Gospel Story Finder

A few years later, when I was director of budget at another Air Force Base, Colonel Rothman, the Deputy Commander, called me into his office one day to discuss budget matters. In military style, I formally reported to his office with a salute. "Captain Russell, reporting as ordered sir. "He invited me to be seated. "Captain, may I get you a cup of coffee?" "No, thank you, Sir" I replied. "How about a cup of tea?" "No, Sir, I don't drink tea." "Well, Captain, it's only ten in the morning and I am not going to offer you a beer!" I smiled and said, "No, Sir, I don't drink beer either." Colonel Rothman was wearing these funny-looking half-frame reading glasses. He tipped his head down, looked above his lenses, and in an artificially gruff voice said, "Are you a Mormon?" I swallowed hard and said, "Yes, sir." He broke into a smile, stood up, stretched forth his hand to shake mine and said, "Good for you, Captain. I have never met a Mormon that wasn't a fine officer."

These experiences and many others manifested to me that Latter-day Saints, with their standards, maintain a separate identity when we are out in the world. I have consistently found that the Word of Wisdom is a behavioral emblem, an identifying mark, that facilitates our being identified as people with very high standards. The Word of Wisdom is a badge of separateness that sets us apart from the world.

Mom wasn’t surprised at all, and she told me a story: “When you were a tiny baby and round all over, your daddy brought you this blanket. He held you and the blanket in one arm and said, ‘Blanket, blanket,’ lots of times. You said, ‘Ginky.’ Dad smiled and said, ‘Blanket.’ Both of you were talking about the same thing.”
I had to laugh at that.
“Pretty soon,” Mom went on, “we all got used to calling your blanket Ginky, the way you did. ‘Here’s Ginky,’ your daddy or I would say, or ‘Won’t you let us wash Ginky just once, real quick?’ But you never wanted Ginky to be washed.”
“I didn’t want Ginky swooshing around in all that soap,” I told her.
Now Ginky smells kind of stuffy and dusty from being in the drawer so long. Ginky used to be soft. I remember stroking my cheek with Ginky and wrapping it around my arm (the one with the good-tasting thumb) before I went to sleep.
At first Ginky had a satin edging that I could curl around my fingers. I could make a scratchy noise on it, too, with my fingernail. But the satin is almost all worn off now.
Lots of babies have blankets. But there isn’t another Ginky.
You know, I took Ginky to bed with me last night—just for remembering. I didn’t really need to. I tried wrapping Ginky around my arm. I tried scratching the worn-out satin. I even tried sucking my thumb.
But my thumb just doesn’t taste good anymore. After a while, I got all tangled up in Ginky. I wanted to go to sleep, so I folded Ginky carefully beside me. “Good night,” I said.
This morning Ginky was still there, looking kind of raggedy on my pillow. I packed Ginky away in my special box. Mom says that when I’m a big person, we’ll open my box and look at all the things I saved as I was growing up.
My picture album and my doll without any hair and a drawing I made of a fire engine were in my box already. I think Ginky belongs there with those other things.

When our children were little, they used to watch a children’s television channel that featured a program called What Do You See? The screen would zoom in very closely on something, and the children had to guess what it was as the image gradually widened. Once the entire object was visible, you could easily tell that it was a cat, a plant, a piece of fruit, and so on.
I remember that on one occasion they were watching that program and it showed something very close up that looked very ugly to them, even repulsive; but as the image widened, they realized that it was a very appetizing pizza. Then they said to me, “Daddy, buy us one just like that!” After they understood what it was, something that at first had looked unpleasant to them ended up being something very attractive.

Pres. Shumway extended an invitation for me to sculpt the sculpture of George Q. Cannon and Napela. I felt that it was an inspiration and I was moved to sculpt it.
On the day we unveiled the sculpture, a short Hawaiian lady came over to hug and congratulate me. She whispered a statement which inspired my new dream.

"Thank you for doing this for my people; I feel closer to them."

Ever since that day, I dreamed of doing the same thing for the Tongans. I went to the library and I found that the history of the Pacific Islands was well documented: the Samoans, Maori, Hawaiians, and the Tahitians, but nothing for Tonga.
I took this dream to the Lord and I have been in the heat since. I have been sweating for the past five years, navigating this dream. I have been searching the history of my roots, from mission records and journals of those American missionaries who have served in Tonga since Elder Brigham Smoot and Alva John Butler in 1891.
I titled this project "Seek the roots for the health of the shoots".

Jax was super nervous about performing his talent, Irish dancing, at the FSY variety show. “I was really, really terrified. Like I’m-in-a-pit-of-snakes terrified,” he says. “I said a little prayer before I got up there. I was still terrified, but then the music came on. I pretended no one was there. And I just started dancing.”

Jax hopped and moved his legs in traditional Irish fashion. But seeing Jax’s cheery face, most people probably wouldn’t guess that it was quite the journey to get there.

“In 2020 I was really stressed and even suicidal,” Jax says. “I was in a mental health hospital for a month. I found out I had pediatric brain inflammation and learned I was autistic. It was really, really hard.”

Once Jax had received some treatment for his mental health, his mom encouraged him to find a physical outlet to help manage his stress. He decided to seek personal revelation about what he could do.

“I prayed about it and asked for help,” he says. “And I remembered that my aunt was teaching Irish dance. So I started the class right before our big Christmas show. I had to learn like five dances in two weeks, so that was fun,” Jax jokes. Soon, Irish dance became a huge blessing in his life. “It really helped with my stress levels and dark feelings,” he says.

At FSY, Jax’s company asked him if he had a talent he could share in the variety show. So he danced on the sidewalk for them. When they told him he should perform, Jax’s first thought was, “Oh, no.” But he decided to share his talent even though he was afraid.

Now that Jax has seen videos of himself performing at FSY, he can’t help but laugh. “I had a completely straight face for the first part,” he says. “But then people started cheering, and I started smiling.”

For youth who are struggling, Jax gives this advice: “It’s better to talk about it with someone than hide it like I did. The Lord knows who you are, and He’ll be there for you. The Lord wants to help you.”

Overall, Jax feels that learning Irish dance has been a blessing from Heavenly Father.

I am the oldest of five children—four girls and one boy. In 2022 my brother, Houston, suffered a heart attack. Unfortunately he was not found right away, and his long-term lack of oxygen caused a brain injury. Over the days we spent with him in the intensive care unit, I can safely say that I have never prayed harder or exercised more faith. And yet, day by day, Houston got worse, and eventually we were told that he would not live. It was hard to accept that despite the faith and prayers of so many wonderful people, we were going to lose Houston. And yet we did. My heart was broken.

But pain and sadness and faith can coexist. I and many others fought all the anticipatory fears of losing Houston and facing life without him with as much faith as we could muster. We kept praying, kept hoping, and kept trusting that God knew Houston’s path even when we could no longer see the miracle we were hoping for.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf said:
There are so many things in life that God sees differently than we do. . . .
We tend to think of joy as the absence of sorrow.
But what if joy is not the absence of sorrow?
What if joy and sorrow can coexist?
What if they have to coexist?22
The pain of losing my brother helped me to seek peace and to solidify my faith in the covenants I had made with God and the promises that came with them. My sorrow solidified and increased my joy and belief in the Atonement and Resurrection. I could act with the hope that my brother could be restored completely. I know that in those great moments of pain, it can seem impossible that joy could coexist. It may not be the joy we hoped we could experience had the miracle we prayed for been granted, but God does not leave us alone.

When Neil was five, his family moved to a dairy farm in Pocatello, Idaho. Neil raised rabbits, rode horses, and played in the fields with his siblings. When Neil was about seven years old, a rabbit he especially liked escaped from its cage. He relates:
“I looked all over our little farm, but I could not find it anywhere. I remember walking back behind an old barn and praying that I could find the rabbit.
“Immediately after the prayer, an image came into my mind of a spot beneath some boards. And sure enough, I went to that spot and found my rabbit. This experience and many others like it taught me that the Lord responds to the small and simple prayers of all of us.”

1843—This morning, about one o’clock, I was aroused by an English sister and her family, singing, “Mortals, awake! with angels join,” etc., which caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul. All of my family and boarders arose to hear the serenade, and I felt to thank my Heavenly Father for their visit, and blessed them in the name of the Lord … At two o’clock, about fifty couples sat down at my table to dine.

Many years ago I read of an experience at Christmastime which took place when thousands of weary travelers were stranded in the congested Atlanta, Georgia, airport.1 An ice storm had seriously delayed air travel as these people were trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas—most likely home.
It happened in December of 1970. As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy passengers clustered around the ticket counters conferring anxiously with agents whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They too wanted to be home. A few people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books. If there was a common bond among this diverse throng it was loneliness: pervasive, inescapable, suffocating loneliness. …
The fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were available seats on any of the planes. When an occasional plane managed to break out, more passengers stayed behind than made it aboard. …
Gate 67 in Atlanta was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in pairs, there was little conversation at gate 67. A salesman stared absently into space as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms, gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.
Then there was a man in a finely-tailored gray flannel suit, who somehow seemed impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork: figuring the year-end corporate profits perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby observing this busy man might have indentified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suddenly the relative silence was broken by a commotion. A young man in military uniform, no more than 19 years old, was in animated conversation with the desk agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana village he called home.
The agent wearily told him that prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas, his unit was to be sent to Vietnam—where at that time war was raging—and if he didn’t make this flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy, not hope. The boy stood at the departure desk casting anxious looks around the crowded room, as if seeking just one friendly face.
Finally the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers who had been waiting long hours heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings, and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: 20, 30, 100, until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young soldier and shrugged.
Inexplicably, the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. “I have a confirmed ticket,” he quietly told the agent. “I’d like to give my seat to this young man.” The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier. Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, “Good luck. Have a fine Christmas. Good luck.”
As the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman turned away, clutching his briefcase and trudged toward the all-night restaurant.
No more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport witnessed the drama at gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the frustration, the hostility all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.
The lights of the departing plane blinked starlike as the craft moved off into the darkness. The infant slept silently, now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered gently, pervasively in that small glass and plastic stable at gate 67.

His father took a deep breath and began to speak: “I knew a boy once who stood up a girl. He was a senior, like you. She was a junior. It was a hayride for a girls’ glee club. She asked him to go, and he accepted—reluctantly.
“First of all he felt quite superior to the girl. He was an athlete and rather popular. She was shy and a little homely. Her complexion wasn’t good. She wore braces and glasses. For two weeks he thought of how he might get out of his commitment. Well, the night of the hayride he had a bit of a cold. Nothing serious. He had gone to school, but he rationalized that he was too sick to go on a hayride.
“Half an hour before the date he called her and cancelled. He tried to sound sick, but she wasn’t fooled, even though she did accept his excuse graciously. He went to bed to at least give his excuse a semblance of truth. But he didn’t sleep. He had lied, and he knew it; he knew that there were some girls who could have asked him and he would have made the date regardless.
“At 11 o’clock that evening he got out of bed and went over and apologized to her. I know for a fact that it was the most difficult thing he had ever done up to that point. I also know for a fact that he never regretted doing it.”
They were both pensively silent for several minutes, each content to be alone with his own thoughts. Finally his father sighed. “You know that boy I told you about earlier?” he asked. Trevor nodded. “Well, he forgot about that girl—for a little while anyway.” He smiled. “After his mission and two years of college, he saw her again. She had changed.” He chuckled, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling. “She had shed her braces and glasses, and her complexion had improved. She wasn’t the same girl. In fact, he didn’t even recognize her at first. He wanted to ask her out, but he didn’t dare. He was afraid she would remember. She was in demand then. Finally he built up his courage and asked her out, hoping all along that she wouldn’t remember that night five years earlier. She did though, but she accepted anyway. She told him later—after they were engaged to be married—that it was because he had gone to her home that evening and apologized that she accepted his date later. She said she knew how much courage it must have taken and she always respected him for that.”
Trevor smiled and glanced slyly at his father. “I think I know that boy.”
“Which boy?” his father asked with mock surprise.
“The boy you’re talking about.”
His father smiled, pushed himself to his feet, stepped up to his son, and put his arm over his shoulders. “Yes,” he said with a smile, “I think you do know him. I believe he married your mother.”

It had almost been five months since the accident, and I had been away from my children all that time, never seeing them once. In all that time, I hadn't even seen my own reflection either. I had been putting it off, so frightened to see my new face. I knew I looked different, but I was so terrified to actually see and deal with it.

One December evening, Christian walked through my door like he always did. This time he had a mirror in his hands.

"I know you can do it, Stephanie. Let's do it together," he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

We sat there for hours, and he gently nudged me the whole time. "Okay, okay, I'll do it," I would say, then chicken out right before.

Then I decided I needed to do this myself--and alone. Christian kissed my forehead and quietly walked out of my room. After the door shut, I quietly said a prayer: "Please, Heavenly Father, help me. Help me like what I see. Help me be brave. Please bless me to find the old me somewhere." That prayer went straight to heaven, because almost immediately I felt calm and peaceful.

I took a deep breath and turned the mirror over. I started at my bandaged chest and worked my way up. My neck looked a lot like the skin on my arms--scarred and blotchy. I kept going. I looked at my chin, then my lips. Could those be my lips? They were huge and looked the way they felt: painful.

When I got to my nose, I cried out and put the mirror down. My nose was completely different, smaller and misshapen. I was unrecognizable to myself. My cheeks were blotched with bloody scabs and raised scars, and half of my ear was burned off.

My face scared me, and I knew it would scare anyone. I felt like I was wearing a Halloween mask. Panic took me over. How on earth could my children see me like this? I actually considered having my sisters, who were taking care of my children, put me somewhere where my children would never have to see me and deal with my inadequacies.

Being a mother was my purpose in life, the source of my fulfillment, and I knew my children would be afraid of me once they saw me. They would reject me. That fact leveled me. I was inconsolable. I wanted to die. "There is no reason to be here. My children won't even love me," I said to myself over and over again.

Those precious, beautiful children didn't deserve a disfigured, incapable mother. They needed someone strong who could take care of them no matter what. I was lacking in every way.

Each morning I would wake up with a deep ache in my heart. I wanted to wipe away the accident and everything that went with it. The nurses knew and had anticipated the big moment when I finally looked at myself in the mirror. They wanted to hear how it went, but I couldn't talk about it. "It was awful. Please don't ask me," I said. "Tell the other nurses too. It was awful."

Then I turned to God in prayer. Please help me through this. Please help our children. Then my favorite Primary song popped into my head.

"Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer? / Some say that heaven is far away, / But I feel it close around me as I pray."

In that dark hospital room, I sang the first lines over and over out loud to myself: "Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?" I needed Him so desperately. But the next verse, a parent's answer to the child's questions, comforted me too.

"Pray, He is there / Speak, He is listening. / You are His child. / His love now surrounds you."

I prayed for hours that morning, pleading with God for understanding and assistance. I had prayed on my own every day, with Christian and with my siblings when they would come to visit or spend the night with me. I was certain our prayers were being heard by our loving Heavenly Father. At times, I distinctly felt embraced by God's love, and the sweet assurance washed over me that everything would be all right. And I realized something. This broken, sad woman was still me, and underneath all these bandages and medicines, I still had all my toes, fingers, ears, a nose, eyes; and I could see, smell, hear; and, best of all, I had my children, and I had my husband who stood strong and immovable by my side defending me and encouraging me on.

Kimberly, a mother of children approaching baptism age, remembers walking into the bishop’s office for her baptismal interview when she was eight years old. “I was so nervous!” Kimberly says.
Now she tries to ensure that her children don’t face feelings of panic. She and her husband talk to their children about bishop interviews and ask them questions about baptism in an interview-like setting. These interviews do more than familiarize children with the interview process—they also encourage the children to think deeply about what the covenant of baptism means to them.

Picture this: You sit down to dinner and look around. Gasp! You’re alone at a table with a half dozen of your past and present school teachers. Sitting next to you is Mr. Randal, your fourth period science teacher, and he’s staring right at you. He wants to chat.
Cringing already? Hey, I am, and they aren’t even my teachers.
There’s just something about teachers that makes most of us nervous (even those of us who no longer have to face their pop quizzes and long-essay finals). In fact, they make us so uneasy that the majority of us go through our junior and senior high years without ever getting to know what our teachers are really like, and most of us never even get to say thank you for all they do.
Two groups of LDS youth in the Boston area are doing something to fix that problem. It’s June 1990, and these New England LDS students are inviting their school teachers to “Appreciation Nights” at their local ward houses. The youth are spending an evening eating with, getting to know, and then saluting their teachers. They hope the time together will straighten out some long-standing misconceptions.
The youth of Nashua, New Hampshire, invite me to watch them set up for the following evening’s teacher appreciation dinner, which sounds about as exciting as watching 18 holes of TV golf. But I put some thought into it: a group of kids who would give up a night of summer fun to set up tables and cook for their teachers can’t be all bad.
I’m right.
Dave Eberhard, 17, a tall guy wearing a little black hat that seems too small for his head, says he’s the master of ceremonies for the big night. He looks like he might be a wise guy, but talk to him for a minute and you’ll find he’s articulate and bright—full of positive energy.
He says this is Nashua’s second year in hosting an appreciation night. “Last year’s dinner changed my relationship with my teachers,” he says. “They had always seen me as a class clown, but after they saw I appreciated them they began to notice how hard I really was trying. They looked at me from a different perspective.”
Dave adds that he learned more about his teachers as well. “I found out more about what really goes on after they get out of school. It’s a one-on-one relationship, and it’s not really school related or church related. It’s just you and the teachers out on the night.”
And according to Dave, the teachers loved the attention. “Some actually cried,” he says.
Elizabeth Davis, 16, sits on the front porch of her Pepperell, Massachusetts, home, her blue-rimmed glasses and baggy sweatshirt set against an old New England backdrop—1990 meets 1790. Elizabeth is talking about teachers. She has definite opinions. She loves her teachers, enough to help organize her ward’s own teacher appreciation night.
“Teachers don’t get a lot of respect,” she says. “That really annoys me. Most of my friends don’t think of teachers as people who are there to help them learn so they can get a good job, do something with their lives. The kids can be really mean.”
But Elizabeth says most of her teachers will go out of their way to help a student in need. She says that one of her teachers goes to a student’s house if that student is sick, to teach the day’s lesson (another scary thought, but kind of nice).
“All I hope is that after this night our teachers say, ‘Wow, our students really think of us.’”
It’s Tuesday night in Nashua. Sixty teachers and their spouses begin arriving at the appreciation night. They’re talking with their students, and the youth are relaxing.
I stop 14-year-old Cyndie Munk and ask her how it’s going. Three or four of her teachers are already here. “The teachers are just so impressed that we want to honor them,” she says, grinning. She sees her vice principal walk in and waves in his direction. “He never gets to do anything,” she tells me. “I gave him his invitation and told him what it was for and he absolutely beamed. Every time I saw him around school he just started smiling, asking if he was still supposed to come.”
The meal is served and Dave, the MC, sits with one of his teachers—Mrs. Rogers. Dave looks uncomfortable, but he gets over it. They chat. It’s fun to watch.
After the meal the bishop gives a “rah-rah” education speech and then the youth hand out certificates of appreciation to their teachers. My hometown newspaper would have written, “And a good time was had by all.”
The teachers are filing out and Cyndie sums up the Nashua evening for me. “My teachers said they’ve never had anyone do anything like this for them,” she says. “But I think they work hard. They give up a lot of their own time for us. I think they deserved this.”
“Two years ago I wouldn’t have done this, invited my teachers,” Jason Hunter, 16, tells me at the Pepperell dinner on Friday. Two of his teachers are here. “I’ve learned some things, though. If I am responsible, if I get my homework done, my teachers treat me differently. I’m sure that if I were a teacher and had a student who wasn’t trying, I’d get mad. The past two years I’ve made an effort in class, and now I think my teachers like me. I make the extra effort to think of them, to say good-bye when class is over, or tell them when I’m interested in something.”
Jason’s friend, Mike Bruneau, joins him. Mike’s 15 and feels lucky to be one of eight LDS students in a high school of 1,200—many of the youth in this area are the only member in their school. Mike says he tries to set an example, do the right things at school, and show respect for his teachers.
“I invited my French teacher, who gave me a lot of help earlier this year,” Mike says. “She just kept saying, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ when I gave her the invitation. I think it really touched her to see that someone cared about the good job she was doing.”
The Pepperell youth take a different approach than at Nashua. The students choose to entertain their teachers with a play and music before they hand out certificates. The play, a comedy about a class who is given a robot teacher to substitute for a human teacher, is a big hit. “Super Teacher,” written by Rebecah Davis, 15, illustrates that for the students, there is no substitute for the individual technique, enthusiasm, and humor of their teachers.
Rebecah says that most of the kids in her ward were skeptical of the appreciation night idea, but the teachers were so excited when they received their invitations that the youth lost their anxiety. “We couldn’t believe how excited our teachers were,” she adds. “Nobody had ever done anything like this for them before.”
“This is what it’s all about,” one teacher says to me, leaning close like he’s sharing a secret. “Knowing that you made enough of a difference for someone to say thank you.”
He returns to a group of other teachers who are standing around, talking with their students. They are laughing about something I can’t hear, but I don’t move closer. There’s something happening there, something kind of nice.
Hints from the New England youth on hosting successful teacher appreciation nights:
Hold the event at a time of year when both teachers and students are not very busy. (Christmas or the end of the school year can be bad times.)
Get the support of your leaders and bishopric before organizing anything. They should have some good ideas, or at least be able to help with the planning.
Invite all your teachers, not just your favorites. If word gets around (and it probably will) that you didn’t invite certain teachers, their feelings could be hurt.
Eating with your teachers, instead of serving them, is a nice way to get to know each other.
Make your program short and focused on the goal of honoring your teachers. (Make them laugh or cry, but stick to the theme.)
Give your teachers a certificate or some other memento of the evening.

When the Explorers returned to Guayaquil, they shopped for souvenirs and visited some of the historical sites of the city. Walter P. Crespo, the Scout executive for Guayas Province, explained the history of the various monuments and their significance to the citizens of Guayaquil. He even showed them where a branch of the Church held its meetings.
“Boy, to think that just a few months before, my family was sitting in the Tabernacle in Salt Lake City,” Nik comments, “and then to realize I was in South America—what a great time to live!”

Understanding the centrality of agency can change the way you view almost every experience you have, even your experience as students at BYU Idaho. Let me give one example. As you may have noticed, the tuition you - and students at all BYU campuses and LDS Business College - pay is considerably lower than that charged by almost any other private university. You may also be aware that your tuition does not come close to paying the cost of your education and that your education - like that of all students at all BYU campuses - is heavily subsidized by the tithe payers of the Church. With this fact in mind, when I became the dean of the law school at BYU, I suggested to the University Administration that it might be proper to increase the law school's tuition. I questioned the fairness of using what in some cases is the widow's mite to finance the education of lawyers, many of whom will have generous incomes over their careers. (I should also acknowledge that I thought the law school's revenues might be helped by such an increase - so my motives weren't entirely pure). In any event, my suggestion that tuition be increased was not accepted.

That caused me to wonder why the Board of Trustees, which includes the members of the First Presidency, three members of the Quorum of the Twelve, and other people who know well the many good uses to which tithing funds could be put - would choose to so heavily subsidize the education of lawyers - and that of all other BYU students. As I pondered that question, the thought came powerfully to my mind that one possible reason has to do with the concept of agency. Using tithing to subsidize BYU students' education allows those students to graduate with much less debt than they might otherwise have - in many cases with no debt at all. By contrast, the average law student at many top private law schools graduates with a law school-incurred debt of more than $100,000. With such debt hanging over their heads, the choice of what those students can do following graduation is severely limited. They have little choice but to work for the highest paying firm they can find, because, as I told prospective law students, they will have a mortgage payment, they just won't have a house to go with it. As many of our leaders have reminded us, "debt can be enslaving." It can limit our agency dramatically. Some law students might decide that they could be of most use as a solo practitioner in Driggs, Idaho or Panguitch, Utah, but if they have to pay off a large educational debt with what they earn, that avenue may not be open to them. Other law students may decide that rather than practice law, they will stay home with young children. However, if they are tens of thousands of dollars in debt, such a choice may be impracticable. Thus, the sacrifice of millions of tithe payers who subsidize your education leaves you free to choose to do what you - and the Lord - want you to do.

With that freedom, as with all freedom, comes accountability. In the case of BYU students, whether they be in Provo, Laie, or Rexburg there are at least two important parts of that accountability. First, it is incumbent on you - whose career and life options are being expanded as a result of the sacrifice of others - to maximize the educational opportunity that is afforded to you. It is your responsibility to learn all you can, so that you are best positioned to do what you - and the Lord - want you to do. Contrary to what Satan may whisper in your ear when the alarm goes off early in the morning to rouse you to go to class or finish a paper, there is more riding on the decision you make at that point than your own g.p.a. or individual success. Those who could benefit from your enhanced education - whether they be your future children, your future clients, or the communities or nations in which you will live - all will be benefitted by your choosing to use your time here as wisely as possible.

Second, because the subsidy allows you to be relatively free from debt and therefore free to do what the Lord wants you to do, it is your responsibility to live your life in a way that makes you worthy to receive the inspiration that will guide you in making that decision. Inspiration about what you should do with your life after you leave here will not come to your bishop, or to President Clark, or to President Monson. It will come to you. But, it will come only if you are worthy. That is one way in which adherence to the honor code can enhance your agency. As you adhere to gospel standards, your capacity to understand - and therefore your freedome to follow - the Lord's plan for you will increase.

Sixta María Martínez of the Aeropuerto Ward, Mérida México Centro Stake, was already 62 when she was baptized in 1974. She quickly learned to love temple work and made several long trips on temple excursions from southern Mexico to Mesa, Arizona, in the United States. She delighted in a later opportunity to visit the temple in Salt Lake City. Over the years Sister Martínez has completed temple ordinances for her own family back five generations. She has lived to see a temple built just a few kilometers away in Mérida. At 92, she tries to go there once a week. “It is my joy. It is my life,” she says.

When I practiced law one of my partners was Marion G. Romney's son. His grand father George Samuel Romney was once president of this university. Marion G. was then in the First Presidency of the Church. One day my friend and I spoke of deeply spiritual things. We wondered, as perhaps some of you have, how many people in the history of the world had seen the Savior. I remember saying that if anyone on earth at the time had, it would most likely be President Romney.
I said to my partner, "Have you ever asked him?" "No. Not really," he replied. I said, "Why don't you? You are his son. He will surely tell you." He thought a moment and said, "All right, I will. We have a family home evening scheduled with dad next Sunday night. If the opportunity presents itself I'll ask him."
I could scarcely wait for the week to end. The following Monday, early in the morning, I stood in the doorway of his office and said, "Well?" "Well what?" he asked. "Well. Did you ask him?" I said. "Come in and close the door," he replied. I went in and sat down.He laughed and said, "Yes. I did ask him. And do you know what he said to me--his own son?" "Tell me," I said. "Well, when I asked him if he had ever seen the Savior my father just looked at me and said, 'Not to speak of son. Not to speak of.'"

Later as he related the story of his conversion, I realized that Alex’s pain and sorrow had been difficult, but they also helped him become humble enough to bend his knees and ask for help. Alex explained: “One night when my burdens were too heavy to carry, I remembered the words of a good friend who had reminded me that I could always pray for help. That night I decided to give it a try. There was not another door open to me, and since my mom had taught me how to pray, I kneeled down and closed my eyes. As I started to plead for help, the most wonderful feeling came over me. I’ll never forget that feeling; I felt the pure love of Christ. I felt that my problems were taken away from me. My desperate feelings haven’t come back since, and I have been blessed with a testimony of Jesus Christ. My heart was changed, and I desired to follow Jesus Christ.”

One of my favorite hobbies is Irish dance. I try hard to practice my choreography at home so I am ready to perform. I practice very thoroughly, but when I am backstage about to perform, I commonly get the backstage jitters. At every competition, my mom and I find a quiet place to say a prayer. Sometimes it’s behind a curtain or in a room off to the side. I know that it doesn’t matter to Heavenly Father where we are, just that we have faith in Him.
At my last performance, my mom wasn’t with me to say a prayer. She was waiting in the audience. I got really nervous but decided that it didn’t matter if she was with me or not. I stepped away from my friends and said a prayer. I asked for safety as I danced and that I could do my best. I did very well that day, and I remember the feeling of peace that I felt as I walked on stage.

When I moved into a college dormitory in Khon Kaen, Thailand, I noticed a blue book in the corner of the room. I never picked it up, and the book was still there when I moved out of the dorm many months later.
After graduating from college, I returned to my hometown of Kalasin. One day when I was visiting a friend, I saw a blue book on top of his TV—a book that reminded me of the one in my dorm room. “Where did you get that book?” I asked my friend. He said missionaries had given it to him. I said I had seen a similar book but that I didn’t know anything about it. My friend had not read it either.
Picking up the book, I finally read the words on the cover—“The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” Then, opening the book randomly and finding Jacob chapter 5, I began reading about a tame olive tree and a wild olive tree. Although I did not really understand the meaning of the allegory, reading it gave me a happy feeling.
As the days went by, I found that I wanted to read more of the book, so I returned to my friend’s house to borrow it. When I arrived, my friend was talking to two missionaries. They introduced themselves as Elder Reid and Elder Haroldsen and made an appointment to visit me. They came as promised and shared with me their belief in Heavenly Father’s plan. As they spoke, I could feel the love of the Father.
At their invitation, I attended church on Sunday. Although there were only 10 people in attendance, I felt a love for the Kalasin Branch, and I agreed to come again.
I was baptized on 21 March 1999 and soon began working with the missionaries. As I watched the missionaries trying to spread the gospel, I could feel God’s love for His children.
Two months after my baptism, my older sister gained her own testimony and was also baptized. A month later my niece was baptized too. With help from the members, our little branch soon tripled in size, with about 30 members attending church regularly.
A year after my baptism, I received a call to serve a full-time mission in Bangkok, Thailand. My older sister also received a call to serve in the same mission.
I know that it wasn’t luck or coincidence that I became a member of the Lord’s true Church. I know that Heavenly Father really has a plan for me and that He began preparing me to be a missionary from the first day I opened “that book” and read about His vineyard. What a wonderful privilege to go out into that vineyard to look for my brothers and sisters and share the book and the gospel that changed my life.