that we needed to be more assertive with the Lord in our battle to save her life. They told me that I had the priesthood and should use it to cure her. Though I understood their feelings, these friends didn’t understand what was happening. There was nothing I wanted more than to promise Deborah life, but those words never came while I was giving her a blessing. There was little she would have desired more than to have a blessing of health, but she never felt she should ask. We both believed in miracles but also recognized our limited perspective on an experience that fits into an eternal plan.
What did happen was a greater miracle. In the blessings, she was never promised life but was given the indisputable assurance that what was happening was God’s will. She was not promised ease but was given help to endure the difficult times. She was not allowed to stay and raise our children but was assured of eternal bonds. She passed away with only limited pain and discomfort, with her family at her side.
I know that God does exist and deeply cares for us. He provides us with comfort and assistance when we need strength and understanding. Though life is difficult, the Lord has promised to help us through our trials, and one way help comes is through priesthood blessings. Knowing this, my wife was able to say, “I never asked God for anything that He didn’t then give me.”

One day at school, a few of my classmates were making fun of another student by calling him names. It looked like fun, so I joined them. For a few weeks, I made fun of him with my friends.
Several weeks later, the boy told me how he was feeling. He was hurt by our words even though he pretended like he didn’t care that we were making fun of him. He said he cried every night. I almost cried when he told me. I wanted to help him and decided to apologize for what I had said to him.
So the next day, I went up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. I said, “I’m really sorry that I made fun of you.” He nodded at my words, and his eyes filled up with tears. But the other kids were still making fun of him. Then I remembered what I learned in my Primary class: choose the right.
I told my classmates valiantly, “Stop making fun of him! Do you guys know how hard this has been for him? Please say you’re sorry for what you have done and be his friend.”
But they wouldn’t change that easily. Instead, they were mad at me and said, “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? You made fun of him too!”
I still felt bad for what I had done before. So I said, “I already said sorry to him. I want you to understand how he feels and stop making fun of him too.”
One of them said sorry, and the three of us became good friends. A few people still make fun of him, but he feels better because he has us. I will choose the right by helping a friend in need.

Do you like to work? When I was a boy growing up in Sandy, Utah, my three brothers and I learned to work hard. My family had a big garden, and my father always planted much more than our family could ever eat. He gave corn, tomatoes, and other vegetables to our neighbors. When they offered to come pick the vegetables, my father said, “Oh, no. My boys will pick them and have them ready for you.” My brothers and I learned to get up at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning to weed the garden and pick the vegetables while it was still cool. I still get up very early in the morning.
We also worked on the neighboring farm, doing a little of everything. We herded cows, thinned and topped beets, and picked cherries. I even remember vaccinating chickens! Many years later, when I was having a medical examination, the doctor said that I was in very good health except that I had a virus in my lungs that was not a human virus. It was a virus that chickens have. I’ve been teased that maybe this is why I like to get up so early—like chickens do!
Dad got us a job mowing the lawn of our meetinghouse. We used an old push lawn mower. At that time, the Church was just beginning to buy power lawn mowers. But my father, who had a calling in the stake, said, “We don’t need a power mower. My boys will take care of it.” Some parts of the lawn were very thick and hard to mow, so we attached a rope to the front of the mower. One brother pulled on the rope while the other pushed the mower. People laughed as they went by and saw us doing this, but it worked!
Before I went on my mission, my Grandfather Bateman gave me a blessing. In that blessing, he said, “Now, boy, you go out and work hard, and the Lord will bless you.” I am glad that I had learned as a boy to work hard.
As boys growing up, we had lots of fun along with the work. Near our house, there was a hill of beautiful white sand that we called Sand Hill. We loved to roll down that hill. We also liked to explore the riverbank and hunt for flint arrowheads in some old caves where Native Americans used to live. I had a very nice collection of arrowheads.
We loved to visit Grandma and Grandpa Bateman in West Jordan, Utah, too. In wintertime, we went sledding on their big hill. One time we went sledding on my uncle’s prize sled. As we went down the hill toward the irrigation canal, we bounced off the sled, and it landed in the canal. Grandpa had to divert the irrigation water out of the canal so we could find the sled. When we got back to the house, we were cold and wet. We warmed up by the stove while Grandma laid our clothes out to dry.

James Peter Fugal was an honest man! He herded sheep much of his life in the rolling hills of Idaho. On one bitterly cold winter night, he was herding sheep for another man when a blizzard set in. The sheep bunched together, as sheep do, in the corner of a fenced area, and many died.
Though the death of the sheep was no fault of his, James Fugal felt responsible and spent the next several years working and saving to repay the owner for his lost sheep.
This same desire to live Christian principles was evident in Aurelia Spencer Rogers, who founded the Primary organization of the Church. She had a concern for the moral character and social development of children. Leaders of the Primary since Aurelia Spencer Rogers continue to teach wholesomeness, virtue, and love for one another as well as to instill a desire to understand and live by traditional values.
Sister Haight and I attended a sacrament meeting some distance from our home. We found, to our delight, that the Primary would present the program, the theme being “We Believe in Being Honest.”
I marveled at the eagerness of these young children as they spoke about the fundamental principles they were learning of telling the truth, respecting the property of others, being trustworthy, and standing for the right.
I thought of James Fugal, the humble sheepherder, and how wonderful it was that these children were being taught the same values that made him a man of such noble character.

There was something strange about mom and dad both coming to my room to say good-night. It seemed like they had something on their minds. Mom said, “We received a great blessing in the mail today, Jan.” Then dad added, “I have been called to be a mission president. Here is a letter from President Kimball. You will want to read it.”

My heart dropped. Where? When? Do I have to go, too? My eyes began to sting. I didn’t even attempt to hold back the tears. I wanted mom and dad to know that what they were saying was destroying my world. It wasn’t fair. Imagine asking a young, involved, excited sophomore in high school to pack away all her dreams and go out into the mission field without her friends or her older brothers or sisters for three years!

“Sweetheart, this is such a special opportunity and calling,” mom said soothingly. Then dad said, “If you want me to say no, I will. We can’t accept this call without the support of all our family.”

“No way, daddy,” I said through my tears. “We will have to think of something else. Can I live with someone here and finish school? Maybe one of my brothers or sisters wouldn’t mind.” Then the thought struck me: How could I function without mom and dad there to help me along the way? How could I stand it? We had always been so close.

Mom was the Young Women president in the stake and dad the stake patriarch. No wonder the Lord called them to preside over a mission, but why couldn’t He have waited until I was finished with high school and out of the nest? Why was I the only one left to go with them? Why was I born five years after the rest?

Then I noticed the tears in dad’s eyes and saw mom’s face full of hurt. I realized then that leaving home for them would be anything but easy. They would have to leave children and grandchildren, their friends, and home. I knew they were willing, so I took a deep breath and decided I could give it my best shot, at least for the summer.

Where would we be? It could be any place in this wide world. We talked a lot about different places in the world where we would like to live. But somehow, home in Bountiful, Utah, still seemed the very best place for me. I started hoping we would be assigned to the Salt Lake City North Mission.

The assignment came on April 1, 1979. Only missionaries know the feeling of anticipation that letter can bring. As we opened the envelope, the first thing I saw were three familiar signatures at the bottom, and then slowly I raised my eyes to the body of the letter. There it was. We were called to the Mississippi Jackson Mission.

Mississippi … where was Mississippi? I had no idea which state it was except that it was down south. Dad got out the map and the World Book. Excitement began to grow, even in me. This could be kind of fun, seeing new country and meeting all those missionaries. I have to admit I had no intention of breaking school ties and staying down there beyond summer, to go to a school where I might be the only Mormon in my class.

To my utter amazement, my older brothers and sisters envied me. My oldest brother, Craig, really encouraged me. “Jan,” he said, “this is a chance of a lifetime.” I was glad they were excited for me, but still I figured those words were easy enough for them to say, easier than for me to do.

I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself. My world was changing, and I didn’t want it to. As a teenager I was struggling to find security by developing my talents, getting involved in many things, and in making lots of friends. I belonged and felt comfortable. Drill team tryouts were just over, and I had made it. I was a Vykette!

How could I ever give up that dream? I had so many other dreams. The one I had yet to achieve, and the most important of all, was to be in the madrigals chorus. Being in that singing group would be the highlight of my senior year if I were lucky enough to make it. However, summer was still before me, and I decided to spend it down south regardless of all my school anticipations.

That first summer, dad and mom and I traveled a lot getting acquainted with the wards and branches. I found that I did have a family after all with about 80 big brothers.

Our big family decision that summer was still what to do with Jan. Building a foundation for a new mission meant dad had to travel much of the time and mom needed to be with him to get to know the missionaries, their needs, and the areas. We all prayed about it, and the decision was made. I could go back to Viewmont High School in Utah and live with my brother David, his wife Pamela, and Kimi.

My junior year at Viewmont was wonderful, packed with lots of drill team memories, book learning, work with the junior class committee, special dances, fun with family, and spiritual and fun times with my Laurel class. Only my journal and my Heavenly Father knew of all my lonely times without my parents. The phone bills also gave unmistakable evidence.

In the spring after an especially exciting day, I just had to call “home” to tell mom and dad the big news. The voice on the other end of the line said, “Honey, we’re glad you called. We were just going to call you. Dad and I have talked to the headmaster at Jackson Preparatory School, and they have room for you this next year. We know this is where you should be. We really want you to plan to come here for school next year.” Silence. I felt my world slipping again.

“But, mom, I just can’t. I tried out for madrigals just yesterday, and I feel so good about it. My big dream, remember?” I cried, and mom cried. How could I leave everything and everyone? All my dreams of being a senior at Viewmont—I had waited so long. But when parents like mine say they both have a strong feeling that I should do something, I know that I should. When I said, “Okay, mom and dad, I will come,” a sweet, peaceful feeling came over me, and I knew it would be all right.

The second summer was filled with zone conferences and youth conferences. It was great fun seeing the missionaries again. The number had grown from 80 to 160, so there were many new ones to get acquainted with.

I was enrolled in a college preparatory school, Jackson Prep, which seemed to be number one in everything—academics, sports, drama, music. I was scared to death to start there. Aside from a couple of girls in the neighborhood, I didn’t know a soul.

My classes were tough and were taught like college courses. Everyone bought their own books and we were to take notes on lectures every day. Exams were held often. To add to my potpourri of confusion, I was told that I was being watched because I was a Mormon—the only one in the entire school. I felt that I was stuck in a spot, although not necessarily a bad one. I could make it good or bad depending on one thing—my attitude.

I had all kinds of good advice from the missionaries and others on just what I should say and do, but when that first dreaded day of school arrived, I forgot it all and barely made it home and through the front door before I broke down and wailed as if my heart were broken. There sat mom hurting too, but at least she was there for me. We cried together as I explained, “Mom, the kids are so different. I can’t understand the teachers.” The teachers spoke with a strong southern accent, and I found myself writing notes from their lectures that weren’t anything near what they actually said. I hadn’t quite mastered the language yet.

“Oh,” I sobbed, “besides that, today I was one minute late for my English class. When I finally found the room, my teacher made me stand up in front of everyone and explain why I was late.” At first mom looked at me, attempting to give me some motherly consolation, but then we both started to laugh. Mom and usually dad were always there to listen as I unfolded the happenings of the day, and we found that laughing was a lot more fun than crying. Things did get better.

As I started the school year, I made some promises to my Heavenly Father. The memory of a special blessing given to us by President Ezra Taft Benson just before we came into the mission field helped me to set my goals. I knew if I did all I could to be a good example and symbol of the Church for Him that He would send special opportunities to me.

I found myself, miraculously, a member of a new madrigal singing group, a member of the chamber singers, and of the acappella choir at school. I also found great friends in my choir director and drama director. I gained many new friends as I participated in two dramatic productions that year. Getting into these activities wasn’t all my idea. I had a little mother behind me all the way, encouraging me to get involved.

Slowly but surely, I gained respect from my friends and teachers, and I almost welcomed all the teasing about being a Mormon. It wasn’t unusual at all to have someone come into my first period class waving an article they had found on the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or on the Church’s stand on abortion.

Everyone seemed interested in the Mormons, and even though they would kid me a lot, I think they were impressed that a group of people could stick to their guns and pass up liquor and tea and coffee, not just once in a while, but all the time. Defending the Church wasn’t hard anymore. It was kind of fun. Who would be up to bat next, and whose hits could I catch?

The best opportunity I had defending the Church was when I became involved with the Junior Miss Pageant as a contestant for Capitol City’s Junior Miss. Many of the senior girls were trying out, and I decided to go for it, too.

Once I was picked as one of the 20 contestants, there were dances to learn, a short course on modeling, a talent number to prepare, and studying to do for a personal interview with the judges. It was great. Twenty girls from different schools learning together and having fun and not a Mormon except me in the bunch. Excitement began to mount as the pageant drew near. Our interviews were scheduled the afternoon of the pageant.

Finally, it was my turn, and I nervously walked up the long flight of stairs to the room where the five judges awaited. At first they just visited with me. Then an older, quiet man began asking questions about my religion—tough questions. It took me back for a moment. Then I got hold of myself and answered the best way I knew how. The words flowed freely, and I felt as if my eyes were relaying the message as well as my words. I knew I received lots of extra help from above that day. What I said must have satisfied the judges because that night number 10 was crowned Capitol City’s Junior Miss—I was number 10!

As friends and mom and dad crowded around and hugged me, my mind reflected back to the hateful feelings I had felt at first after reading “the call.” Now in my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for giving me the chance. I felt so happy—happy for wonderful friends who accepted me with all kinds of southern hospitality and for friends at home who kept reassuring and encouraging me with their love. I was happy for a wonderful family like my sisters who received calls from a bawling baby sister and always ended up making her laugh. Most of all I was happy for a dad and mom who stood by through it all and guided me with all their love.

What happened to that year I was so afraid of? I shudder to think of missing my year at Prep. There was, however, a constant concern in my heart. What more can I do to let everyone know that the Church is true? A Book of Mormon with my personal testimony written in the front to each of my teachers helped satisfy that unrest. Each one promised to read that precious book.

I am now so thankful that I listened to my wonderful family and accepted the challenge of the mission field. It means so much to me to have become a part of my dad’s special calling. I grew up a lot and learned many important lessons through my experiences in Mississippi. Things that make us grow never are easy, and now when I look back, I can’t really remember the rough times. I only remember the great ones.

All the friendships I made in Mississippi continue to grow sweeter as time passes, and maybe someday some of the seeds planted there will flourish. I guess most of all I learned how to totally rely on my Heavenly Father. This lesson will stay with me not only for today but forever.

At this time in our lives, my father had drifted into inactivity from the Church, so my mother relied on ward priesthood leaders to help raise us. Ned Brimley was our home teacher. One Sunday I was passing the sacrament and I went into the foyer with a tray of water, we had already passed the bread. A woman was just walking into the building late so, I approached her with the tray and she took the water. Mind you, the bread had already been passed. Brother Brimley happened to be in the foyer with his young daughter. As I made my way back into the chapel, Ned pulled me close and whispered, “NEVER PASS THE WATER TO SOMEONE WHO HASN’T TAKEN THE BREAD. THE SACRAMENT IS SEQUENTIAL. I’LL EXPLAIN WHEN I VISIT THIS WEEK.” I did NOT know what the word “sequential” meant but I was intrigued.
Later in the week when Brother Brimley visited, he came with a lesson about how the earth was created in seven days and how God created it in “sequence.” God started by separating light from darkness, the waters from earth, plant life, animals and so forth before Adam and Eve. Then he rested on the seventh day. The creation was “sequential.” He explained the priesthood is also ordained in sequence. Aaronic before Melchizedek. Each office within those priesthoods is sequential, deacon, teacher, and priests. Elder, high priests, Bishop and so forth. It’s sequential. Faith precedes the miracle. Sequential. Baptism is followed by the laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost. Sequential. The sacrament? Sequential. The bread is always blessed and taken before the water. Brother Brimley ended by searing these words into my heart as a 12-year-old deacon: “Vai, God’s House is one of order. He expects you to live your life with order; sequentially. Serve a mission. Go to college. Get married. Then have children. If you have children BEFORE marriage, your life will be out of sequence, out of order and you will have problems. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir Brother Brimley. I do.”
I understood the word “sequential” at age 12 in a powerfully personal and unforgettable way that many of my peers, even ones much smarter than me, could ever know it. Guess what? These lessons stayed with me. In time, when I was on a date with a cute girl, I remembered, “Sequential. College. Mission. Marriage. Children. College. Mission. Marriage. Children.”

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.
When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from a wildebeest.
I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.
President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.
“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”
Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight. They are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.
We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.
Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!
Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.
We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.
I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.
“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”
On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.
We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud, the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.
The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”
I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”
I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.
He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”
I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.
Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”
The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”
I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

Wow! What an answer to prayer! Letters from home are always a bright part of the week for missionaries, but when a letter from a precious little sister indicated she needed some close sisterly advice, I felt more than a little helpless since I am so far away. What could I write to help her without being preachy? In practically the same mailing we received some copies of past New Eras. I started thumbing through the issue I had managed to talk the elders out of (August 1973) and read “The Winner” by Judy Kay Welch. There it was! The very illustration I needed for her. Nobody can tell me there wasn’t a guiding hand in my receiving that particular New Era and that special letter at the same time.
If I had written every time the New Era has helped me you would have received a mountain of letters from me by now. I thank the Lord for parents who have always recognized the importance of the Church magazines in our home.
Sister Evelyn SmithBolivia Mission

It is good to be with you this morning. While in a moment I will draw on the academic disciplines of Egyptology and biblical studies, in which I have been so steeped over the last few decades, I want to start out by trying to draw an analogy from one of my favorite things to do: waterskiing. The way I read the accounts of the Savior and Peter on the Sea of Galilee, it seems to me that waterskiing is the closest thing we have to a celestial sport. I can’t get enough of it. In fact, one year my brothers, a cousin, and I made the goal of skiing on Utah Lake every month of the year. During January and February we questioned the wisdom of this goal, but we did it. I skied every time I got the chance.
During all these years of waterskiing I have had the chance to teach a lot of people how to ski. I believe I taught around 100 people. As I did so, I realized that there are really only three things people have to do to learn how to ski. The first is to keep their skis together. Often the pressure of the water will cause a person to do the splits, and it is very hard to ski that way. But there are ways to tie skis together, so this isn’t the biggest problem.
The most difficult problem comes because you have an instinctive tendency to try to stand on top of the water as the boat pulls you. As a result, just as the boat pulls people up, most of them pull on the rope and push with their legs. Instead of being helpful, both of these actions tend to pull people’s legs out from under them, and they immediately fall. Most of the time the action of pulling on the rope was so instinctive that people didn’t even realize they had done it. I can’t tell you how many times I repeated the mantra “arms straight, knees bent, skis together.” I would explain again and again that the boat was strong enough to pull a person up—they just had to be patient enough to let it.
Here is the lesson: When those I taught learned to forget about using their own strength to get up and relied on the power of the boat, they would ski. When you master your impulse to pull yourself up, you get on top of the water; then the ability to accelerate, cut through the water, float on a sea of glass, and sail with an amazing feeling of freedom and exhilaration is waiting for you.

One Sunday when leaving for church, our car would not start. We lived in Germany, far from our chapel and other members. My wife and I each offered a prayer for help, but still the car wouldn’t start. I suggested that perhaps we should rely on the faith of a child. We asked our three-year old son, David, if he would say a prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please bless the car to start,” he said simply but firmly.
We turned the key, and the engine started right up! We were grateful that day for David’s faith. It was pure, simple, and true.