Gospel Story Finder

In addition to the loving care I received from my mother, I received similar nurturing from my big sister, who was my mentor and protector.

When I was old enough to enter kindergarten, I was worried sick. I had watched my sister do her homework and was concerned by the fact that I didn’t know how to read or do arithmetic. The night before school started, my apprehension must have shown, because she came into the bedroom and started talking to me about school. I explained my concerns, and she immediately began to allay my fears. She told me about recess. I could handle that. Then she explained that I would be taught to read one word at a time, and she assured me that I was smart and wouldn’t have any trouble.

Now, how would a brother handle a situation like that?

“Wow, you’re in big trouble! You may never graduate from kindergarten. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If you will give me your allowance, I’ll help you.”

As I mentioned earlier, men and women are different.

When Liisa, 20, first heard about the job at the Delfinaario (dolphin aquarium), she was excited. She had good qualifications. In the Finnish equivalent of high school, she’d studied biology, but also math, science, physics, and chemistry.

“All those things are part of the job,” she explains. “Plus that, I’ve always been interested in animals.” And the job would help her earn money to pay for college in Sweden. Her enthusiasm and background paid off. She was hired.

Nikki and Breck Fullmer quarreled constantly. Most of their fights were about Nikki borrowing Breck’s T-shirts, and Nikki enduring Breck’s music. Nikki and Breck were both looking for a way out of their conflicts when they decided to participate in their stake’s “Time Alone” experiment.

Nikki knew her brother gulped gallons of soda pop every week, so she invited him to go get a drink with her. He thought it was a fine arrangement, since she was buying. After the soda they talked and drove around for an hour. After just one rendezvous Nikki said, “He’s at a stage where he’ll do just about anything to be cool. And now he thinks it’s cool to be with me.”

The story of Lorenzo Odone, a six-year-old boy who developed adrenoleukodystrophy (ALD), a rare fatal genetic disease, powerfully portrays the connection between family and questions of the heart.

The story opens when Lorenzo begins having trouble at school. Teachers meet with Lorenzo’s parents, Michaela and Augusto, and explain that Lorenzo is often unresponsive in the classroom and should be placed in a special education program. Unconvinced that Lorenzo has a problem, the Odones argue that with the proper attention, Lorenzo will do fine in the regular classroom. But then Michaela notices some of the behavior problems at home. Lorenzo begins having accidents around the house, and when he plays outside with his friends, he seems to have difficulty at times controlling his arms and legs.

The Odones begin to worry that something is seriously wrong with their child, but when they take Lorenzo in for a medical examination, the physicians are unable to identify the problem. After a series of frustrating visits to the hospital, Michaela and Augusto finally find a physician who diagnoses Lorenzo’s disease as ALD, a disease that strips away the myelin—the insulating tissue that surrounds the nerve endings. The doctor explains that there is no cure for the disease, that the medical profession is just beginning to understand what it is. The Odones plead with the doctor; they tell him that they will take Lorenzo anywhere for special treatment—anywhere they can find someone who is working on a cure. But the physician cannot help them. He looks over his desk at them and simply shakes his head, indicating that neither he nor anyone else can provide the help Lorenzo needs.

The next day Augusto goes to the local library and begins reading about ALD. He finds that the disease often leads to death within two years of diagnosis and that before the child dies, he gradually loses control of bodily functions, often experiencing blindness, deafness, and complete loss of speech and mobility. Augusto and Michaela cry out for help; they begin searching for answers to their son’s problem. They seek help from God, as well as from the medical profession.

The Odones know that their time is short. They know that if they do not respond quickly, Lorenzo will die. As they continue to study the disease, they find that ALD makes it impossible for the body to digest fatty acids and that the rise in fatty-acid levels gradually destroys not only the body’s myelin but all of the vital organs. The Odones’ question becomes “How can we lower Lorenzo’s levels of fatty acids?” After months of intensive study and personal prayer, they light upon the idea of using oleic acid, an extract from olive oil. When they administer the oleic acid to Lorenzo, they find that his fatty-acid levels indeed decrease, but the decrease plateaus at the halfway mark.

They watch in anguish as Lorenzo’s condition deteriorates. Michaela, his mother, devotes herself so completely to his care that she begins to forget her own physical needs. At a point of deep discouragement, Augusto convinces Michaela that she must continue on and that they must extend their search for a cure to Lorenzo’s illness.

Augusto returns to the library, studying all the scientific literature he can find on long-chain fatty acids. His search is intense; he thinks about Lorenzo’s problem day and night. When his research fails to yield what he is looking for, he becomes frustrated and knows that he needs help from others who are seeking a cure for ALD. He and Michaela begin working with a medical researcher who is conducting studies on ALD; they appreciate his help but do not believe that he is bold enough to try new approaches. Augusto returns to the library again and again; the librarian becomes an important resource for Augusto, supplying him with scientific studies on long-chain fatty acids. Augusto begins building models of the fatty acids so that he can visualize what is happening inside Lorenzo’s body.

After months of research, Augusto hypothesizes that an extract from rapeseed oil might be effective at reducing Lorenzo’s fatty acids to normal levels. But then he finds that this oil is not approved for human consumption in the U.S., so he is unable to convince an American firm to produce the substance for him. Finally, he finds a chemist in England who agrees to help him. He is close to retirement but agrees to extract the substance from rapeseed oil so that Augusto can try it with Lorenzo. When the Odones receive the oil from the British chemist, Lorenzo’s condition has already deteriorated significantly. They try the oil nonetheless and find that it indeed reduces Lorenzo’s fatty acids to normal levels.

This lesson I learned anew some years ago as I received a rather unique and frightening assignment. Folkman D. Brown, then the Director of Mormon Relationships for the Boy Scouts of America, came to my office, having learned that I was about to depart for a lengthy assignment to New Zealand. He told me of his widowed sister, Belva Jones, who had been stricken with terminal cancer, who knew not how to tell her only son—a missionary in that faraway country. Her wish, even her plea, was that he remain in the mission field and serve faithfully. She worried about his reaction; for the missionary, Elder Ryan Jones, had lost his father just a year earlier to the same dread disease.
I accepted the responsibility. Following a missionary meeting held adjacent to the majestically beautiful New Zealand Temple, I met privately with Elder Jones and, as gently as I could, explained the situation of his mother. Naturally there were tears—not all his—but then the handclasp of assurance and the pledge: “Tell my mother I will serve, I will pray, and I will see her again.”
I returned to Salt Lake City just in time to attend a conference of the Lost River Stake at Moore, Idaho. As I sat on the stand with the stake president, my attention was drawn almost instinctively to the east side of the chapel, where the morning sunlight bathed the lone occupant of a front bench. I said to the stake president, “Who is the sister upon whom the sunlight is resting? I feel I must speak to her today.” He replied, “Her name is Belva Jones. She has a missionary son in New Zealand. She is very ill and has requested a blessing.”
Prior to that moment, I had not known where Belva Jones lived. My assignment that weekend could have been to any one of 50 stakes. Yet the Lord, in His own way, had answered the prayer of faith of a concerned mother. We had a wonderful visit together. I reported word for word the reaction and the resolve of her son, Ryan. A blessing was provided, a prayer offered, a witness received. Belva Jones would live to see her son complete his mission. This privilege she enjoyed. Just one month prior to her passing, his mission completed, Ryan returned home.

The crowd seemed to calm down suddenly as they focused their attention on the gymnastic arena. Everyone seemed to be watching the same girl—the one who had attracted their attention earlier in the balance beam competition. This time she was swinging on the uneven parallel bars.
The girl was Diane Ellingson, a typical-looking fifteen-year-old gymnast with a slim body, her hair in a blonde ponytail. But the crowd seemed to sense that there was more to her than her good looks.
Maybe they noticed her because of the confident way she performed her pirouettes during her floor routine. It could have been the spectacular twists and turns she executed when she flipped from the uneven parallel bars. It might have been her effortless leaps over the vault, but above all that, it was probably her genuine love for the crowd. They could feel it when she flashed them that winning smile at the end of a perfect routine.
Of course, even when her performance wasn’t quite so perfect there was still something about that smile. Even when she slipped and landed flat on her face at the end of a routine while being filmed on national television, she smiled and waved to the crowd until they applauded. In a competition on her eighteenth birthday she told the judges it was her birthday so they would ask the crowd to sing “Happy Birthday” to her. “I wasn’t embarrassed,” says Diane. “I would’ve let them sing it twice just for the attention.”
Even as a child, Diane loved to have an audience. Once when she was nine or ten years old she didn’t come home from school when she was supposed to, so her father went looking for her. He found her in the center of a circle of children, entertaining them with her tumbling tricks just for fun.
Diane’s sister Marie laughs at the memory of Diane as a child performer. “If you ever see our family photographs, she’s always out in front. She was just always a show-off. Dad would be photographing someone else and Diane would get in the picture somehow.”
The desire to perform fit perfectly into gymnastics, another of Diane’s lifelong loves. It was hard to convince her parents that gymnastics was a good thing for her, and even then she had to do something more.
“Our family had seven children and couldn’t afford to pay for Diane to have lessons. She went down to the gymnasium herself and told the coach that she’d do anything for them. So after practice sessions she’d clean the gymnasium—vacuuming mats, cleaning bathrooms, whatever, to pay for her lessons,” says Marie.
Diane’s love of the spotlight was quickly matched by her gymnastic ability, and the two made a championship combination. She started training when she was fourteen and a half years old, a late start by competitive standards, but within a year she was competing against the best in the country. She was the Junior Olympic National Champion in high school, and in college she led the University of Utah’s women’s gymnastics team to their first national victory.
After she was no longer eligible for college competition, she decided to go on a national professional tour. Diane knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.
During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew up and over the vault—just like all the other times. But this time was different. This time she turned her body just a little too far. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost six months and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.
That was on December 15, 1981. Diane spent that Christmas and the next five months in the hospital, trying to imagine her life without gymnastics. After so many years of loving the sport, it was difficult for Diane to adjust.
“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few centimeters every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”
Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so restless. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.
“One day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”
Ironically, one of the biggest aids to her recovery was gymnastics. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten up again if I hadn’t had that training in gymnastics,” she says. “I had a lot of serious injuries when I was a gymnast that I just had to deal with. It was always down, up, down, up in gymnastics and this was just one more down I had to get up from. Gymnastics taught me to get back up so I could be a champion again.”
On the day she finally realized she would never walk again, Diane made the decision to return to school to work for her degree. She was lying on her bed with all her scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”
Now Diane teaches a class full of seven-year-olds who are just the right height to look her in the eye. “The kids will do anything for her,” says Marie. “They just love her.”
Her students aren’t her only fans. Diane also gives fireside talks to teenagers who listen intently as she tells her story. And her message is one of hope and perseverance, without bitterness for what has happened.
Her personality hasn’t changed at all. Just listen to her speak and you’ll hear the exuberant, happy girl who used to charm arenas full of people. Now her charm is just aimed at another audience. Her voice seems to smile at every person in the room and her own laughter frequently interrupts her stories.
“I think telling my gymnastics stories and sharing my experiences opens up the communication between us. They soon forget that I’m in a wheelchair. When they do that, the youth can see that I’m just a regular person and we have a lot in common, even though, in a wheelchair, I look a lot different than they do,” Diane says.
Her main message is one for potential champions: don’t give up, no matter what happens. “When I was a young gymnast I met a girl, an athlete named Nancy Thies. Nancy was a member of the U.S. Olympic team and one of the finest gymnasts in the country. I have never forgotten some very important things that Nancy taught me. I remember the first thing she said was, ‘Don’t be afraid to lose.’ She said, ‘If you fall down and you stay down, you’re a quitter and a loser and you will never win. But if you get back up and you try one more time, it will be your turn to be the champion, so just don’t give up.’” Diane says she made a promise to herself that she would remember that advice and never give up, no matter how many times she fell.
Once she faced the hardest fall of her life, not giving up was difficult, especially because of her wheelchair. The entire time she was a gymnast, whether she was swinging high above the uneven parallel bars of just doing handstands for fun, her only fear was of being blind or paralyzed. “I had such uneasy feelings about wheelchairs that I would never talk to anybody in a wheelchair or go near a wheelchair. I would avoid people in wheelchairs. I was afraid that I’d end up in a wheelchair if I got too close to one. It was almost like having thought about it so much somehow prepared me for a wheelchair,” she says.
It was probably Diane’s unconquerable spirit that prepared her more than anything else. It’s a spirit that is evident in both her funny stories and her powerfully quiet testimony about the importance of an eternal perspective and God’s love for each of his children. It’s a spirit that Diane has always had. “I’ve never met anyone, except my father, who has a stronger testimony than she does,” says Marie. “There’s no doubt in her mind that what she’s doing is right and that the Church is true. She has always been a great example.”
The lights are turned down in the room as she finishes her message, and a slide show featuring Diane, the fun-lover and gymnast, lashes on the screen in time to some fast, contemporary music. When the presentation is over, young people surround her excitedly.
Diane says, “It makes me feel really good when people tell me they’re going to try harder after they’ve heard my talk. One girl came to me once and told me she’d heard me speak four different times. The first time, she decided not to commit suicide. The second time, she decided that she didn’t have to drop out of school. The third time, she made a goal to become one of the best students in her class, and the last time she was on her way to that goal.”
Diane just shrugs her shoulders and laughs a little when someone tells her she’s wonderful. She even looks a little embarrassed, which is rare for this experienced performer. “People always think, ‘You’re so amazing, you’re so incredible,’ but I’m not. People will say, ‘If that happened to me I could never handle the situation,’ and the thing I have to say is, ‘Either you handle the situation or you die.’ You have to take whatever life gives you and deal with it, even if you might not want to. You know, if somebody dies in your family, you have to live with it. If you break your neck you have to live with it, but you just learn and that’s what’s so great about time and the healing process. You don’t have to be miraculous.”
You just have to be as willing as Diane was to get up again, so that someday it will be your turn to be the champion. For Diane, the victory is especially sweet, because she has won back what she thought she’d lost.
She is a champion again.

At a recent extended family home evening, our grandchildren were having a wonderful time. A six-year-old grandson became very upset when his father said it was time to go home. So what did this dear boy do? He came to me and said, “Grandfather, may I have your permission to disobey my father?”
I said, “No, sweetheart. One of life’s great lessons is to learn that happiness comes through obedience. Go home with your family, and you will be happy.” Though disappointed, he dutifully obeyed.

As a bishop of a student ward adjacent to the University of Utah campus about 18 years ago, I tried vainly to hold a young marriage together. The wife had been unfaithful, and as I sought to help and to understand, I learned that as a child this woman had an adulterous father. Though unjustified, she acted out her feelings about men. What she then did was not love. Several years after my release as bishop, I saw a story in the local paper about her having been arrested for prostitution. I know not where she is today, but I cannot put out of my mind the words of Jacob, who decried unfaithful fathers who had lost the confidence of their children because of their bad examples (see Jacob 2:35).

Three friends play in the sandbox. Brynn drops pebbles into a bucket and hears “plink, plunk!” Brynn shakes the bucket. “Rattle, rattle!” say the pebbles. Ezra scoops sand with his shovel. “Shoosh, shoosh,” goes the sand. Mia taps the side of the sandbox with two sticks. “Tap, tap!” beat the sticks. The three friends play a song. “Rattle, rattle!” say the pebbles. “Shoosh, shoosh,” goes the sand. “Tap, tap!” beat the sticks. “What should we call our song?” asks Brynn. “How about ‘Sandbox Sounds’?” says Ezra. “Perfect!” says Mia. “Rattle, rattle, shoosh, shoosh, tap, tap!” sings the sandbox.

I witnessed such an act of service one Sunday as I attended the sacrament meeting of a small branch which consisted of patients in a nursing home. Most of the members were elderly and somewhat incapacitated. During the meeting, a sister called out aloud, “I’m cold! I’m cold!” Without a moment’s hesitation, one of the priests at the sacrament table arose and walked over to this sister, removed his own suit coat, placed it around her shoulders, and then returned to his duties at the sacrament table.

After the meeting, this young man came to me and apologized for blessing the sacrament without his suit coat. Quietly I said to him that he was never more appropriately dressed than he was that day when a dear widow was uncomfortably cold and he provided the warmth she needed by placing his jacket around her shoulders. A simple act of kindness? Yes, but much more: a genuine love and concern for others.

Paul McCauley was a happy devoted member of the Baptist church in the late 1960s. He loved his family and he worked hard to provide for them. He understood the value of spending quality time together as a family, so one year they took a long family vacation, in their station wagon, from the East to the West and back East again.
It was a foggy day when they arrived in Manti Utah on their way to Bryce Canyon and Arches. Paul said they came into town and there was a fog low to the ground. Because it was low to the ground, He saw what looked like a castle floating on a cloud. The Manti temple would look like it was floating because it sits on a hill and was above the fog.
He decided he needed stop and take a closer look at this floating Mormon castle, which he knew was a Mormon Temple because of all the road signs. He parked his car in the temple parking lot and headed towards the backdoor of the Temple in shorts and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his tee-shirt. He said he headed to the backdoor, the wrong door, because he figured missionaries would try to snag his name at the front door - and if missionaries got hold of his name and address they'd never leave him alone.
There was a nice grounds keeper who saw Paul headed to the back door of the temple and said, "You are not a member, are you?"
The grounds keeper did his best to explain to Paul why he and his family could not tour the inside of the temple and he showed Paul to the visitor center.
Paul was just curious enough to know more that he went into the visitor center to see what he could find out about the church. At one point of the tour, he found himself in a small theater watching Man's Search for Happiness. So many of his questions were answered by just that one movie, and, maybe more importantly, he felt something powerful. So, Paul filled out a referral card, at the insistence of his wife, in spite of the fact that he did not really want missionaries knocking on his door.
A year passed after the McCauley's came home from their vacation and no missionaries showed up at their home. Paul had pretty much forgotten about Mormons. But, one night he came home a bit tipsy from the drink, and did something he'd done for most of his life before going to bed. He sat down, grabbed his scriptures, let them fall open to a page, and read on that page. On that night he said something remarkable happened. He said he clearly remembers the scriptures speaking to him, they said: "Paul, you are a drunken disciple." The message was clear, Paul knew he needed to get his life in order. He asked his sweet wife to "Call the Mormon missionaries" and two sister missionaries showed up knocking at the front door the next day.
One thing led to another, and the McCauleys were baptized members of the Church.

The earliest instance of which I have recollection of spiritual feelings was when I was about five years of age, a very small boy. I was crying from the pain of an earache. There were no wonder drugs at the time. That was 85 years ago. My mother prepared a bag of table salt and put it on the stove to warm. My father softly put his hands upon my head and gave me a blessing, rebuking the pain and the illness by authority of the holy priesthood and in the name of Jesus Christ. He then took me tenderly in his arms and placed the bag of warm salt at my ear. The pain subsided and left. I fell asleep in my father’s secure embrace. As I was falling asleep, the words of his administration floated through my mind. That is the earliest remembrance I have of the exercise of the authority of the priesthood in the name of the Lord.

Recently I read the following from the Better Families column, "David writes a Post-It note to his daughter every night before he goes to bed. He puts it in a place where she will be sure to find it in the morning--on her mirror, in her lunch box, on her bedroom door, or in some other conspicuous place. On each note he writes something he appreciates about her." I appreciated your help with the dishes tonight," or "I was really inspired by how hard you worked on your math and got an A on your final." One day he went into her room looking for a lost hammer. On his way out he saw 250 post-it notes stuck on the back of her bedroom door. His daughter had kept every one of his notes. So now, every time she leaves her bedroom she sees 250 notes of appreciation that remind her that somebody loves her. What a powerful message. What wonderful therapy. All from a simple post-it note."

I’ve seen this in my own family. My great-grandfather Martin Gassner was changed forever because a humble branch president answered the Savior’s call. In Germany in 1909, times were tough and money was tight. Martin worked as a welder in a pipe manufacturing plant. By his own admission, most paydays ended in drinking, smoking, and buying rounds at the pub. His wife finally warned him that if he didn’t change, she would leave.
One day, Martin’s coworker met him on the way to the pub with a crumpled religious booklet in his hand. He had found it on the street and told Martin that he felt something different after reading the pamphlet entitled Was wissen Sie von den Mormonen?, or What Do You Know About the Mormons? I’m certain that title has changed.
An address stamped on the back was just legible enough to decipher where the church was located. It was a considerable distance away, but they were moved by what they read and decided to take the train that Sunday to investigate. When they arrived, they found that the address was not the church they expected but a funeral home. Martin hesitated—because, really, a church in a funeral home sounded a little too much like a package deal.
But upstairs, in a rented hall, they found a small group of Saints. A man invited them to testimony meeting. Martin was touched by the Spirit and was so impressed by the simple, fervent testimonies that he bore his testimony. And it was there, in that most unlikely place, that he said he already knew it must be true.
Afterward the man introduced himself as the branch president and asked if they would return. Martin explained that he lived too far away and couldn’t afford the weekly trip. The branch president simply said, “Follow me.”
They walked a few blocks to a nearby factory where the branch president’s friend worked. After a short conversation, Martin and his friend were both offered jobs. Then the branch president led them to an apartment building and secured housing for their families.
All of this happened within two hours. Martin’s family moved the following week. Six months later they were baptized. The man once known as a hopeless drunk became so ardent in his new faith that people in town began calling him, perhaps not so affectionately, “the priest.”
As for the branch president, I cannot tell you his name—his identity has been lost to time. But I call him a disciple, ambassador, Christian, good Samaritan, and friend. His influence is still felt 116 years later, and I stand on the shoulders of his discipleship.
“There is a saying that you can count the seeds in an apple, but you can’t count the apples that come from one seed.” The seed planted by the branch president has produced countless fruit. Little would he have known that 48 years later, several generations of Martin’s family on both sides of the veil would be sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
B. When Tasha is out of earshot, you whisper to Julie that Tasha didn’t want her to come and had made faces at her behind her back. Julie gets very quiet. Your get-together is no fun after that.
Surely you didn’t mean to do that! Won’t you reconsider and choose I?
C. You all three go back to the tire swing and have a lot of fun. After a while, Julie’s mom picks her up and Tasha walks home. You’re glad that she and Julie have become friends too.
This is the end of the story—unless you want to do a little more missionary work. If you do, go to G.
D. Tasha hides the cigarette as her mother drives past, then starts to put it in her mouth. You yell, “Stop! It really is bad for you.” She says, “Once won’t hurt. I want to know what it tastes like.” She takes a puff and starts to cough. When she throws the cigarette down, you stomp on it and say, “I wish you hadn’t done that. Heavenly Father doesn’t want us to hurt our bodies.” Tasha asks, “Is Heavenly Father the same person as God? How do you know that He doesn’t want us to smoke?”
If you say, “I just do, that’s all. Come on—it’s Julie’s turn on the swing,” go to C. If you say, “Because he told us so in a scripture we call the Word of Wisdom,” go to G.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
F. Julie doesn’t come, because she thinks that your mom changed her mind about your having friends over. You and Tasha have a good time, except that you feel guilty about lying to Julie. Later, Julie finds out that Tasha was at your house, and her feelings are really hurt. Your friendship is never the same. You are sad that you lost a good friend.
You can’t make such a bad decision so soon—repent and go to A.
G. “What’s the Word of Wisdom?” Tasha asks. “It’s kind of like a health code,” you say. “It teaches us to not smoke, drink coffee, tea, beer, or wine—stuff like that. And to not do drugs.”
Julie pipes up, “It teaches us to eat fruits and vegetables and grains—you know, healthy things.”
“So do you two go to the same church?” Tasha asks. When you both nod, she looks down. “I don’t go to church, except when I visit my grandma. What do you do at your church?”
“Well,” you answer, “we have Primary every Sunday. It’s kind of like Sunday School in other churches. We have a lesson and learn about Jesus Christ. We sing songs, too, and have a lot of fun. Oh, and we have special activity days every so often.”
“Yeah,” Julie chimes in, “it’s all really neat! Would you like to come with us this Sunday?”
“Do I have to wear a dress?”
“We always do,” you tell her. “I’m always glad I do—it just feels right, somehow.”
Tasha shrugs. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt me to dress up. Sure—I’ll ask Mom if I can go.” (The End)
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
J. Julie gets tears in her eyes and doesn’t say anything. Tasha says, “Thanks a lot, Big Mouth,” and goes home. You and Julie have fun playing, but you get a knot in your stomach when you think about Tasha’s angry eyes. The next day in school, Tasha won’t even speak to you.
Not again! Aren’t you glad that this is just a story? Change your choice to E.

Once a group of children was playing in a home where the Prophet was hiding from wicked men who wanted to kill him. They overheard the older people tell of the Prophet’s danger, and one seven-year-old girl said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”

A few minutes later the Prophet went past a bedroom door in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety. Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. As the children rose from their knees, one of them said, “Now I know Brother Joseph will be safe.”

Then the Prophet returned to the room where his older friends had come to guard him through the night. He told them that they could go to their own homes, for he knew that prayers of children are heard and answered and that he could sleep in peace that night. And he did!

In late February of 1834, the Prophet Joseph Smith was inspired to organize a group of brethren to travel to Missouri to assist the Saints who were being severely persecuted for their religious beliefs. This group, which became known as Zion’s Camp, was to resist the unlawful mobs that were harassing members of the Church and help restore the Saints to their lands, which had been unlawfully taken from them.

Zion’s Camp, a group of over 200 brethren and a few women and children, left Ohio in early May of 1834. Led by the Prophet Joseph, they marched a thousand miles in 45 days, finally arriving in Clay County, Missouri.

From the start the expedition was fraught with suffering and hardship. Some members of the group murmured against the Prophet and questioned his ability to lead. The majority, however, remained true to his counsel and continued on.

Zion’s Camp did not achieve its political or military objectives. Having been met by a superior force of Missourian ruffians, the Prophet Joseph resisted the bloodshed that would have certainly come from armed conflict. In early July, Zion’s Camp was disbanded and its members were honorably discharged.

Later the Prophet explained the outcome and purpose of the march:

God did not want you to fight. He could not organize His kingdom with twelve men to open the Gospel door to the nations of the earth, and with seventy men under their direction to follow in their tracks, unless He took them from a body of men who had offered their lives, and who had made as great a sacrifice as did Abraham. [HC 2:182, note†]

Wilford Woodruff, a member of Zion’s Camp and fourth president of the Church, said:

We gained an experience that we never could have gained in any other way. We had the privilege of beholding the face of the prophet, and we had the privilege of travelling a thousand miles with him, and seeing the workings of the Spirit of God with him, and the revelations of Jesus Christ unto him and the fulfilment of those revelations. [JD 13:158]

Within a few months after the discharge of Zion’s Camp, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and the First Quorum of the Seventy were organized. Seventy-nine of the 82 positions filled in these quorums were filled by those who had served and been proven in the march of Zion’s Camp. Men like Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Wilford Woodruff, and many other members of Zion’s Camp were strengthened spiritually and gained practical experience that would be of great assistance to them in the future as they were called to lead the Saints west.

I began law practice in September 1990 in Seattle, Washington. I had not yet taken a bar examination, mostly because when I left law school for a judicial clerkship in San Diego, I hadn’t yet decided where I wanted to practice law and I certainly wasn’t eager to take the bar exam twice. What this meant is that, once I started working at my law firm, from September until May of the next year, I would not be able to appear in court or sign any court pleadings. In all of my correspondence with opposing counsel my signature read: “James R. Rasband, not yet admitted to the bar.”

That fall, soon after I started, I was approached by a partner to handle an “unlawful detainer” case. He said it was an “ideal” opportunity for a young associate. The basic idea of an unlawful detainer is that a tenant who is in possession of a leased property refuses to pay rent or leave the premises. This particular case involved a western wear store in a small town about 100 miles east of Seattle. As I recall, the tenant had not paid rent in over a year and the landlord had decided he needed the help of the legal system.

These are straightforward cases, but everything took me a great deal of time because I was so new. I puzzled over every step and would have preferred not to bill most of my time because much of it was wasted. The partner in charge, however, told me to write down all of my time and that he would write off what was unnecessary once the case was resolved.

One early puzzle I remember was filing what is called a “motion to shorten time.” Basically, a motion to shorten time—as the title suggests—is a request for the court to shorten the amount of time normally required for a particular legal procedure. I’d never heard of a motion to shorten time. I read the rules. I thought about the equity. I went to look at cases. I used my Harvard Law training to think about the theory behind motions to shorten time. I can’t recall precisely, but I probably spent 5 hours on that motion to shorten time. Later, I would learn that all I needed to do was call out to my secretary and have her prepare the motion for my signature. It was probably a 30 minute task.

The motion to shorten time was not the only task that took me more time than an experienced attorney. I was young and learning.

In any event, the case moved forward and we succeeded. It was certainly not a triumph of brilliant lawyering on my part. It’s not too difficult to prove unlawful detainer where the defendant has failed to pay rent for at least a year on a commercial lease.

Once the case was over, the Washington statute under which we proceeded allowed us to seek attorneys fees. The partner in charge told me to draft the motion and seek fees from the other side. Knowing how long everything had taken me, I was a bit queasy. We cut back the request some but plainly not enough because I will never forget the response from opposing counsel.

Opposing counsel dissected the fee request and my billing statements line by line. The motion to shorten time, he said, could be prepared by a reasonably competent attorney in 30 minutes, but it took “James R. Rasband, not yet admitted to the bar,” and he quoted, five hours. And so it went, this task or that task could have been performed by a reasonably competent attorney in X hours, but it took “James R. Rasband, not yet admitted to the bar,” Y hours.

By the time of the fee request, I had been admitted to the bar, much to the surprise of my opposing counsel. Unfortunately, that meant I was fully capable of arguing the fee motion to the court. I headed over to the small town to take my whipping. As luck would have it, the opposing counsel had filed his response brief late and court refused to consider it. The judge, who had done many, many unlawful detainer cases, assigned a reasonable fee and we were done.

Here I was, after three years of law school and one year of working for a judge on the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit, and yet I was still learning and still feeling inadequate. So, what is my point with this rather long story? It is that almost every important undertaking in our lives will be hard and stressful when we begin. When you serve a mission, the first couple of weeks in the MTC are usually stressful. If you are assigned to learn a language, your first couple of months will be humbling. When you start graduate school, it will likely feel like everyone around you is smarter—that is certainly how it felt for me. When you start anything new, don’t be worried or ashamed that your first effort takes longer. If you work hard, the task will almost always become easier. Your early struggles at a job or in graduate school will turn to competence and confidence. The initial feelings of inadequacy that almost always accompany missionary service will give way to joy and peace. There is no other way to learn than by our experience.

But I’d like to share with you a powerful experience that solidified my commitment to the Lord almost immediately. I’m still not perfect, but it was an eye-opener. It’s very personal, but worth sharing. So I hope you will receive it in the same Spirit in which I share it with you.
My oldest son had a very severe drug addiction for several years. . . 10 or 12 years. What started as partying and fun, turned into a thing he would do with a certain group of friends, and that turned into a serious addiction; a lonely addiction, sometimes just staying in his room, but nonetheless, an addiction in which he was entangled in a web—all because of poor choices. But one day he decided to kick the habit all on his own, cold turkey.
I’m not really sure all of what he was going through, because honestly at this point of his addiction, I was pretty angry with him with all that he had put us through for a number of years. I didn’t really see him pulling himself out and so I wasn’t really sympathetic. A few days into his withdrawals, I rushed home from work to make a meal for the 1st counselor of our ward relief society, who had just given birth—and I was feeling the pressure because the daughter of a very good friend of mine. who happened to be living with us, was going to the temple for the first time in an hour and a half. I put a few chickens in the oven to roast, baked some potatoes, and was in the middle of making a salad when my son came down the stairs looking pretty gruff!
His hair was shaggy, he had long whiskers, eyes sunken in, pants hanging off because he was so thin. . . a pretty rude awakening when you realize that’s your son. He went through the refrigerator looking for something to eat, but there wasn’t really anything unless you wanted to cook it. So he asked if there was anything to eat, looking at the oven. I told him no and explained that the chicken was for another family and I couldn’t really cut into it. He asked what we were having and I said that I hadn’t really planned for us and that I was headed to the temple soon. He quietly reached into his pocket and brought out six dollars, placed it on the counter, and explained that he was hungry and wasn’t really feeling well and probably shouldn’t go out of the house in that shape; then asked if I had a minute to grab him something at the store.
Giving an unsympathetic and angry sigh, I made no promises. Another friend who was staying with us volunteered to buy him Subway with his $6 and soon enough I was showered, the meal was packed and delivered, and I was speed walking through the halls of the temple to make it in time for the session. It took me a few minutes to cool down and catch my breath, and that’s when I heard the still small voice say. . . . “Yvonne, you are an idiot!”
Those were not the exact words, but these were the words that followed:
“Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.”
My mind was filled with all the meals I had ever made, all the sisters I had ever visited, all the time I spent reading my scriptures, all the time I had served in the temple. . . I could go on! But the Lord had taught me in that one moment of chastisement that I needed to love unconditionally; especially to love those who are hard to love. I’ll tell you that I went home that evening, I gave up some things to spend more time at home and with him. I made a conscious effort to love him no matter his choices, no matter how he lived his life, and no matter if this was going to be a lifelong addiction. Funny things happen when you change your attitude—soon enough I stopped calling him a drug addict and referred to him as having an addiction. There’s a difference. I started recognizing how generous he was and helpful. I pledged to support him in his good choices and in good things. And most importantly, I learned how loving and merciful our Heavenly Father really is.

Ezra stopped paddling his small outrigger canoe and watched the sun sinking toward the Pacific on the other side of the bay. For years he had fished these waters with his father, but today he had trouble seeing the familiar sight through his tears.
Today he was alone.
As the canoe rocked gently on the water, he could hear the words his father had often spoken: “Watch carefully, Ezra. Someday when I am gone you will need to know how to support the family.”
Today was the day his father had warned him about and tried to prepare him for. But it had come too soon. He was only 16. He wasn’t ready.
Ezra idolizes his father. He had waited impatiently for years until his father said that at age seven, Ezra was finally old enough to help him set and check the fishing nets.
Fishing didn’t provide a lot of money, but it was enough to feed Ezra, his five sisters, and their mother; support Ezra’s oldest sister on her mission in the United States; and help their neighbors. Ezra was even able to begin saving for his own mission.
But now his father was gone. His death was unexpected, and it broke Ezra’s heart. Losing his father meant losing his hero, his bishop, his mentor.
But added to the heartache was a terrible realization: the responsibility his father had tried to prepare him for was suddenly his. Ezra would have to support the family now.
He couldn’t even consider fishing that first week after his father’s passing. His emotions were too raw. The thought of taking his father’s canoe, using his father’s nets, and doing his father’s work without him was unbearable.
By the following week he knew his family needed him to go, but the burden was overwhelming. For as much as Ezra wanted to be like his father, he recognized more than ever just how far he was from achieving that goal.
“I felt like there was no hope,” he says. “I found it difficult the first time to walk in the steps of my father. As I took the canoe out into the sea, I felt his absence. Those words my father had spoken came back to me, and I felt the weight of responsibility for my family.”
Standing in the shallows of the Pacific, he turned to the only Person who could help him—the One his father had taught him to trust.
“Show me where my father stood,” Ezra prayed. “Help me fulfill my father’s wish for me.”
In the early evening silence after that prayer, Ezra felt something change. He felt led to his father’s fishing spot, and the things his father had taught him came to mind when needed.
“After that prayer, I felt extra strength,” he says. “I knew Heavenly Father would help me.”
Just as the Savior showed His ancient Apostles where to cast their nets, Ezra received help too. “I caught a lot of fish that day,” he says.
Though he had doubted he could do what his father did, Ezra learned that he could do more than he thought.
“It’s been a big change in my life—the way I think, see things, and do things,” Ezra says. “I realized I can do what my father did.”
Ezra has become more like his father than he believed he could. He has followed in his father’s footsteps as a fisherman—and as a teacher.