Gospel Story Finder

“What’s up, Coach?” DeLyle said.
“Come in,” Coach Gardener said. “Sit down.”
DeLyle Condie walked into his coach’s office and pulled up a chair. He held his red basketball jersey in his hands. It was almost time for practice.
“I hear you’re going on a mission,” Coach said. “Let me show you something.” He turned on the projector.
DeLyle blinked in surprise. Coach often showed films of other teams playing. But these were pictures of palm trees and beaches.
“This is Hawaii,” Coach said. “The team’s going there next year. You’re going to miss it.”
“I know. But I’ve already decided,” DeLyle said. “A mission is the right thing to do.”
“Suit yourself,” Coach said. “But if you go, I don’t think you’ll ever play basketball again.”
DeLyle looked at his jersey. “I love basketball,” he said, “but some things are more important.”
“Good luck, then.” Coach sighed. “Now get to practice. You’re not a missionary yet!”
A few months later, Elder DeLyle Condie got on a ship in San Francisco, California, USA. It was 1955, and missionaries often traveled by boat back then. Three weeks later the ship arrived in Sydney, Australia. There, Elder Condie took an overnight train to Melbourne. Two elders were waiting for him.
“Wow! You’re a tall one!” Elder Johnson said. “You’d have been a great Mormon Yankee!”
“What’s that?” Elder Condie asked.
“More like what was that,” Elder Johnson said. “Missionary teams used to play in local basketball leagues. It was a way to help people get to know about the Church. One of the teams was called the Yankees. But we don’t do it anymore.”
“That’s OK,” Elder Condie said. “That’s not why I came on a mission.”
“Well, let’s get to the office,” Elder Johnson said. “It’s time to meet President Bingham, our mission president.”
President Bingham assigned Elder Condie to Tasmania, an island near Australia’s southern coast. There weren’t many Latter-day Saints there. In fact, in all of Australia, there were only about 1,200 Church members.
Elder Condie soon met lots of friendly Australians. But most weren’t interested in discussing the gospel. What they did want to talk about was the Olympics.
“Why are so many people interested in the Olympics?” Elder Condie asked.
His companion grinned. “The games are coming to Melbourne next year,” he said. “It’s a chance to put Australia on the map. Besides, lots of people are sports crazy already. I think that’s why the Mormon Yankees were so popular. I wonder if they’ll ever do that again.”
At the same time, 200 miles away in Melbourne, two men were discussing exactly that.
The coach of the Australian Olympic basketball team sat across the desk from President Bingham. “We need your help,” he said. “I know you used to have teams called Mormon Yankees. Some of your missionaries were pretty good. With the Olympics coming, it’s a long shot that Australia will win any games. We need to practice against players with talent and experience. Some friendly practice games will help people know more about your church, and they will help us get ready for the Olympics. Can you put a Mormon Yankees team together one more time?”
After the meeting, President Bingham found one of his assistants. “Bring Elder Condie back to Melbourne,” he said. “Missionaries will still be missionaries. But we’re going to help Australia prepare for the Olympics. And I’ll need Elder Condie to help choose a team.”

Three years later I went to Rome, Italy, to visit my uncle. He kept telling me about this church he went to. One Sunday, he took me with him. I will always remember walking toward the church’s doors for the first time and feeling the love of Heavenly Father when I went in. It felt like home.
I started going to church every single Sunday and to every activity during the week. I loved being with the youth of the Church. They made me happier. They thought and believed in the same things that I did. Then, after three months, my summer holiday finished and I had to go back to Albania.
When I returned home, I told my dad about the feelings I’d had and how happy I’d felt during those three months going to Church activities. He didn’t like it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to continue to go to church. So I would have to be patient for the next three years until I turned 18 years old. Then I could decide for myself and be baptized.
During this time I was blessed with so many people who would tell me about what they learned each Sunday at church. One of those people was Stephanie. She’d been living in Italy when my uncle joined the Church, but she had returned to her home in the United States. My uncle thought it would be good for us to write to each other, so I added her as a friend on Facebook.
Even though we’d never met in person, I will always be grateful to her for helping me build my faith and learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. She wrote to me almost every Sunday and told me everything she learned in church and then would answer my questions. She was a great friend to me.
Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.
I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

I had a sense of this truth a few months ago when I was walking one day and suddenly my sight became blurry, dark, and wavy. I was scared. Then the doctors told me, “If you don’t begin treatment immediately, you may lose your sight even in a matter of weeks.” I was even more scared.
And then they said, “You need intravitreal injections—injections right in the eye, wide-open eye—every four weeks for the rest of your life.”
That was an uncomfortable wake-up call.
Then a reflection came in the form of a question. I asked myself, “OK! My physical sight is not good, but what about my spiritual vision? Do I need any treatment there? And what does it mean to have a clear spiritual vision?”
So is my spiritual sight clear as I get my eye injections? Well, who am I to say? But I am grateful for what I see.
I clearly see the hand of the Lord in this sacred work and in my life.
I see the faith of many wherever I go who strengthen my own faith.
I see angels all around me.
I see the faith of many who don’t see the Lord physically but recognize Him spiritually, because they know Him intimately.
I testify that this gospel is the answer for everything, because Jesus Christ is the answer for everyone. I am grateful for what I can see as I follow my Savior.

During World War II, I was ordained an elder—one week before I departed for active duty with the navy. A member of my bishopric was at the train station to bid me farewell. Just before train time, he placed in my hand a book: The Missionary’s Hand Book. I laughed and commented, “I’ll be in the navy—not on a mission.” He answered, “Take it anyway. It may come in handy.”
It did. During basic training our company commander instructed us how we might best pack our clothing in a large seabag. He then advised, “If you have a hard, rectangular object you can place in the bottom of the bag, your clothes will stay more firm.” I thought, “Where am I going to find a hard, rectangular object?” Suddenly I remembered The Missionary’s Hand Book. And thus it served for 12 weeks at the bottom of that seabag.
The night preceding our Christmas leave, the barracks were quiet. Suddenly I became aware that my buddy in the adjoining bunk—a member of the Church, Leland Merrill—was moaning in pain. I asked, “What’s the matter, Merrill?”
He replied, “I’m sick. I’m really sick.”
The hours lengthened; his groans grew louder. Then, in desperation, he whispered, “Monson, aren’t you an elder?” I acknowledged this to be so, whereupon he pleaded, “Give me a blessing.”
I became very much aware that I had never given a blessing. My prayer to God was a plea for help. The answer came: “Look in the bottom of the seabag.” Thus, at 2:00 a.m. I emptied the bag. I then took to the night-light The Missionary’s Hand Book and read how one blesses the sick. With about 120 curious sailors looking on, I proceeded with the blessing. Before I could again stow my gear, Leland Merrill was sleeping.
The next morning, Merrill smilingly turned to me and said, “Monson, I’m glad you hold the priesthood!” His gladness was only surpassed by my gratitude—gratitude not only for the priesthood but for being worthy to receive the help I required in a time of desperate need.
If we are on the Lord’s errand, we are entitled to the Lord’s help. His help has come to me on countless occasions throughout my life.

Susan was eight years old. She had just been baptized. She was playing out in the yard with her sisters and some friends, and she went into the house to get a drink of water. Her mother said, “Susan, dinner’s ready. Will you please call your sisters to eat?” So she went to the door and called to them.
They really didn’t want to go in, so they argued and said, “Oh, no, it isn’t time for dinner. You are just teasing us.” And they accused her of not telling the truth.
Well, she gathered herself up in all of her eight-year-old dignity, put her hands on her hips, and said, “It is dinnertime. I’m telling you the truth, and you can believe me because I have been baptized.”
She knew that her baptism required of her a certain standard of behavior. Her choice was that she would tell the truth, and she was willing to commit to that.

Some time ago several outstanding teachers were honored at the general Sunday School conference. It was my privilege to pay a tribute to a Sunday School teacher of my boyhood days—Lucy Gertsch Thomson.
Lucy was lovely and ever so sweet. She was deserving of a worthy companion. Yet such success evaded her. The years flew by, and Lucy reached the worrisome 20s, the desperate 30s, even the frightful 40s—and then she met Dick. It was a case of love at first sight.
Just one problem—Dick was not a member of the Church. Did Lucy succumb to the age-old fallacy of marrying out of desperation, with the fleeting hope that one day he would become a member? Not Lucy. She was wiser than this. She simply told Dick: “Dick, I think you’re wonderful, but we would never be happy dating together.”
“Why not?” he countered.
“Because you’re not a Mormon.”
“How do I become a Mormon? I want to date you.” He studied the gospel.
She answered his questions. He was baptized.
Then he said, “Lucy, now that I’m a member, we can be married at last.”
Lucy replied, “Oh, Dick, I love you so much. Now that you are a member of the Church, you wouldn’t be content with anything but a temple marriage.”
“How long will that take, Lucy?”
“About a year, if we meet the other requirements.” One year later Lucy and Dick entered the House of the Lord. Lucy lived the truth of the verse:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone;
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
Plan your future with purpose.

I grew up in a small town and participated in a 4-H club that each year required me to purchase a lamb or a calf to raise. I had to maintain a workbook to keep track of what I paid for feed, veterinarian bills, and anything else I needed. The most memorable lamb I had was when I was nine. I bought a Southdown-cross lamb from a farmer and took good care of it. My dad helped me, and the county agent met with members of the club periodically to sign off in our workbooks. I learned how to raise and show that lamb, including shearing it so it would look its best.
I ended up taking it to The Dalles, Oregon, livestock show, and I won the grand-champion prize. The lamb weighed 92 pounds, and I received $2.50 per pound for my efforts. For a nine-year-old, that was a lot of money. And because of the records I had kept, I knew how much I earned after costs. For me, that was good training. For the last 20 years, I have been self-employed. I’ve paid my tithing on the same basis I learned when I was nine.

There it is on the youth conference program. On Friday from 9:00–12:00 and again from 1:00–4:00 “Dooleyalawalagus”! What does it mean? No one seems to know, but everyone is looking forward to finding out. And at the same time they’re feeling just a little apprehensive about the whole thing.
For many of the youth in the Bountiful Utah Stone Creek Stake, this is the first youth conference they’ve been to. And although there is a theme, professional-looking programs, and a level of organization that any leader would envy, no one seems to know what’s going on.
Well, maybe not everyone is in the dark. As the crowd prepares to leave for Park City, a resort not far from home where the conference is being held, there are some knowing smiles on a few of the faces.
Leila Whiting, a Mia Maid in the Bountiful 43rd Ward knows, and she’s not telling. “It’s going to be a lot of fun,” she says, but that’s all you’ll get out of her. In conjunction with the stake youth committee and their leaders, she has helped plan a youth conference that carries a mysterious air of secrecy and yet promises to be a great time.
Some of the other youth are still a little wary. Mitch Gwilliam, a teacher in the Bountiful 12th Ward, admits to being a little nervous, and Jeff Lund, president of the teachers quorum in the West Bountiful 8th Ward, says it makes him wonder what’s going to happen to them. But overall, the feeling is one of excitement.
John Shafter, 14, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, stands by his golf clubs and waits to go. “They said we could golf, play tennis or racquetball, and go swimming,” he says, and he’s definitely looking forward to the next three days.
The first day goes as expected. The hills and mountains surrounding Park City crackle with the fiery reds and yellows of fall, and the air is crisp. Some of the youth head for the tennis courts, others prefer the warmth of the indoor pool, and some use the time to laugh and talk with friends. Almost everyone is up late that night.
However, the next morning, early, their rooms are empty. But no one is playing on the tennis courts and no one is splashing in the pool. Instead, the youth are found up on a dark stage in the local theater, heads bent intently over whitewashed sheets of cardboard where the word Dooleyalawalagus is being painted.
Dooleyalawalagus?
The secret is out. Dooleyalawalagus has been revealed, and contrary to what some might think, it is much more than just silly mumbo jumbo.
Dooleyalawalagus is a town. More specifically, it is a town in a play that has been written especially for this youth conference.
Within the course of the afternoon, parts will be assigned, scenery will be painted, dances will be learned, and everyone will take part in rehearsals.
Why all the hurry?
Because the next day the youth will perform the play at the Utah State Training School for mentally handicapped youth and adults. Although it seems impossible to pull everything together so quickly, everyone dives in and preparation is soon underway.
While soon-to-be stars of the stage memorize their lines, paintbrushes and plenty of paint transform plain cardboard into the small community of Dooleyalawalagus. A parking lot outside the theater becomes a dance floor for members of the cast practicing their routines, and the sound and effects crew can be heard enthusiastically going over their lines.
Charice Smith, 15, of the Bountiful 12th Ward, says she’s going to be a dancer in the play. Is Dooleyalawalagus what she expected it to be? “Well, I thought it was going to be dumb when I first heard,” she says, but that was before getting involved. She practices the dance steps with a friend and laughs, “It’s been a lot of fun.”
There was no mystery surrounding Dooleyalawalagus for Doug Leavitt, a priest in the Bountiful Fifth Ward. Doug is one of the youth assigned to direct the play, and he’s been in on the planning stages of the conference. “I think it’s a really good idea,” he says. “I’ve been to the Utah State Training School a couple of times and it’s definitely something to remember. The kids there are great.”
And even though his cast and crew are short on practice time, Doug is confident that everything will work if everyone “just thinks and remembers their parts.”
Just as scheduled in the program, Dooleyalawalagus takes up two blocks of time during the day. Not much, when you consider that the play will be performed the next day. “I’m excited about it,” says Michael Fernelius, a teacher in the West Bountiful Seventh Ward, “but I didn’t think we could do it that fast.”
As the day of the performance arrives, the youth pile into cars to head for the training school. They leave behind the beauty of Park City and opportunities for more golf, tennis and swimming, yet they are looking forward to doing the play.
Once at the school, the scenery is quickly arranged on stage, costumes are donned, and the sound and special effects crew takes its place. The remaining youth line themselves against the walls of the auditorium to welcome the residents from the school. As the residents arrive, they are greeted with smiles and given special badges to wear. The auditorium fills slowly, the lights dim, and it’s time for the show to go on.
As the sound and effects crew imitate the sound of a train, part of the cast arrive on stage aboard the imaginary locomotive. Their destination? Dooleyalawalagus, of course. Upon arrival the travelers are shocked to find that Dooleyalawalagus is not the same as it was when they left several years earlier.
The plot thickens and the characters learn that Vernon Vile has taken over their once clean, happy hometown and turned it into a dirty, unproductive place. However, with the help of Vernon’s kind sister and a little ingenuity, these characters are able to restore happiness to Dooleyalawalagus and the townspeople. And in the process Vernon Vile, himself, is transformed.
The final performance may not be a polished Broadway production, but it is very effective and carries a small piece of everyone who has worked on it out to an audience that sincerely appreciates and needs this kind of love.
And although what they’re doing could be termed a service project, Kevin Jensen, a priest in the Bountiful 12th Ward, says it really doesn’t feel like one. “It’s been great,” he says. “We’re getting a lot more out of it than out of other service projects we’ve done.”
Heidi Judd, a secretary in her Mia Maid class in the West Bountiful Eighth Ward agrees. “At first it’s a little scary to come here,” she says. “But when you talk with the residents and help them, you see that they’re people too, and they’re so excited to have visitors.”
After the performance the residents shake hands with members of the play’s cast and crew and begin returning to their rooms. One young resident smiles broadly as he leaves the auditorium wearing, not one but two badges on his jacket. He will remember this visit.
The cardboard backdrops that represent Dooleyalawalagus are quickly taken down and loaded onto a truck as everyone prepares to go home.
Many of the youth conference programs have been thrown away or lost by now, but it doesn’t really matter. The questioning looks and curious faces caused by seeing the word Dooleyalawalagus a few days ago are gone. Instead of just a few knowing smiles in the crowd, there are many now.
Everyone that worked with Dooleyalawalagus knows that it is more than just a small town built of props and whitewashed cardboard, and much more than a silly name or a quickly prepared play.
Dooleyalawalagus is the sum of a lot of things. It is working hard and working together; it is a little bit of worry and a lot of fun; it is giving without expecting anything in return, and learning that service has its own kind of reward.
The excitement and air of mystery that once surrounded Dooleyalawalagus may be gone, but no one seems to mind. The real fun, they will tell you, has been discovering what such a word is all about.

Po Nien of Kaohsiung, Taiwan, experienced fears after he proposed to his girlfriend, Mei Wah. “I had dated other people before, and at least three times prior, I had a serious relationship develop only to see it fall apart. Those experiences had shaken my confidence in having a lasting relationship that would lead to an eternal one,” he confesses.
Although Po Nien felt at peace when he prayed about marrying Mei Wah, he began to doubt his answer. Had he felt a confirmation from the Spirit? Or had his emotions confused him? Would this engagement lead to the temple? Or would this relationship fall apart?
It was during this time that Po Nien remembered a quotation by President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) he had heard in an institute class: “We must put God in the forefront of everything else in our lives. … When we put God first, all other things fall into their proper place or drop out of our lives.”1
This counsel marked a turning point in Po Nien’s life. “I knew that if I put God first in my life and as long as I was faithful and true to Him, wrong things would drop out and good things would fall into place,” he says. If he put God first and his relationship with Mei Wah was good, Heavenly Father would help it work out. Moving forward with trust, Po Nien married Mei Wah in the Hong Kong China Temple. “I have been richly blessed by placing my trust in the Lord,” he says.

I learned this valuable lesson in 1973 while attending what was then called the Language Training Mission at BYU Provo in preparation for my mission to France and Belgium. We were expected to memorize sixty lines of the French discussions each day, in addition to our grammar lessons. As missionaries we carried with us a little card made by our District Leader which read, Avez-vous vecu votre vision? Have you lived your vision? My vision was to leave having learned the discussions in French but the task seemed too daunting. My head ached and frustration mounted as I fell short of what I expected of myself and what was expected of me. I had the work ethic but quickly came to the realization that I could not learn those 60 lines a day on my own. Oh, I had prayed for help but had not acknowledged my dependence upon God to succeed. I recall the pleading prayers I offered at the side of my bed; on some nights my knees ached as much as my head but the prayers were answered and the task became achievable. I testify that sincere prayer coupled with hard work greatly increases our rate of learning.

Our little granddaughter (I’ll call her Heather) grew up a happy, bubbly child. She always had a smile on her face. But when she turned 12, all that changed. She experienced anxiety, sometimes felt panic, and began to harm herself. She stayed home from school and hid in her room.
Her parents called me, feeling very concerned. I listened and empathized. But it was not my place to tell them what to do. This was under their role as parents. My job as a grandparent was to listen and offer ideas as they figured out what to do.
They found medical help and therapy for Heather. Over the following months, her progress seemed slow. Her mother arranged for online learning because Heather missed so much school. Heather continued to confine herself to her room and her art.
What could I do?
I knelt daily in prayer for Heather. We prayed as an extended family, but Heather still isolated herself. I wanted God to fix her back to the happy little girl she was.
As I continued to pray, the Spirit reminded me of a teaching by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “Never forget that these little ones are the sons and daughters of God and that yours is a custodial relationship to them, that He was a parent before you were parents and that He has not relinquished His parental rights or interest in these His little ones.”1
I began to pray for God’s will, His timing, and His direction, not mine. I needed to respect that He was Heather’s Father in Heaven. I sought to listen to the Spirit, not just pray in panic for my will to be done. I knew He would take care of Heather. I read and reread 3 Nephi 18:20: “Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, which is right, believing that ye shall receive, behold it shall be given unto you.” Heavenly Father promised, so I decided I would trust Him.
The Spirit reminded me that I was the grandparent and could love Heather in a different way than her parents. I just needed to show I enjoyed her company. We texted back and forth. We talked about both of us being daughters of God, and we had gospel conversations. She made several pieces of art just for me. I hugged her every chance I got. We cooked together, shopped together, and watched her favorite movies together.
As the months went by, she improved a little. With the help of her mom, she taught a Come, Follow Me lesson in our family videoconference. Other times she shared a scripture. She made cookies with her aunt and played games with her cousins.
Slowly, Heather’s life began to change. She made friends with a girl in the neighborhood while walking her dog. Her parents encouraged her to stay for Young Women class on Sunday, not just attend sacrament meeting. She met a new friend at a youth activity. As Heather felt stronger, she decided she would try to go back to in-person school. She is now doing well at school and enjoys seminary.
With each step Heather took, I felt immense gratitude. I am thankful for her parents, her extended family, the young women and their leaders, and a devoted seminary teacher. I express my gratitude for these angels on earth in my daily prayers.
Heather’s life isn’t perfect, but she has gained wisdom, strength, and courage through this trial. She can again share her happy, bubbly smile with those around her. She is growing into a productive, solution-focused teen. God is Heather’s Heavenly Father and will help her become her best self. Her earthly parents are receptive to the Spirit and seek to guide her life with His help. I still listen when they need to talk, and I always show love.

My officer friend told me recently of two young men in the backseat of a police car, handcuffs about their wrists. They had started out innocently enough that evening. Four of them in a car went about looking for excitement. They found it. Soon there was a fight. Then the police cars converged. The boys were detained and handcuffed.

These were good young men. They were not of the kind that go to the jailhouse periodically. The mother of one of them had said to him before he left home, “Bad things happen after 11 o’clock.”

He had quickly learned the meaning of that statement. He was embarrassed. He was ashamed to face his mother.

While packing to attend Especially for Youth at a local college campus, I felt as though I should bring an extra copy of the Book of Mormon to pass out. Thinking only members of the Church would be there, I didn’t understand why I would have such a prompting, but I followed it anyway and packed the book.
During several mealtimes, I happened to sit by some girls attending a jazz band camp that was on campus that week. They had a lot of questions about the Church, and I felt the Holy Spirit guide me on what to say. Much of my time was spent teaching instead of eating. I offered the girls the Book of Mormon that I had felt prompted to bring. One accepted it. Then I knew why the Lord had prompted me to bring it.
Be sure to listen to the promptings of the Holy Spirit and “trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Prov. 3:5).

It was Saturday, and there was work to do at my law office. But as stake president, I had committed to attend a service project with our stake Relief Society sisters. The sisters would be visiting sick children and expectant mothers in the Sergio Bernales de Collique-Comas Hospital in Lima, Peru. They would lend spiritual support, as well as deliver quilts and toys they had made during the year.
As I left behind everything else I had to do and headed for the hospital, the words of the first of many scriptures I thought of that day came to me: “When saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:39–40).
A warm, peaceful feeling flooded my heart, and I knew this would be a special experience. The Spirit also whispered to me that the Lord had called me as stake president to love and help others—especially the sick and afflicted. Throughout the day, thoughts of our Savior and His compassionate ministrations were never far from my mind. In our small way, we labored to be like Him.
When I arrived at the hospital, I was greeted by the 60 warmest hearts and the 60 warmest smiles I had ever seen. And as the Relief Society sisters entered the hospital, I watched this sad and gloomy place begin to be filled with light and joy.
“It came to pass that Jesus blessed them … , and the light of his countenance did shine upon them” (3 Ne. 19:25).
Our first visit was to a very small boy who had pneumonia and who was connected to a respirator. The boy’s mother sat at the foot of his bed. “Have faith,” the sisters encouraged her. I could see the hope and happiness she felt as she listened to the comforting words of these good sisters.
“Jesus … saith unto them, Have faith in God” (Mark 11:22).
Next we met a father whose young son was ill. He placed his son in a wheelchair so he could have his picture taken with us. One of the sisters gave the boy a pair of blue jeans that seemed to have been made just for him. “When I get out, I will put them on immediately,” the little boy told me very excitedly.
“He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none” (Luke 3:11).
We visited teenage mothers who had just given birth. One was a young girl of just 14 whose baby had been born dead. The sisters put their hands on her shoulders, comforted her, and gave her much wise advice. My eyes filled with tears as I watched these wonderful women of Zion who had laid aside their own problems, which were many, to give of what they had.
“Ye are … willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light” (Mosiah 18:8).
In one room a woman sat alone at the bed of her daughter, who was brain dead. For many days the mother had been living and sleeping at the hospital because she wasn’t from the city and she had nowhere else to stay. I felt inspired to say, “I am a priesthood holder in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Would you like me to give your daughter a blessing?” Her eyes filled with tears, and she answered, “I would.” Never before had I had such a feeling as on this occasion, and I thanked Heavenly Father for the opportunity to hold His holy priesthood and bless that little girl.
“He … put his hands upon them, and blessed them” (Mark 10:16).
The sisters gave this afflicted mother an issue of the Liahona and promised to come back again on another day.
“Jesus answered and said unto her, … whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life” (John 4:13–14).
When our visit was over, I felt that each of those who had visited the hospital that day was a new person. As I saw the beautiful smiles on the sisters’ faces, I realized that when we give care and service to our fellow beings, we feel the true joy that comes from serving God.
“If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them” (John 13:17).

There are those families comprised of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters who have, through thoughtless comment, isolated themselves from one another. An account of how such a tragedy was narrowly averted occurred many years ago in the life of a young man who, for purposes of privacy, I shall call Jack.
Throughout Jack’s life, he and his father had many serious arguments. One day, when he was 17, they had a particularly violent one. Jack said to his father, “This is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I’m leaving home, and I shall never return.” So saying, he went to the house and packed his bag. His mother begged him to stay; he was too angry to listen. He left her crying at the doorway.
Leaving the yard, he was about to pass through the gate when he heard his father call to him, “Jack, I know that a large share of the blame for your leaving rests with me. For this I am truly sorry. I want you to know that if you should ever wish to return home, you’ll always be welcome. And I’ll try to be a better father to you. I want you to know that I’ll always love you.”
Jack said nothing but went to the bus station and bought a ticket to a distant point. As he sat on the bus, watching the miles go by, he commenced to think about the words of his father. He began to realize how much love it had required for him to do what he had done. Dad had apologized. He had invited him back and left the words ringing in the summer air: “I love you.”
It was then that Jack realized that the next move was up to him. He knew the only way he could ever find peace with himself was to demonstrate to his father the same kind of maturity, goodness, and love that Dad had shown toward him. Jack got off the bus. He bought a return ticket and went back.
He arrived shortly after midnight, entered the house, turned on the light. There in the rocking chair sat his father, his head in his hands. As he looked up and saw Jack, he arose from the chair and they rushed into each other’s arms. Jack often said, “Those last years that I was home were among the happiest of my life.”
We could say that here was a boy who overnight became a man. Here was a father who, suppressing passion and bridling pride, rescued his son before he became one of that vast, “lost battalion” resulting from fractured families and shattered homes. Love was the binding band, the healing balm. Love so often felt, so seldom expressed.

We must always be sure to make decisions in harmony with the commandments. To obey requires that we trust the Lord’s wisdom and love for us. The story of another young man, whom we will call Fred, illustrates: When Fred was eleven, he got a job delivering newspapers door-to-door and really began to prosper. He was still delivering papers at age sixteen. One day the manager of the newspaper, an inactive member of the Church, said, “Fred, you have been so loyal and done so well in selling subscriptions that I’m going to appoint you assistant manager of circulation of this newspaper. You’ll supervise the other delivery boys and teach them how to sell subscriptions. After school, upon finishing your route, you’ll be able to come to the office to work two or three hours. You’ll be able to do some homework while you’re waiting to answer customer telephone calls. All in all, it will be a great job for you. And by the way, your pay will be tripled.”
Fred was delighted. He was saving money for a mission. This was an ideal job, at a time when many teenagers had no work.
He said to himself over and over again, “The Lord truly does bless those who keep the commandments.” He knew he had always paid his tithing, kept the Sabbath day holy, and honored his priesthood.
After a successful year and a half, George, the newspaper manager, approached him with another opportunity. “You know, Fred, one week from now we’re going to begin delivering the Sunday paper. You will not only have a Sunday route to deliver in the morning, but you’ll have to stay in the office from about 7:00 A.M. to 2:00 in the afternoon. You’ll also receive a 30 percent increase in pay.”
When Fred didn’t look too happy at the news, the manager quickly added, “I know you’re a Mormon, and you may be thinking of not accepting this extra responsibility. But if you don’t take the job, you’ll lose your paper route and be fired from your weekday job as well. Many of my other paper boys would do anything to have your job.”
As Fred rode home on his bicycle that day, he was despondent. He prayed over and over, “How could this be, Heavenly Father? I have kept the commandments. I’ve tried to do what is right. I’ve paid my tithing. I’m trying to go on a mission. Now I may lose my job. Shall I work this added job on Sunday or not?”
He explained the problem to his father, who wisely responded, “I don’t know the answer, but I know someone above who does.” Fred talked to his bishop, who told him much the same thing his father had told him. For two full days Fred prayed and struggled. He knew that he could attend sacrament meetings in another ward later in the afternoon.
When his boss asked for a decision, Fred replied, “I like my job and my newspaper delivery route, but I cannot work on Sunday. It’s not right.”
“You’re fired!” said George angrily. “Come in Saturday to pick up your last paycheck. You’re a very ungrateful young man!”
For the next several days, the manager hardly spoke to Fred. But whenever Fred wondered if he had decided correctly, the answer seemed to be the same: “There may be some who have to work on Sunday, but you don’t have to, and you should not.”
When Fred went to pick up his last paycheck, he found George waiting for him. “Fred, please forgive me,” he said. “I was wrong. I ought not to have tried to make you go against your beliefs. I have found a young man of another faith who is willing to do the extra work on Sunday. You can keep your job. Will you?”
With a thankful heart, Fred answered, “Yes.”
The manager then added, “You’ll find the extra 30 percent I was going to pay you for the work on Sunday included in your paychecks from now on.”
What great joy Fred felt in his heart as he went home that afternoon. “It is worth it to keep the commandments of the Lord,” he said to himself. Of course, it would have been worth it even without the reward of the pay increase. A year later, when he gave his final talk before leaving for his mission, Fred was overjoyed to see his manager in the congregation. He felt even greater joy when, a few months ago, he learned that, after twenty-six years of inactivity, George is now a faithful high priest group leader in his ward.

I shall never forget one night almost three decades ago. My bride, Patricia, and I had been married for two years. We lived in a small duplex on Oahu’s north shore. I was an army infantry officer, a platoon leader, assigned to a unit at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Our brigade had been ordered to war in Vietnam. My plane was scheduled for departure after midnight, and a good Latter-day Saint friend had agreed to take me to the airfield at 11:00 p.m.
All through that long evening, Pat and I sat on the sofa in our tiny living room with our fingers intertwined, watching the hands of the clock approach the fateful hour and listening to the soft lapping of the surf against the shore. The ticking of the clock seemed a metronome of mortality in painful contrast to the muffled rushing of the eternal sea. At last the hour of parting arrived. Inside the doorway to our little home, I clutched my bride to my bosom and kissed her one last time, and then I was gone. As I closed the door, I wondered if I had seen my sweetheart for the last time in mortality. It was truly night.
My friend and I drove silently in the darkness through the sugarcane and pineapple fields of Oahu. My heart felt as though it would break. Then as we passed Schofield, an unseen infantry unit on night maneuvers fired a flare. Its brilliance momentarily lit the inky darkness and seemed to ignite a spiritual flame in the blackness that invested my soul. My thoughts were drawn away from this saddest of days to the very happiest: back to that beautiful December day when Pat and I had entered the holy temple and there were sealed to each other, not just for this life only but for all eternity. I thought of the eternal covenants we had made. Like the sunrise, it dawned on me that no matter what happened in the uncertain future just ahead, Pat would always be mine. When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. In the spirit of a renewed hope and peace born of faith and understanding, we talked and laughed softly before once more bidding each other good-bye. It was only midnight, but for me the sun was already rising.

A true story from the USA.
“I am a child of God, and He has sent me here, has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear. …”
Cole’s eyes filled with tears, and he stopped singing. He asked his Primary teacher if he could go to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, Cole stared into the mirror. He had stood right here with his dad a year ago, right before Cole’s baptism. They had both been dressed in white.
“You’re about to make a very important covenant,” Dad had said. “Today you will promise to always follow Jesus Christ and try to be like Him.”
Cole had felt so happy and warm when he came out of the water. He knew he had made the right choice to be baptized.
But now, it was all different. Dad wasn’t with him today. He never came to church anymore.
Cole sniffed and wiped his eyes. At first, when Dad missed church, Cole thought he was sick. Or maybe that he had to go to work. Then Dad came less and less. Soon, he didn’t come with them at all.
Cole remembered the day when he finally felt brave enough to ask his mom about Dad. Mom had sighed and said, “Dad isn’t sure the Church is true anymore. He’s trying to decide what he believes.” She looked sad, and Cole knew that it was hard for her too.
Scary questions had filled Cole’s mind. How could someone lose their testimony? Would Cole ever lose his? What did all this mean for their family?
Cole had given Mom a hug. “What can we do? How can we help Dad find his testimony?”
“Only Heavenly Father can help Dad find his testimony again,” Mom had said. “But we can pray for him.”
Ever since then, Cole prayed for Dad every day. But months went on, and nothing changed. Cole felt afraid. He worried all the time. It was hard to go to church without Dad. It was hard to believe that his family could be together forever.
Cole wiped away the rest of his tears and said another silent prayer. Then he walked back to Primary. When he came in, Sister Snow was reminding everyone about general conference next weekend.
The next Sunday, Cole sat with Mom and watched conference. Dad was upstairs watching basketball. Cole listened to the prophet talk about his life as a little boy. He was surprised to learn that President Nelson’s parents didn’t go to church either when he was young.
Then President Nelson talked about how he had longed to be sealed to his parents in the temple. Cole froze, listening closely. President Nelson had to wait for many years, even after his parents were 80! But then they were finally sealed as an eternal family.
Cole felt the Holy Ghost whisper to him that things with Dad would be OK too. Cole would have to be patient. But Heavenly Father would help his family, just like He had helped President Nelson’s family.
Even though the answer was not what Cole had wanted, he knew that Heavenly Father had heard and answered his prayer. Heavenly Father loved his dad, and He loved Cole too.

He loved the youth of the Church, as is evidenced by the experience of Heber J. Grant. Nine days after Heber’s birth, his father, Jedediah M. Grant, who was Second Counselor to President Brigham Young, died. For the next 21 years, Brigham Young took special interest in the boy Heber J. Grant.
Heber J. Grant wrote:
“I was almost as familiar in the homes of President Brigham Young as I was in the home of my own mother. In one home … if I was hungry I felt as free to go in and ask for something to eat there as in my own home. … I knelt down time and time again in his home in the Lion House at family prayers, as a child and as a young man.”

Last year, as some of you baseball fans may recall, we almost had another .400 hitter in Rod Carew of the Minnesota Twins; he was there for most of the season and tailed off near the end. Do you know that the last .400 hitter the Major League has produced was Ted Williams in 1941? At the beginning of the final week of that season—and I remember it well because I followed it very carefully—Ted’s batting average was over .400, as it had been for several weeks. His manager asked if he wanted to be excused from playing ball the last week in order to protect the .400 average, and Ted replied—and I have always appreciated that great champion—“If I am going to be a .400 hitter, I am going to earn the honor fair and square.”

Ted’s batting average that last week went down. Then came the final afternoon of play, and Ted’s average stood at .399955 on the last day of the season—not quite .400, but the statistics rounded out would show him as a .400 hitter. Sportswriters, baseball fans, and the manager of the team advised him not to play that afternoon. They did not want Ted to take a chance of missing out on becoming the ninth member of that wonderful club. He replied—and I remember it well—“If I’m going to be a .400 hitter, I want more than my toenails on the line.”

The baseball park in Philadelphia was jammed. Each time Ted Williams came to bat the huge crowd sat in tense silence, almost afraid to breathe for fear of upsetting him. At each hit he made, the crowd roared its approval. The noise almost rocked Philadelphia when the final game ended and Ted’s batting average registered .406. How is that for stretching a little bit further? What a great quality!