Gospel Story Finder

Vivian is a widow—rather tall with short brown hair and shining eyes. She usually sits quietly in meeting—a little shy about contributing her thoughts in a group of people. She had decided to begin her day by attending the temple and then doing some of the things she had always planned to do but had never seemed to get done. But her day didn’t go exactly as she had planned. She awoke with a terrible head cold, the first time in three and one-half years she had been ill. So she had to devise a new plan of action.
Many of her mother’s old papers were tucked away in a box in her home. She got the box out, and decided that she would spend a few hours putting together a scrapbook of her mother’s life. “I didn’t want to do it alone,” she said, “so I called my sister to tell her I was coming out. On the way I bought some plastic cover sheets.” Together she and her sister reconstructed their mother’s life story in picture and word. It took a lot longer than the few hours they had planned on spending, but the end result was a cherished scrapbook.
Her activities on that perfect day opened up new avenues to her. “My patriarchal blessing had said I would work on the genealogy of my family, but I didn’t understand genealogy, and just couldn’t get really interested in it,” she confessed. “After doing my mother’s book, however, I decided to do one for my husband. I enjoyed doing it. Now I have compiled a history of my husband, my son, and my daughter. By cleaning out all the old boxes of treasures, mementos, and souvenirs I have been storing for years I’ve found enough information to do the temple work for many of my ancestors. I can see my work is just beginning. And I’m happy.”
Her life has new purpose and she radiates happiness.

In the early years of our marriage, Sister Meha and I were not blessed with children. We desired to start a family soon after our sealing in the Laie Hawaii Temple. We lived in Temple View Apartments, where most of our neighbors were expecting children. Naturally, as students we were both busy with classes, working at the Polynesian Cultural Center and fulfilling church callings. When would we ever find time to have children? We waited and waited. A year before graduation an offer came from Bro. Barney Wihongi, principal of the Church College of New Zealand to join the faculty in January 1983.

Leaving TVA we felt that the expectation to have children would be lifted because we were living in a different community far removed from Laie. But Temple View is a smaller version of Laie. There is a temple and a Church school and most of the people living there knew me as I had graduated from CCNZ, and they soon got to know Sis. Meha. We continued to serve and in fact, those years were some of the most rewarding for us as a newly married couple.

We served in a student ward at CCNZ. When Sister Meha was the Mia Maid Advisor, I was the Teachers Quorum Advisor. Later, she served as the Laurel Advisor and I served as Priest's Quorum Advisor. In a student ward with about one hundred and fifty students it was not unusual to have a quorum of twenty five teachers and a quorum of twenty five priests. I can still see the faces of those bright, energetic, young men, many of whom served honorable proselyting missions and have become good husbands and fathers.

We did not have two-deep leadership in the Young Mens' program in those days, so I was the scout leader on weeknights and the quorum advisor on Sundays. In addition to my teaching assignment, I was expected to support student clubs and organizations and give additional time to support school activities on weekends. It soon became a challenge to find the kind of time together that we longed for while living in TVA and clearly did not have at CCNZ. At least once a month, the priests would come to our small home for a fireside—all twenty five of them. On occasion, the Laurels would join them for an activity usually involving lots of food. I'm sure those activities were well attended because of the chance for students to mingle and have fun.

In some of her spare time, Sister Meha taught in the Religion Department, a first experience for her as she had not enjoyed the experience of early morning seminary classes as a youth. Her introduction to gospel study was in the religion classes taken on this campus as an undergraduate. Our lives were very busy yet we longed for a child. We would have to wait five years before our eldest child was born while we lived in Temple View. During that period of waiting we were being prepared for Jayson's arrival and the blessings that soon followed. Our hearts were mellowed and accepting of Heavenly Father's plan for our family. We prayed fervently to be blessed with each of our children. Our prayers were answered, but we needed to learn that He has a purpose and timetable for us and that He will bless us as we are patient and wait upon Him.

Our family lived in Hamburg, Germany, during World War I when food was rationed. City-dwellers often tried to purchase food from farmers, who sometimes had a little surplus. When I was fourteen years old, my mother gave me money for a railroad ticket and sent me to the country to try to buy food.
After a two-hour train ride, I arrived at a village where I began walking door to door. Though I visited more than forty houses, no one would sell me anything.
I was determined not to return home empty-handed and decided to walk the 4.5 kilometers to the next village where the train did not go. After walking about forty-five minutes and visiting all the houses along the way, I found a farmer who sold me forty-five kilos of potatoes. I could not believe my luck! The most I had hoped for was some butter or a few kilos of bacon.
The farmer lifted the sack of potatoes crosswise onto my shoulders, and I started back the way I had come. Before long, I realized the difficulty of my task—the potatoes weighed at least as much as I did. If I dropped my load onto the roadside and rested, I feared that I might not be able to lift it back onto my shoulders.
In the midst of this dilemma, I recalled my mother, who had taught me the scriptures and the power of prayer. I remembered an episode in the Book of Mormon where the Nephites, who were in bondage to the Lamanites, asked the Lord to lighten their burdens. The Lord had answered their prayers, and it occurred to me that the Lord might also lighten the weight of my burden. (See Mosiah 24:15.)
I began to pray. Instantly, I felt as if the load had been taken off my shoulders. I was able to walk with ease all of the way to the train station without resting.
At the station, another miracle occurred. Village police had the authority to confiscate any food found on passengers. Many people tried to hide their food, but there was no way I could hide the forty-five kilo sack of potatoes. However, as I boarded the train, nothing was said and I was allowed to take the potatoes home to my mother.
My search for food brought my family the physical nourishment we needed during a difficult time and developed in me an unshakable testimony that the Lord hears and answers prayers.

In my home I learned to work hard. My family used a system we called the “diligence list.” At the beginning of the month, we received a list of various chores, such as doing the dishes, caring for the horses, and so on. We checked off the chores as we completed them, and then at the end of the month, we were given an amount of money for our diligent work based on how many check marks we had on the chart. From this I have learned to work diligently and to be careful with money.

In Lucerne, Switzerland, every Saturday morning Sister Martha Stadelmann is one of the first customers at the flower stands in the open-air market. She stops first for a few bright pink baby roses and then at another stall for some bright yellow blooms for two friends who have birthdays next week. After breakfast she fills her basket with the bunches of brilliant blossoms, and then she tucks in a muffin to give to another friend as thanks for her lovely prayer last Sunday. Then Martha is off to visit her sisters. She spreads joy in her small Swiss branch by remembering and thinking of others—and showing her thoughtfulness in acts of kindness.

I recently learned a valuable lesson about seeing deeply from a young woman named Rozlyn.
The story was shared with me by my friend who was devastated when her husband of 20 years moved out. With her children splitting time between parents, the prospect of attending church alone seemed daunting. She recounts:
“In a church where the family is of paramount importance, sitting solo can be painful. That first Sunday I walked in praying no one would speak to me. I was barely holding it together, and tears were on the brink. I sat in my typical spot, hoping no one would notice how empty the bench seemed.
“A young woman in our ward turned and looked at me. I pretended to smile. She smiled back. I could see the concern in her face. I silently pleaded that she wouldn’t come to talk to me—I had nothing positive to say and knew I would cry. I looked back down at my lap and avoided eye contact.
“During the next hour, I noticed her looking back at me occasionally. As soon as the meeting ended, she made a beeline for me. ‘Hi, Rozlyn,’ I whispered. She wrapped me in her arms and said, ‘Sister Smith, I can tell today is a bad day for you. I’m so sorry. I love you.’ As predicted, the tears came as she hugged me again. But as I walked away, I thought to myself, ‘Maybe I can do this after all.’
“That sweet 16-year-old young woman, less than half my age, found me every Sunday for the rest of that year to give me a hug and ask, ‘How are you?’ It made such a difference in how I felt about coming to church. The truth is I started to rely on those hugs. Someone noticed me. Someone knew I was there. Someone cared.”

When I was young, I never wondered, “Should I go on a mission?” I always knew that I wanted to serve a mission, and I was called to be a missionary in England. Very early in my mission, I had a very important decision to make. I had to decide just what kind of missionary I was going to be. Was I going to be a really good missionary? Would I follow every rule and always do my best? Or would I just follow most of the rules and do my best some of the time? I decided that I wanted to be a really good missionary. Every day I got up at the time we were supposed to get up, or even a little early. Every day I studied the missionary discussions and the scriptures. And every day my companion and I tried to not miss any opportunities to talk to people about the gospel.
I have always found that when we do the little things correctly, the Lord gives us the strength to accomplish big things. One day my companion and I were walking to an appointment when we both got the feeling that we should go another way. After we changed directions, we noticed a man walking toward us. He was wearing a Brigham Young University sweatshirt. We stopped and asked him about it.
He said that his sister had traveled across the United States. She had stopped in Provo, Utah, and bought him the shirt at the BYU campus bookstore. Neither he nor his sister was a member of the Church, and he knew nothing about it or BYU. My companion and I were able to teach this man and his wife about the gospel and baptize them. Meeting this man was not a coincidence. The Holy Ghost guided my companion and me to meet him. Because we were following the rules and keeping the commandments, we were able to hear the still, small voice.

A ragged, ten-year-old Navajo boy—fresh off the reservation, unexposed to the world, living in a Mormon foster home in the Church‘s Indian Placement Program—would never have succeeded had he compared himself to his Anglo friends, who were far more educated, advanced, and prepared than he was. He did not start school until he was eight years of age, and then was quickly advanced three or four grades because he was behind in his grade and was over age. He had a poor command of the English language. His parents were illiterate. He was from a large family. He was raised on desert animals and mutton stew. He seldom had a decent bath for lack of water. He was raised on a dirt floor in a small one-room Hogan without modern conveniences and luxuries. He succeeded educationally, socially, and spiritually because he was his own competitor and because he set out to develop a high opinion of himself and to develop a more positive mind.

I think of a little girl in England who dared to do right. The little girl’s name is Lisa. She is an eleven-year-old girl in Primary and has been a member of the Church for three years. Lisa came home from school feeling very excited. She had been asked if she would read in the school assembly the following morning. She said, “Mum, I’ve been asked to read this tomorrow, but some of the words are wrong.” The mother read the paper, and one paragraph referred to God and the Holy Ghost being one and the same person. The rest of it was correct, but just this paragraph was incorrect. They talked it over and decided that they would send a letter to Lisa’s teacher, explaining that this paragraph was contrary to Lisa’s beliefs and that she would feel much happier leaving this part out.

They waited rather anxiously for Lisa to return home from school to see what had happened. She came home with a big smile. Yes, the teacher had let her read the part, and, yes, she had let her leave that statement out. Also the teacher had thanked them for the letter, saying that she could understand her feelings, and then she said, “Could you please send some material to me and tell me more about what Mormons believe?”

The next day Lisa took a Book of Mormon, Meet The Mormons, and A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and gave them to the teacher. She found the books so interesting that she asked Lisa and three other Mormon girls in the school to present an assembly on the Mormons.

All of this came about because Lisa dared to be different and do right. Would you have the courage Lisa had?

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.
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.
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.
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.
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.

My son Dallin has always loved reptiles. I, on the other hand, have never liked them. He was allowed to own a reptile on the condition that whatever he chose was able to fit in the hose of a vacuum, just in case it got out of its cage while he was at school. We went through several options, from frogs to iguanas, before settling on two velvety leopard geckos named Fuzz and Diane.

Dallin’s new buddies joined our family when he was seven years old. One aspect of owning geckos that I did not anticipate was the need to feed them crickets—live crickets—once a week. For years Dallin and I made “cricket runs.” They were rarely convenient, usually happening late at night while trying to beat the clock before the pet store closed.

Diane only lived for three years, but Fuzz lived for many years, healthy and happy. Toward the end of Dallin’s senior year in high school, he was assigned to give a demonstration for his public speaking class. He prodded my husband and me for ideas. We suggested he discuss leopard geckos because he already knew so much about them and could bring Fuzz in as a prop. Dallin then told us that Fuzz had died.

“Are you serious? When did he die?” I asked in disbelief.

Dallin told us that Fuzz had died a week before.

“He’s in my room, but don’t worry. He won’t stink. He’s double-bagged.”

After seeing our astonishment, Dallin explained, “I’m doing an experiment—I want to watch him decay.”

Dallin’s experiment turned out to be more than watching him decay. He would stall the process by putting Fuzz in the freezer for a couple of weeks and then bring him out to thaw and decay some more.

A year later, when Dallin was on his mission, I was cleaning out the freezer and found Fuzz, still double-bagged, in the back. Since I was preparing a package to send to Dallin, I thought it would be funny to pass on his little experiment. I carefully put Fuzz in a box, wrapped it in beautiful black and white polka-dot paper, and tucked it neatly into Dallin’s care package with a note that read, “There is a surprise in your package.” Then I anxiously waited for his response.

“I’ve thought about that gecko since getting it back,” he wrote. “Not so much about the actual gecko, but about all of the time spent on car rides every week to get crickets and run other errands, listening to your ideas, stories, and your testimony while in the car. It was a good excuse to have to go and get to talk to you (not that I talked much, but I did listen).”

Buying crickets. Who knew? As parents we can’t always plan the timing of our influence. It often just happens. It may be when we are tucking our kids in bed at night, riding a ski lift together, or just running errands in the car. We have to take time to be with our children.

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

In 1837, when the Church was struggling in Kirtland, Ohio, the Prophet Joseph Smith called Heber C. Kimball to go to England to open the work there. Brother Kimball exclaimed in self-humiliation: “O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I go to preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety; … and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial!”
But then on reflection he added: “However, all these considerations did not deter me from the path of duty; the moment I understood the will of my Heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed; and although my family was dear to me, and I should have to leave them almost destitute, I felt that the cause of truth, the Gospel of Christ, outweighed every other consideration” (quoted in Orson F. Whitney, The Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1967, page 104).
He traveled over the sea and commenced the work in Preston, Lancashire, with the very devils of hell opposing him and his companions. And thus began a work in that part of the world that has blessed for good countless lives.

I’d only been registered for about five minutes when I found out Lincoln High didn’t need a Jason Bennion. The school already had one. “Jason Bennion?” someone had quipped in first period. “You’re no Jason Bennion!” In other classes the students snickered or exchanged smirks.
So finally I asked, “Who is this other Jason Bennion?” Jed Pierce, who sits next to me in AP history, said, “He’s our junior class president.” Then he told me more. He was the only sophomore on the varsity basketball team last year. “You ought to see the range he has on his jump shot.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. In reality I was rather relieved. I wasn’t that great at sports, and it didn’t bother me that this guy was a good athlete. When it came to brain cells, however, mine seemed to absorb information pretty quickly. So, even though the other Jason Bennion was known as Jason Bennion, the Jock, and, okay, the Leader, I could still be known as Jason Bennion, the Mind, the Brains, the Thinker. Couldn’t I?
By sixth period, even those hopes were dashed. “Hmmm,” Mr. Atkins, my calculus teacher, said. “It looks like we have two Jason Bennions this period. I think our original Jason is on some NHS business, so we’ll deal with this when he comes back.” The inside of me felt like it was scraping the floor boards. NHS, I thought. National Honor Society? I was supposed to be the Jason Bennion with the brains.
“So this Jason Bennion is pretty bright,” I said to Phil, seated in front of me.
“More like brilliant,” he said.
“Oh.”
That night as I sat at my desk, I just stared at the still-unloaded boxes around my bed. Finally, after three moves in two years, Dad’s company had said, “This is the place.” Finally, I thought, I’d be in one place long enough to make some friends. I envisioned Omaha as my permanent home, the place where I’d make a name for myself. Now it seemed my name had already been established—but by someone else.
I’d been told all my life that as a member of the Church, I was special. But as I looked in the mirror that was leaning against my closet door, I didn’t feel so special. I’d seen a picture and the write-up on this guy who shared my name on the school’s Wall of Fame. Compared to him, I was nothing but ordinary. I sighed and felt like packing the boxes right back in the truck we’d rented. I wanted out of here.
But I couldn’t do that. So I began consoling myself, thinking that being ordinary wasn’t so bad. Hey, there are a lot of ordinary people in the world, I thought. Suddenly I smiled. I’d seen how some of these athletes strutted around. My very down-to-earth attitude could be my trademark. I could be Jason Bennion, the All-Right, Everyday-Kinda Guy.
I gave up on that idea the following day when Jason Bennion appeared in person in calculus. He had already heard there was a new Jason Bennion at Lincoln High, and he had found out who I was. I was amazed when he walked into class, came up to me, introduced himself and said, “Look, I can go by my middle name. It’s Elliot.”
The class laughed until they realized the guy was serious. He really was willing to go by his middle name. We were in awe. I put out my hand and told him I could go by Jace, and that there was no need for him to change his name. A girl who sat two rows over wasn’t nearly as kind. “Jason goes by ‘Jace’ half the time,” she hissed, with a how-dare-you-hijack-someone’s-name tone to her voice.
Nothing was resolved, so for the next few days I learned to tune out my name. Everywhere I went it was Jason Bennion this and Jason Bennion that. By about my fourth day at Lincoln, I did something unusual for me. I smarted off. After Mr. Penn piled on about six hours of homework, he asked if there were any questions. “Yeah,” I said too loudly. “Where’s the bathroom? I’m getting sicker by the minute.”
Mr. Penn frowned, but those around me grinned. And one girl laughed aloud. This encouraged me to do more damage. Later I was mimicking Mrs. Dale’s way of shoving her glasses up on her nose. It disrupted her explanation on molecular energy, but hey, I was getting laughs. It didn’t matter much that after class I saw Mrs. Dale in her room with her head down rubbing her forehead. Even that didn’t stop me. Oh, I never did anything delinquent. I wasn’t the one who “accidentally” set off the fire alarm. I was only there. And I never sluffed or hung out after midnight with some of the people who had taken an interest in me. A slow death would be easier than dealing with my parents about issues like that. But I did pick up a few new words from these new friends which I used during lunch once in a while. I also began letting a few things slide—like homework.
I’m not sure how long I would have continued being this Jason Bennion whom I didn’t recognize and didn’t feel comfortable being. I suspect about the time midterm grades came out I would have had a change of personality. As things turned out, some words I heard one Friday right after school sped up the process.
I was scanning the list of scores for the last English quiz I hadn’t studied for, half hidden behind Mr. Penn’s door, when I heard someone talking about Jason Bennion again. I was about to tune out when I heard, “No, not the Jason Bennion. The new guy. You know, the Mormon.”
I was stunned. I’d lived in two different Utah cities as well as Boise, Idaho, and never once had I ever been called “the Mormon.” Was that what I was known by here? If these people judged Church members by my actions, I had some shaping up to do—fast.
The next Monday I was back to being the Jason Bennion I was more familiar with, one I liked a lot better. No more acting. No more being somebody I wasn’t. My homework was done, my hair was combed, and my mouth stayed shut—even when I could have said something clever at somebody’s expense.
Some of my new friends gave me puzzled looks at first. Then they began to steer clear of me. I didn’t care. I had an identity now and an image to project. I was Jason Bennion, the Mormon.
As first semester drew to a close I was feeling better about the direction my life was going. Even though basketball season had started and the other Jason Bennion was leading the team in scoring and rebounding, I worked like crazy to make up past assignments and incomplete grades. Once in a while someone would whisper, “He’s a Mormon.” And though the title brought mixed reactions, I’d hold my head a little higher. By second semester, I didn’t see much of the other Jason Bennion. He’d qualified for some kind of university math program and he wasn’t in calculus anymore. Then one day he stopped me in the hall. “Hey, Same Name.” It was a term we’d begun using with each other whenever we spoke.
“I heard something about you.”
“What’s that?”
“I heard you’re a Mormon.”
“I am,” I said.
“We visited Salt Lake when I was a kid,” he continued, “and I was impressed. I like your health code. What is it, the word of what?”
“Wisdom.”
“I think I’ve been living it.”
Figures, I thought.
And then I knew it was my turn. There couldn’t have been a more opportune time to do a little missionary work. I needed to say something about how he could find out more. I needed to invite him to church. I knew I had to do something. The other Jason Bennion stood there for a second or two like there was something else he wanted to say, and then he was off.
“Well, see you, Same Name.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Sleep comes to the peaceful. It didn’t come to me that night. I knew why I hadn’t wanted to say more to the other Jason Bennion. I didn’t want him to know more about the Church. Being a Latter-day Saint was the one thing that kept me out of the pit of anonymity. I had the rest of this year and my senior year to go, and it would be a miserable, lousy year without something to cling to and be known for. It was my identity we were talking about. Yet I knew very well that the Church was more than a title or name. It wasn’t simply someone’s claim to fame. What kind of low-life creature was I? This was Christ’s restored church I was thinking of not sharing. It was obviously time to get some help.
I found my knees and prayed hard and long about my feelings. Then I thought of the words I always say at the end of prayers, “In the name of Jesus Christ.” Those words had more impact than usual as it came to me that this wasn’t just a way to close a prayer. How concerned I’d been about my own name and being important and being somebody. Now the Spirit was letting me know what really makes us of worth isn’t what we do for our own names. It’s what we do for the Savior’s.
I can’t say it came as a surprise to me that a high-quality human being like Jason Bennion would not only show up for the activities I invited him to, but would eagerly absorb the truth. It was a Saturday night, a few months after he first began investigating the Church, when this leader, star athlete, super brain, and one of the most humble and spiritual individuals I’ve ever known took upon himself the same name that I’d taken upon myself. There was a lump in my throat the size of Nebraska when I helped him out of the font after I’d baptized him. And as I listened to his confirmation, as the gift of the Holy Ghost was bestowed on him, I felt a power and a peace like I’d never felt before.
We’re seniors this year. Even though he’s made no secret of the fact he’s planning on a mission, some big-name schools are after Jason. Once in a while these college recruiters call me by mistake, and I let them know I’m the other Jason Bennion. In fact, I guess that’s my title at Lincoln High now—the Other Jason Bennion.
But it’s okay. It really doesn’t matter anymore. The Lord knows who I am, and so do I.

In junior high school, pitching quarters was the game that dominated the perimeter of the schoolyard, always out of view of adults. However, our fetish with this game eventually found its way into the classroom. As soon as the teacher turned his or her back, our quarters would fly toward the wall, and the person with the quarter closest to the wall won, taking everyone else’s quarter. This game became very detrimental not only to our studies but also to our relationships. Friends were pitted against friends, and fights occasionally broke out. I remember people who lost several days’ lunch money in a matter of a minute. Five or six bad tosses and you were one broke eighth grader.
In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.

Let me tell you about two men who know how to serve. On July 10, 2005, I wrote in my journal:

Brooks and I helped clean the church yesterday morning. Gary Morris was there too. Gary is kept alive because an electronic pump keeps his heart going. His health is so terribly fragile, and three hours of pushing broom seemed to be about all he could endure. And Harold Rigby was there. Harold has Parkinson’s disease and has trouble walking and keeping his balance. Yet there he was, vacuuming the church and emptying garbage—slow, but sure. I’m grateful to have been there and to have learned from their examples of quiet, selfless service.

In our own church service, no matter what that service may be, may it be said of us as it can be said of them: “. . . well done, thou good and faithful servant . . . .”

Patience Fletcher carefully snapped the cover open on her father’s large gold pocket watch that hung on a chain from the wooden bedpost. She gazed curiously at the faded face in the small brown-tinted photograph on the inside of the cover.
Less than sixty seconds had ticked away on the shiny timepiece when Niles, Patience’s lanky fourteen-year-old brother, passed their parents’ open bedroom door and spied his six-year-old sister standing barefoot in a rumpled nightgown against a misty patch of dawning window light.
Life along the river started as early as first light—sometimes sooner. The children’s father ran a ferryboat across the Fox River. It was an uncommonly beautiful sight to see the first sign of day break over Crazy Water Canyon before the ear caught the sound of somebody’s wagon creaking down the little rutted dirt road toward the buckled landing and Fletcher’s Ferry.
It had been Niles’s responsibility since Grandpa Ely died to collect the tolls while his father readied the passengers, wagons, and animals on the flatboat.
Now as Niles stepped quietly into the room, he said, “That’s Grandpa Ely.” He pulled a suspender up over his shoulders and pushed a shock of long yellow hair out of his eyes, eyes that warmly observed his sister’s undisturbed interest in the picture. “You were too little to remember,” he continued, “but he used to call you his ‘little bit of lace.’”
Patience’s large dark eyes shifted from the sunlit photograph to her brother. “Could you tell me about him, Niles? Every time Pa starts to, his eyes get all shiny and wet. He says it’s just road dust in his eyes. Then all of a sudden he remembers something he has to do and leaves.”
Niles smiled understandingly and crossed to the window. He faced the deep, wide river, glistening in the daybreak light. Then his gaze settled on a small grave beside the gently rolling water that was barely visible beneath the dew-sparkling branches of a willow tree. “It’s still hard for Pa to talk about him, little Sis. He misses him something fierce, even after five years.”
Patience looked again with growing curiosity at the photograph beside the steadily ticking watch, then joined her brother at the window.
Niles stood there a moment in silence. Then he began to speak softly. “I remember Grandpa’s hands. Yes, it’s his hands that I remember best. They were big and strong. I seldom saw them idle in his lap. They were busy clearing the land from here to the river while Pa was laid up with a broken leg. I remember the trees and brush were so thick around here, Pa said it put the wind into a regular fit just trying to find a place to go around. Grandpa’s hands were lined and worn from a lifetime of use. ‘His heart was in his hands,’ Ma always said, ‘because he was always reaching out to help someone.’ If they weren’t busy doing things like lifting me up to this window so I could see you the minute you were born or pulling me out of that river down there the time I fell in and almost drowned, they were helping Pa rig the ferry or some stranger mend a wagon wheel or else picking wild flowers for Grandma.
“His hands were gentle and soft, too, as soft as the river at its quietest, like the time he worked his fingers through my hair for a day and a night when I was near out of my head with fever. And they were happy too. They’d slap his knees to beat the band everytime Pa played his fiddle. And there were times I’d see them folded together in prayer or resting atop the heads of those in need of a blessing. Once a wagonload of people sick with cholera came through here. They’d been turned out by the rest of their train. Grandpa’s hands bid them welcome and worked miracles, and not a one of those folks died.
“I remember how I liked to hold his hand when we went for walks, because it felt safe. And I remember how it felt when his hand squeezed mine. It took the sting out of the day my dog, Banjo, ran off and never came back. And his hand on my shoulder filled me with pride the morning I gave my first Sunday School talk.
“Those hands held the scriptures too. They dug into fields and planted seeds or went deep into his pocket to give some poor traveler a dime. And sometimes they held Grandma tenderly, but with a sure strength. They could become excited when Grandpa was caught up in telling us tales of desert storms and flatland fires and thundering prairie herds. And they were as peaceable as an amen when they bandaged a hurt or tucked me into bed.”
Patience looked up at her brother in the patched, faded trousers. “Grandpa was a good man, wasn’t he, Niles?”
Niles smiled, his eyes misting. “One of the best, little Sis. One of the very best.”
The rattling sound of a flatbed wagon, piled high with barbwire on the road outside, pulled Niles’s attention back to the window. He could see his father on the jetty, setting aside a long hooked pole he had been using to clear away debris the water had deposited against the upriver side of the landing. Then he started up the pier toward the approaching wagon.
“Well,” Niles remarked to his sister, “it looks like there’s a wagon that wants to cross. I better get out there and help Pa.” He started out the open door, jerking his second suspender up over his shoulder and adding, “As hot as it feels already, you’d best fetch some of Ma’s lemonade for those folks coming in.”
“OK, Niles,” Patience assured him. She walked back to the bed and returned the pocket watch to its place on the bedpost. She lingered a bit in the warm silence of the little room, staring at the face of Grandpa Ely. Finally she whispered, “I hope my hands grow up to be just like yours, Grandpa. I truly do!” Then she turned and whisked out of the room.

When we are willing to serve, we strive not to complain or murmur, because we do not want to tarnish our service in any way. Complaining may be a sign of wavering commitment, or that our love for the Savior is not as it ought to be. Left unchecked, murmuring can progress to outright rebellion against the Lord. This progression is seen in the life of Ezra Booth, an early convert to the Church in Ohio who was called as a missionary to Missouri.

As he left Ohio in June 1831, Ezra was upset that some missionaries were able to travel by wagon while he had to walk in the summer heat, preaching along the way. He murmured. When he arrived in Missouri, he felt deflated. Missouri was not what he had expected. Instead, he looked around and noted that “the prospect appeared somewhat gloomy.”

Ezra became increasingly cynical, sarcastic, and critical. Upon leaving Missouri, instead of preaching as he went, as he had been asked to do, he returned to Ohio as quickly as he could. His initial murmuring evolved into wavering and finally into losing confidence in his earlier spiritual experiences. Soon Ezra left the Church and “ultimately ‘abandoned Christianity and became an agnostic.’”

Let me tell you the story of Laurie, a young BYU student who finally gathered the courage to visit the campus health center. She was always exhausted. Some days she couldn’t get out of bed at all. And she was having chest pain, shortness of breath and other physical symptoms of panic.
To her deep dismay, Laurie was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. The doctor gave her a comprehensive treatment plan and a prescription for medication. But as soon as Laurie got back to her apartment, she flushed the pills down the toilet. “I was embarrassed,” she told me. “I felt like this was a weakness that I could will myself out of.”
Laurie went on to have many difficult years—denying her symptoms and suffering in silence.
It wasn’t until her third child was born that she finally decided to do something about it. She reached out for help and started to feel better.

One need look no further than to the many missionaries who have labored in that part of the world, who in obedience to the Lord accepted a call from His prophet to serve a mission. It was said by the Apostle Peter long ago that Jesus went about doing good. As His ambassadors, missionaries in our generation have gone and continue to go throughout the world doing good in the true spirit of the Master. Let me describe one of them. He is typical of so many others who sincerely desire to serve the Lord.
He came from California and grew up in an ordinary sort of way, not a member of the Church. He became acquainted with a girl who was a member of the Church. He was so impressed with her that, on learning that she was a member of the Church, he wished to know more. Latter-day Saint students at the university taught him the gospel while he was completing a difficult scholastic program. He was baptized. Then, working nights and summers, he saved money enough to sustain him, if he spent it with care, for a period of eighteen months as a missionary. He was called to Guatemala. He was a handsome young man with a brilliant mind and a wonderful education in a highly technical field. I met him in the Guatemala City Temple. He grasped my hand warmly. I asked, “Are you happy?”
“Oh yes, so very happy,” he responded. I asked where he was working as a missionary. He said, “Out among the Lamanites, the native people of Guatemala. It is a very small place where there is much hardship, but the people are wonderful, and I love them.”
As I have thought of that tall and handsome young man, gifted and educated, working among the Indians of Guatemala in a jungle village, I have remembered the words of Samuel the Lamanite:
“Yea, I say unto you, that in the latter times the promises of the Lord have been extended to our brethren, the Lamanites; and notwithstanding the many afflictions which they shall have, and notwithstanding they shall be driven to and fro upon the face of the earth, and be hunted, and shall be smitten and scattered abroad, having no place for refuge, the Lord shall be merciful unto them.
“And this is according to the prophecy, that they shall again be brought to the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd, and be numbered among his sheep.” (Hel. 15:12–13.)
This young missionary, with his associates, was bringing to those among whom he walked “the true knowledge, which is the knowledge of their Redeemer, and their great and true shepherd,” that they might be numbered among His sheep.
This particular young man received no letters from his parents, no money, no encouragement. He had sufficient money, which he had saved, to support himself for eighteen months. Because his mission was ending when we were lengthening missions from eighteen months to twenty-four, he had the option of remaining an additional six months. He asked his mission president with emotion, “Is there some way I can get help to stay another six months to work among these people I have come to love so much?” A person was found to help pay for his expenses, and the missionary was able to serve a full twenty-four months.
There are others like him, thousands today working in many lands, who, in the spirit of the Lord, are going about doing great good.