Gospel Story Finder

My daughter, Tifanny, and I were at a store one evening. As we left the store, I saw some unopened candy and a toy just outside the door. We couldn’t find the owner, so I told her she could have the candy and toy. She looked at me and said, “I would like to be honest.” She took the candy and toy into the store. She came out with the greatest feeling for being honest and choosing to do the right. She likes to choose the right.

Luisa Fernanda Espinosa Sachica, a young Colombian woman, had come to the church meeting at the invitation of a young man who worked with her at a bank.

The little ward in Bogota, the nation’s capital, did not really impress her favorably. The Church members were nice, but Luisa just didn’t like the meetings. They were too long, she thought, and there didn’t appear to be anything of interest for people of her age.

But, during Relief Society, the teacher used the June 1987 Liahona, the Church’s Spanish-language magazine. On the cover was a picture of the Savior teaching in the synagogue. In the painting, the Savior had a glow about him that attracted Luisa’s attention. Not wanting to stay, she left the building following Relief Society, but she thought to herself, "I want a copy of that magazine."

Later that week, Luisa was on a crowded bus in Bogota and, as she was getting off, she noticed a copy of that same issue of the Liahona on the dashboard of the bus. She thought that it was quite a coincidence. The next day, as she was shopping, she saw behind the counter another copy of the magazine. She began to think that it was more than a coincidence. She wanted to ask the store clerk about the magazine but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Then, at the end of the week, while she was working in the bank, a man carrying a copy of the magazine approached her teller’s window. She just had to ask him about getting a copy for herself. "I can’t understand what it is about that magazine," she explained. "It seems to follow me around." The man smiled and gave her his copy.

She took the magazine home and read it all the way through. The First Presidency Message, by President Ezra Taft Benson, was "Valiant in the Testimony of Jesus," and it described Joseph Smith and the First Vision. The more Luisa read, the more her interest grew.

She told some friends, who were members of the Church, that she wanted to meet the missionaries. Before the first discussion was finished, "She bore her testimony to us that the Joseph Smith story was true," said Elder Doug Fulsome, one of the missionaries who taught her. Luisa was eager to hear the rest of the discussions and was soon baptized.

"If the Lord wants someone to be baptized," said Elder Fulsome, "he finds a way. Even if he makes a copy of the Church magazines ‘follow’ them."

For decades, persecution of Church members was severe. Many missionaries landed in prison, including Mikael Jonsson, a native Swede. He was arrested in 1852 and was brought in chains 480 miles (770 km) to Malmö, where he was thrown in the castle prison, exhausted from hunger and privation. He was visited by a priest, who found that Elder Jonsson was an intelligent man with some education. The priest declared that he was willing to help him and even promised him further education—on the condition that he join the Lutheran faith and deny “Mormonism.” Elder Jonsson would not deny his faith, so he was deported.4

Have you ever asked yourself any of these questions? Are you entertaining any of these questions now? If you are, rest assured that most people have contemplated these very questions, including me. Let me illustrate by sharing with you the following tragic event that happened to me when I was three or four years old. It happened on a peaceful day when my older brother and I were milling around the backyard, looking for something to do. My brother came upon the idea of exploring my father's cupboard in the garage that was, by the way, strictly off limits. I reluctantly followed my brother into the garage and watched as he climbed upon the workbench and pulled the stick from the latch on the cupboard.

As he opened the cupboard door, he quickly located the test tubes of chemicals that my father kept there. I began to feel very uneasy and ran for the back door of our house. Unfortunately, the back door to our house was difficult to open. And weighing a mere 40 or 50 lb., there wasn't a chance that I was going to get it opened. I cried out to my mother while pounding on the door, but she, at that very moment, was vacuuming the floor and was not able to hear me.

After a few moments, I resolved to return to the garage to see what my brother was doing. He had, while I was away, secured a test tube, climbed down from the workbench, and removed the tube's lid. He motioned for me to come and smell its contents. I reluctantly moved forward. As I drew near to him, he--not knowing the bottle was filled with dangerous acid--threw it on me. I was badly burned and rushed to the hospital. I still vividly remember the ambulance ride. My mother later said that she had never heard a child scream so loudly. I ended up spending many days in bed, wrapped in white bandages. And I still carry the scars of those burns to this day.

That was a traumatic experience in my life, one that was followed by a number of others. Time will not permit me to relate those. Nevertheless, it is sufficient to say that I seemed to be a magnet for tragic events. And many times I have had the occasion of crying out to Heavenly Father for comfort and for answers. Let me share with you some of the things I have learned. I hope that you will find them helpful.

Michael knew that Christmas would not be the same this year. Although everything else would be the same—the manger scene that was always set up on top of the piano, the Christmas tree he and his father would go up in the mountains to cut, the Christmas cookies his mother and younger brothers and sisters would make—it would not be the same this year, because Michael was not the same.
He didn’t know what to do about it.
He had messed up.
He was not as good as everyone thought he was.
He tried not to think about it because it was embarrassing and painful. It made him feel guilty. Nobody else knew about it. And nobody would ever find out.
It had happened on fast Sunday in December. It was during church. His mother asked him to take his two-year-old brother, Zach, out because he was acting up. Out in the hall Zach started playing around where coats were hung up. Zach liked to get down on his hands and knees and crawl through the maze of coats. Somehow in the process Zach pulled a purse off the coatrack and knocked it to the floor. Everything spilled out.
Michael knelt down and started putting things back in the purse. Zach quickly ran away, thinking he was in big trouble. Michael decided to look in the billfold to find out who it belonged to. As he opened the billfold, he saw a stack of five-dollar bills.
Michael looked around, grabbed one of the five-dollar bills and slipped it into his pocket, put everything back in the purse, and put the purse back up on the coat rack.
He got Zach, picked him up, and took him back to sacrament meeting.
And that was it.
He wasn’t even sure why he’d taken the money. He didn’t need it for anything. Of course he liked to play video games at the mall after school, and that’s where the money eventually went, but it wasn’t like an obsession with him or anything.
He wondered if he would ever get caught, and if he were caught, and someone asked him why he’d taken the money, what he would say. He wasn’t sure. There didn’t seem to be any reason. He remembered he’d been upset with his mother because of something she’d said before they left for church, something about his always making them late for church. He tried to imagine telling a policeman, I stole the money because my mother got mad at me for making us late for church.
And now here it was, a Monday night, two weeks before Christmas. Their family had a large manger scene they set out on top of the piano every Christmas Eve. It had been in the family for as long as he could remember. His grandfather, who had died two years earlier, had carved it when his mother was a child. When Michael was a little boy he had been fascinated by the mules and straw and the cow and Mary and Joseph and the little baby Jesus in the wooden manger.
That night his mother asked him to take charge of unpacking the manger. He would unpack each figure and give it to one of his brothers or sisters for them to place on top of the piano. Each figure was wrapped in tissue paper.
Michael used to like this family tradition, but this year for some reason he didn’t feel the same about it. He just wanted to get it over with and get back to his video game.
The box was empty. “Okay, that’s it. Can I go now?” he asked.
“Where’s baby Jesus?” his mother asked. “We haven’t put him out yet.”
He looked through the box, but all he found was tissue paper. “It’s not here,” he said.
“It has to be there. Where else could it be?”
He dumped the contents of the box onto the floor. “I’m telling you it’s not here.”
“How can we have the manger scene without baby Jesus?” his mother asked.
“Look, I don’t know, but I did what you told me to do. I’m finished. I just want to go back to the TV room.”
“Michael, we’ve got to have the baby Jesus for our manger scene, or it won’t mean anything. You’re good with your hands just like your grandfather was. Will you carve us another one?”
“Why can’t we just buy one?”
“It wouldn’t be the right size. Besides your grandfather carved this. He’s not here with us anymore, but you’re good at things like that. It doesn’t have to be perfect, but it will mean so much more if someone in our family does it.”
“Oh, all right,” he grumbled.
The next day Michael’s father brought him a carving knife, several blades, and a small piece of fine wood. He laid it on Michael’s bed when he came home from work. Michael pushed it aside and said he was too busy and that he’d wait for school to be out before he began.
Finally at three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve he had run out of excuses and his mother had run out of patience. He decided to start. It doesn’t have to be much, he thought. Just get it done.
He spread old newspapers on the kitchen table and started to rough out the general shape.
An hour later his mother came in to see how he was doing. She put her hand on his shoulder and watched him carve. “You’ve got a gift, Michael, just like your grandfather. You’re so much like him.”
“I’m not anything like him,” Michael said, sounding almost bitter.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve seemed kind of grumpy lately.”
“I’m just getting tired of the same old thing every Christmas. Why do we have to have a manger scene anyway?”
“That’s what Christmas is all about.”
“A baby was born in a stable and shepherds came. So what?”
“We don’t celebrate Christmas because a baby was born in a stable and shepherds came. We celebrate Christmas because that baby is the Son of God and the Savior of the world.”
“The world still seems messed up to me.”
“He saves the world one person at a time. He gives us hope. He helps us understand that it’s never too late to begin again. If we’ve made mistakes, if we truly repent we can be forgiven. When that happens, our burden of guilt is lifted. That’s why we celebrate Christmas.”
She knows, he thought.
He quit carving. “Something is wrong with me,” he said.
“Tell me what it is.”
He wiped the beads of sweat from off his forehead.
“Michael, whatever it is, tell me. We can work it out.”
He took a deep breath and said, “I took five dollars from a purse three weeks ago at church.”
“You did?”
“Yes. You knew about it, didn’t you?”
“No, not really. I knew something was wrong though. I just wasn’t sure what. You weren’t acting the same—but I didn’t know what it was.”
“Why did you talk about making mistakes then?”
“Because I make mistakes too. We never outgrow the need for the Savior in our lives.” She paused. “What do you think you should do?”
“I was thinking of waiting until after Christmas and then going to tell the bishop what I did.”
“Is waiting a good idea? It will gnaw at you until you do something.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve. The bishop will be home with his family.”
“Why don’t you see what he says? You’ll enjoy Christmas a lot more if you’ve started resolving this. It’s still early. I don’t think he’d mind if you stopped by.”
“I don’t want Jessica to know what I’ve done.”
“He won’t tell anyone in his family, not his wife, not Jessica, and not his other children. Why not call and see if he’s there?”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Tell him you have a private matter you need to discuss with him.”
Fifteen minutes later Michael walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell. The one thing he dreaded was that Jessica would answer the door and he would have to tell her he needed to talk to her father and she would guess that something was wrong.
But the bishop opened the door, shook his hand, and led him downstairs to an office. Michael could hear family noises from upstairs. They were singing Christmas carols. He could hear Jessica’s voice. She had a beautiful singing voice. He had sung with her in a quartet once for church. He wondered if she would ever talk to him again.
“Three weeks ago I stole five dollars from a purse at church,” he blurted out.
Michael was surprised at the bishop’s reaction. He didn’t say, “How could you do that?” He didn’t order him out of his house. He didn’t call the police and have him thrown in jail. He didn’t tell him he was the worst person in the world. He didn’t tell him never to talk to his daughter Jessica again.
What he did was loan Michael five dollars. And then the two of them drove to the home of the woman who reported that someone had gone through her purse and taken five dollars. She was a widow and the money in her purse was her tithing.
When she opened the door, she smiled and invited them in.
“Are you my new home teachers?” she asked.
“No, not exactly.”
“Would you like some Christmas cookies? My grandchildren sent them.”
“Not right now,” the bishop said. “Michael has something he needs to tell you.”
“I’m the one who took five dollars from your purse,” Michael said quickly.
“Oh, Michael, not you! I never would have thought you would do something like that.”
“I’m really sorry.” He handed her the five-dollar bill the bishop had loaned him. “I came to give you five dollars.”
“Do you need the money, because if you do …”
“No, I don’t need it. I don’t know why I took it.”
“It takes a big man to admit when he’s done wrong.”
“That’s right,” the bishop said. “But it’s only part of repenting. You need to make sure you’ve done all you can and that you’re right with the Lord.”
It was silent for a moment. “Would you like a Christmas cookie now?” the widow asked.
Michael turned away so she wouldn’t see his eyes.
There could be no leaving until they had a Christmas cookie. To Michael the cookie tasted like sawdust. Finally, mercifully, the bishop said all the right things to get them out of there.
The bishop gave him a ride home. “You owe me five dollars,” he said as they pulled into Michael’s driveway.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”
“What did you use the money for?” the bishop asked.
“Video games.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t play video games until you get this taken care of.”
“All right.”
“You and I will need to have a long talk next week about the process of repentance,” the bishop said. “Is that all right with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. But relax, you’ve done the most difficult part today. I’m glad you had the courage to admit you’d done wrong. That’s never easy.” The bishop leaned over and shook his hand. “Merry Christmas, Michael.”
Instead of playing video games or watching TV, Michael spent the rest of Christmas Eve finishing the carving of baby Jesus. He finished at eleven o’clock that night. Everyone else in the family had gone to bed. All the lights were off except a reading light near the piano. Michael gently set the carved figure in the manger and placed a tiny blanket over it. It wasn’t as good as the one his grandfather had made, but to Michael it meant much more.
Two months later they found the original baby Jesus in another box in the basement. But even so, from then on, they always put out the one Michael had carved the year he discovered the true meaning of Christmas.

In the few minutes remaining, I would like to offer one more perspective on change for the students of the university by relating an experience from the life of my grandmother, Thelma Bean Waddoups. My grandmother grew up in the small Idaho town of Herbert. About 20 miles south of Rexburg, Herbert consisted of nothing more than widely separated farmhouses—typically log cabins—and two town buildings. One of the town buildings was the post office. The other served as a one-room schoolhouse from Monday through Friday, as a dance hall on Saturday, and as an LDS meetinghouse on Sunday.
My great-grandfather, Charles Bean, was a man of tremendous imagination and industry who did whatever was required to support his wife and children. At this point in his life, Charlie Bean was homesteading new farmland with the hope of improving his family’s living circumstances. In 1910 my grandmother Thelma began school in Herbert at the age of six. Since transportation near the turn of the century was limited to riding a horse, driving a buggy, or walking, she typically walked the two miles to and from her schoolhouse.
The schoolteacher sold Bibles as a part-time job. In hopes of motivating his students, he offered to give one of his Bibles at Christmastime to the child who had the best attendance record and the best grades. In a poor Idaho farm community in 1910, it would have been a magnificent thing for a young child to own a book of her own, particularly if the book were the Bible. Thelma determined that the Bible would be hers, even though she was much younger than most of the other children in the school.
That fall, in the small isolated town of Herbert, she attended school without missing a day. Those of you familiar with the weather around Rexburg will be more impressed by the accomplishment of this young girl who walked four miles a day during the storms of November and December. Excited by the opportunity of learning, Thelma found that she was naturally a good student. By applying herself, she earned the best grades in the school. As Christmas approached, she was confident that the coveted Bible would be hers.
Finally, when the day arrived for the teacher to award his prize, my great-grandparents were reluctant to let Thelma make the journey to school. There had been a particularly severe storm the night before, and the snow was so deep that it was nearly impossible for a man or a horse to travel. However, the crust on the snow was firm enough that a small girl could walk on top without falling through. And so my great-grandfather had the choice of either letting his young daughter make the journey alone or keeping her home—undoubtedly causing her to lose the Bible. He finally conceded to let her try it on her own, and my great-grandmother, Agnes Leatham Bean, sat by the window and watched her daughter with a spyglass for as long as she was in sight.
After a long, cold journey, little Thelma eventually arrived safely at school, eager to receive her reward. When the time came, however, the teacher told her that even though she had the best attendance record and the highest grades in school, he had decided not to give the Bible to her because a young girl her age couldn’t read well enough nor fully appreciate the scriptures. The teacher gave the prize to another student.
As you can imagine, Thelma made the long journey home through the snow that day in tears. It seemed that all of her walking and all of her studying had earned her nothing. Great-grandfather Bean was overwhelmed with pity for his daughter, and even though he, like most farmers of that time, had almost no cash, he scraped together enough to buy my grandmother a Bible—from her teacher, no less—for Christmas. It was this Bible that she has kept to this day and passed down to our family as a testimony of how important the scriptures of our Lord are and how hard we must work to earn them.
In the many years that followed, my grandmother lived to watch on television as a man walked on the moon. She endured two world wars and raised a family during the Great Depression. With no more than a high school education from Ricks, she became the registrar for Utah State University and sat in councils with deans and university presidents. Having hardly ventured out of Idaho as a girl, she served missions with my grandfather in Canada and New Zealand. I believe that through this life of enormous change, she was sustained by the physical, emotional, and spiritual strength she gained as a young girl walking through the snow to school in pursuit of the word of God.

Jean A. Stevens, first counselor in the Primary general presidency, told a story about a boy who had missed the last bus of the day and was walking home (page 81). With many miles left to go, he got scared and knelt to pray. Minutes later, Sister Stevens was prompted by the Spirit to stop and help him. Can you think of times when Heavenly Father answered your prayers? How have you helped answer someone else’s prayer?

Krista climbed the four steps to her front porch and dropped her backpack with a thud. Then she plopped down beside it and pulled out her social studies book, Adventures in Social Studies, Level 3. “Adventures? Ha!” Krista snorted. “More like nightmares! It’s all your fault,” she muttered. “Why did you have to be about Japan? Now what am I going to do?”
Dropping her book, Krista wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them to her chest. Chewing on her lower lip, she thought back on school that day.
Mrs. Mickles had clapped her hands together to get the class’s attention. “To end our study of Japan, this Friday we are going to have a Japanese tea ceremony,” she announced.
The class buzzed with excitement. No one seemed to notice how still Krista was. My family doesn’t drink tea, she thought. How can I go to a tea ceremony and not drink tea? Maybe she would be sick Friday and miss the whole thing.
By dinnertime Krista still hadn’t solved her problem. Gloomily she gathered the dishes off the table and carried them to the kitchen sink.
“What’s wrong, Krista?” Mom asked as she loaded the dishwasher. “You’ve been frowning ever since you came home from school.”
“Oh, Mom,” groaned Krista, “I just don’t know what to do. In Primary we learned about the prophet Daniel and how he obeyed God’s food laws even when the king said not to. And then we learned that Heavenly Father has given us the Word of Wisdom. One of the things we’re not suppose to do is drink coffee or tea. But Friday we’re having a special Japanese tea ceremony at school, and if I don’t drink the tea, everybody will think I’m weird and call me a spoilsport.” Tears rolled down Krista’s face as Mom hugged her tight.
“Let’s sit on the couch,” Mom said. “I’m sure that you can find a solution to your problem if you try.” As they snuggled together, Mom continued, “Tell me more about Daniel. Maybe he can help you.”
Krista gulped and wiped her eyes with her hands. Biting her bottom lip, she thought hard. “Well,” she began, “Daniel was a boy when he and his friends were captured by King Nebu-something-or-other.”
“Nebuchadnezzar,” Mother said.
“That’s right,” replied Krista. “Nebuchadnezzar was a king who ordered Daniel and his friends to eat lots of rich foods and drink wine. He thought it would make them stronger. Daniel knew that God said to not eat those foods because they’re bad for you.”
“So what did Daniel do?”
Krista chewed on her lip again. “Well, he asked if he could eat simple foods and water. At first the answer was no, but Daniel suggested a test. He and his friends would eat the simple, good foods, while the rest of the boys would eat what the king ordered.”
“What happened?” Mom prompted Krista.
“Daniel won! In the end, Daniel’s group was wiser and looked healthier than the other group, so all of them had to eat like Daniel after that.”
Krista thought about Daniel. He had courage, disobeying the king, and he really loved Heavenly Father. I love Heavenly Father, too, so how can I be like Daniel?
Excitedly Krista jumped up from the couch. “Oh, Mom, I can be like Daniel! I can ask Mrs. Mickles if I can drink punch instead of tea because God doesn’t want me to drink tea.” She spun around the room until she collapsed dizzily to the floor. “I bet she’ll understand.”
The next morning Krista slowly approached Mrs. Mickles’ desk. The words that seemed so perfect last night sounded scary now. “Uh, Mrs. Mickles,” she blurted out, “can I talk to you about the tea ceremony? Our family doesn’t drink tea. My church teaches that it’s bad for you—so could I bring some punch to drink, instead?”
There! She’d said it! And Mrs. Mickles didn’t look upset. Instead, she was smiling. “What a good idea, Krista. I’m sure there are other children who might not want to drink tea or won’t even like it. I’ll bring some punch so that everyone can have a choice.”
Krista gave a huge sigh of relief. “Oh thank you, Mrs. Mickles. You’re the best teacher ever!” She headed back to her desk, half-skipping in delight. Now she could enjoy the tea ceremony!
Friday finally came. After lunch, the desks were pushed to the front wall, and a woven mat placed on the floor. The boys and girls took off their shoes and knelt in a half circle on the edge of the mat. Mrs. Mickles bowed to them, and everyone bowed back. Krista watched happily as her friends received little plates of cookies and their choice of tea or punch. When Mrs. Mickles came to Krista, they exchanged bows, then Krista took her plate of cookies and cup of punch. She smiled when Mrs. Mickles winked at her. Sipping her punch, Krista decided that the Japanese tea ceremony was pretty nice, after all—thanks to Daniel.

“Breathe deeply and exhale slowly,” his mother had said on their way to church. That’s what he did now. Then he breathed in again and tried letting the air out in short spurts.
“Why am I so scared? I’m not. I can’t be. I’ve got to control myself.”
He fingered his Book of Mormon and then pulled out the worn paper. He unfolded it carefully because the creases looked ready to tear.
“Brothers and sisters, I’m happy to have this opportunity to speak” wasn’t a very original way to begin. He folded the talk, stuck it in his pocket, then took it out of his pocket and put it back into the front of his Book of Mormon.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. Why wouldn’t they stop trembling? He just had to stop his body from shaking or his voice would shake too.
“Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy to be here today. I’m happy to have this opportunity. When the bishop, my dad, asked me to speak, I …” That sounded Dumb! Why hadn’t he thought of a better introduction?
It had been three years since he had spoken in front of people. Three whole years! Since that time he had always avoided it somehow. But the memory of his last experience had dimmed with time, and he wanted to learn to get up in front of people, so he had said yes. Now the memory of that former talk seemed painfully fresh again. There he was, struggling and stuttering. He could remember that talk even now. But back then, when he’d seen all those faces, the talk he’d memorized had vanished. It had simply evaporated. “But I didn’t have my notes with me that day,” he thought. “That was my downfall. I hadn’t taken my notes because I wanted to look super-intelligent. Besides, Dad never uses any. But now I’ve got notes, so there won’t be any problem.” If there would be no problem, he wondered, why was he so scared?
The announcements were over, his dad sat down a few seats from Jack and cleared his throat. Jack looked at his dad’s profile so much like his own. “But that’s where the similarity ends,” Jack thought. “Dad’s such a powerful speaker.” “His father’s talks were always rich with experiences and stories. “I don’t have one story in this talk,” Jack thought. “Everyone will fall asleep. Well, better if they do.”
His father, sensing Jack’s gaze looked over, smiled and nodded. Jack smiled back, tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and took out his notes again. “If I were more like my father, I wouldn’t be worrying like this.” But then he made a tight fist. “I don’t need to be just like Dad. I don’t need to be outgoing and dynamic. I can be just as good as myself.”
He lowered his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It wouldn’t do to have the wetness fog up his glasses. Then a thought came to Jack that made him shudder. He pushed his toes hard against the soles of his shoes. “What if I cry? What if I break down and cry or something? Cry, out of pure fright. No, I wouldn’t do that. I know I wouldn’t. Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy …” It would just take eight and a half minutes. For eight and a half minutes he could surely control himself. “Maybe my voice will crack a time or two in those eight and a half minutes, but I don’t think I’ll really cry at least I hope. …”
Sister Carlson was leading the sacrament hymn now, and Jack opened the hymn book and thumbed through it for the hymn. He hadn’t heard the page number. When he had finally looked in the index and found “Come, Follow Me,”he joined in on the last verses. But something was wrong with his voice. It wasn’t clear and deep. It was hoarse and timid. “I don’t have a voice. How can I give a talk without a voice?” He cleared his throat, coughed, and then tried to sing again. This time he was relieved to hear his voice clearing up a little.
“The Word of Wisdom is important for us to follow because …” The words to his talk were flowing through his mind now, but not in order. They were all jumbled. He sang a few more words and then breathed deeply in and out again.
After the sacrament Jack saw his father shuffle a few papers, smile over at him, and walk to the podium. “It is time now,” Jack thought. “Dad’s going to introduce the speakers now and I’m first. At least it will be over within eight and a half minutes from now.”
His father’s rich, bass voice echoed through the chapel. Dynamic, a powerful speaker. The congregation was staring up at the podium. In a moment he, Jack Miller, would be up there with everyone staring at him, expecting so much. There was a thickness in his chest and a slight pain. A heart attack. Maybe he would have a heart attack.
“I can’t get up there! I can’t do it! I don’t even think my legs will hold me when I stand up. I think I’m going to be very sick any minute. I’ve got to tell Dad I can’t. I … no, I’ve got to do it. I’ve just got to.” It didn’t make any sense. Where was his great self image? This morning in front of the mirror, he’d read his talk without a single error. He’d even used his hands, and he’d been in perfect control.
“We have a little problem tonight, Brothers and Sisters,” his father was saying. “It seems we were unwise in calling as our main speakers Brother and Sister Emery. We hope our asking them to speak didn’t start Sister Emery’s labor, but whatever the cause, a little spirit seems very anxious to join our ward family. I just received a note that the Emerys are at the hospital right now.” Everyone chuckled. Everyone except Jack. “Therefore,” his father turned and smiled at him. “We’ll tell our youth speaker, my son Jack, that he can have all the time he wants. I’m sure he’s happy about that.” The congregation chuckled again as Jack felt the heat rushing to his head. He had been so concerned about his own talk that he hadn’t even noticed that the Emerys were missing. “There goes the eight and an half minutes,” he thought.
“Then maybe we’ll ask a few members of the ward here tonight to say a few words,” his dad continued. “But before my son speaks, I’d like to say a few words about something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit lately—the priesthood.” His father confidently placed the one hand on the pulpit and put the other in his pocket.
Jack put his head in his hands. Oh no, this couldn’t be. He’d have to follow his dad. This was even worse than he’d thought. “Now I know I can’t do it,” he cried to himself. But what was his father saying?
“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But that is not remarkable because even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
As if all emotion had transferred itself, Jack felt curiously calm as he stood up straight and walked the few steps to the pulpit. There he put his arm around his father. “Bishop, I mean, Dad, let me finish the story for you.” His father turned to him in surprise, the tears still trickling from underneath his glasses. Then he nodded with relief and sat down.
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped at their eyes at its finish. But, now, it was Jack’s turn to pause. What would he say now? Speaking on the Word of Wisdom just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. He opened his Book of Mormon to his notes and stared at them. Then he looked above them to a scripture he’d underlined on that page of his Book of Mormon. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents.” (1 Ne. 1:1.) Immediately he read the scripture aloud for he knew now what he would talk about. He looked down into their faces. There was Sister Jackson, the Wade family, and good old Brother Price, their home teacher. There were the Smiths and the Jacksons, and there was his own family, with his mother smiling at him. He became excited to tell them all. He wanted to tell them his feelings.
“Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit rebellious about having a father who is bishop,” Jack said. “Everyone expects so much. But now I, Jack Miller, having been born of goodly parents, would like to tell you what it means to have a dad like mine who honors his priesthood and loves others.” He looked back at his father who was smiling widely. “This is my chance to get revenge for all the stories he’s told about me and others in his talks.” The congregation laughed, and Jack heard his father’s deep chuckle behind him.
He confidently placed one hand on the podium and the other in his pocket as he continued. His voice echoed through the microphone with a mellow, subtle power. The Spirit warmed within him and he, Jack Miller, became a speaker.

Today is one of those days when getting out of bed is nothing but a trial. Six o’clock is just too early for any sane soul to be up. Even the birds aren’t yet awake! And besides, it’s Sunday—a day when I should be resting from my labors. But I have to go to work, and needless to say, I’m not thrilled. But I’ll go, grudgingly. Just let me sleep ten more minutes.
My name is Jana, and that is the attitude I had on that certain Sunday morning. Even though I love my work as a nurse at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, I just wasn’t in the mood to be there.
I arrived at the hospital promptly at 7:05; I was supposed to arrive at 7:00. Seeing the time on the clock in the hall, I panicked and pushed the elevator button several times, only to see that the elevator was on the fifth floor and not coming down. No time to waste. I ran up the six flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was exhausted—huffing and puffing, my heart pounding in my ears in rebellion against the sudden exertion. I was relieved to know that I was in a hospital and if I had a heart attack, someone could save me.
I went down the hall, passing the clerk who looked up from her work and said without emotion. “They’ve started without you.” I smiled and stumbled into the report room where all the other nurses were gathered, to receive instructions for the day.
In the meeting several patients were assigned to me, each with special problems and needs. I had baths to give, bed linens to change, equipment to monitor, temperatures to check, food trays to deliver, medical charts to complete, medications to administer, bandages to change, sore muscles to rub, and to top it all off, doctors to please. Unfortunately, the work was not going to get done by itself. I had no choice but to start on the work.
In the midst of all the activity, a voice came over the loud speaker in the hall, “Any patient who would like to go to church, please notify your nurse.” Oh yes, I had almost forgotten; it was Sunday. I asked each of my patients if they wanted to attend the short half-hour meeting. No one seemed interested; most were too ill or too tired. That was how I felt too. Only one little lady, Mrs. Whitmer, an arthritis and bone cancer patient, answered my question with a quiet yes. This dear woman—who was confined to bed and in pain with every movement, every touch—desired to attend the meeting.
I told the brethren conducting the meeting that Mrs. Whitmer needed to be wheeled to church in her bed. Then without delay, I hurriedly prepared her for the trip, combing her hair, washing her face, and changing her gown and bed linen. She grimaced with pain at every move, but she never uttered a word of complaint. No sooner had I finished getting her ready than the brethren came for her, and off she went. I turned my attention to other patients without giving her another thought.
The day progressed, and finally my work period was over. I could relax! Before leaving duty I checked once more on the patients who had been under my care. Mrs. Whitmer had long since returned from church and was resting calmly—and so was everyone else, thank goodness. As quickly as I had run to work that morning, I ran back to my apartment, ending another working day.
A few days later when I was working the evening shift, just as I was ready to finish, the call light went on in room 4. I thought, “Why do they wait until I’m ready to leave before they call for me?” But I really didn’t mind. I went down the hall through the darkness to the patient’s bedside. It was Mrs. Whitmer.
“Jana?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She reached out and gently took my hand. In a quiet, quivering voice she said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church last Sunday. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill, and you’ll never know how much it meant to me that day to go. When I partook of the sacrament …” There was a long pause; then in trembling words she continued: “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” And with that she began to cry. I realized that I too was shedding some tears. This beautiful woman, as weak as she was, was stronger than I had ever been. She had a glowing testimony.
I couldn’t help but recall the times when I had only gone to church out of habit, never partaking of the Spirit, though I always partook of the bread and water. I also recalled the Sunday when I prepared Mrs. Whitmer for church and how hurriedly I had done so, as if it were a burden on me. Never would I feel that way again.
The two of us cried together that night, only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to share our souls. No other words were spoken; none needed to be. The tears and the touch of our hands had said it all.

When our eldest son, Jason, was 11 years old, we had an experience we will never forget. It was Sunday, and as the rest of the family was preparing for church, Jason complained he was feeling ill. We decided to leave him home and promised we would telephone him later to see how he was doing. Our meetinghouse was not far away, and we could run home if he needed us.
Just before sacrament meeting began, I felt prompted to call Jason right at that moment. The telephone rang many times, but Jason didn’t answer. I assumed he was sleeping and did not hear the phone. Yet a nagging feeling told me something was very wrong. Since my husband was in the bishopric at the time and was already sitting on the stand, I left my other children in their seats and told them I would return in a few minutes.
The five-minute trip to our home seemed to take forever. Once there, I raced into the house, frantically calling Jason’s name. For what seemed like an eternity, there was no answer, and I could not find him. Finally, I heard soft crying as Jason cautiously crawled out from behind the couch in the family room. I put my arms around him and could feel him trembling as he related what had happened.
He had been lying on the couch when he had a feeling he should hide. He got up immediately and hid behind the couch. Just then, he heard someone come in the front door. Thinking it must be the family, he quietly peeked out from his hiding place. He was horrified to see an intruder, wearing a black ski mask and gloves, going through drawers. He listened as the stranger wandered throughout the house. At that point the phone began ringing, and the intruder left. Of course, the ringing phone had been my call just before I left the meetinghouse.
I will always be grateful for the promptings of the Holy Ghost that both Jason and I experienced that day. I am so grateful I was prompted to come home to be there when Jason needed me. Who knows what might have happened if Jason had been discovered by the intruder? Not only was he protected, but I believe the Spirit helped him heal from this traumatic experience. Today Jason is a courageous and strong missionary whose treasured companion continues to be the Holy Ghost.

First is a story about my son, Michael, who did something wrong when he was six or seven years old. He’s my only son, and I’m hard on him. I want him to be better than his dad was, even as a boy, and so I lean on him and expect a great deal. Well, he had done something I thought was incredibly vile, and I let him know how terrible it was. I sent him to his room with the instructions, “Don’t you dare come out until I come and get you.”

And then I forgot. It was some hours later, as I was watching television, that I heard his door open and heard the tentative footsteps coming down the hall. I said, “Oh, my gosh,” and ran to my end of the hall to see him standing with swollen eyes and tears on his cheeks at the other end. He looked up at me—he wasn’t quite sure he should have come out—and said, “Dad, can’t we ever be friends again?” Well, I melted, ran to him, and hugged him. He’s my boy, and I love him.

Like Michael, we all do things that disappoint our Father, that separate us from his presence and spirit. There are times when we get sent to our rooms spiritually. There are sins that maim; there are sins that wound our spirits. Some of you know what it is like to do something that makes you feel as if you just drank raw sewage. You can wash, but you can never get clean. When that happens, sometimes we ask the Lord as we lift up our eyes, “O Father, can’t we ever be friends again?”

The answer that can be found in all the scriptures is a resounding “Yes, through the Atonement of Christ.”

Lee W. Johnson, who was at the time Cubmaster of Pack 218, rescued his brother from underneath a fallen haystack. “My brother was covered by a haystack four feet deep and about 20 feet square. Where do you dig? In my mind a voice said, ‘Over here.’ I dug to within six inches of my unconscious brother, and the voice said, ‘Throw the pitch fork away.’ And there he was. You have to give somebody besides myself credit for something like that.” Brother Johnson is in the Benson Ward, Benson Utah Stake.

Some time later, after the mission was divided, President McKay came to Scotland, and all of the missionaries serving in Scotland at that time—I think approximately 40 in number—had the privilege of being taught by him for several hours. Time does not permit an account of the impressiveness of this master teacher except for one very remarkable episode.

During this time the new mission was being established, and we met with considerable opposition and some hostility. As President McKay was teaching us, a small phalanx of newspaper reporters barged right into the room and confronted the prophet. I think most of us young men felt disposed to physically remove the intruders, but President McKay motioned for us to remain seated and in a direct but kindly way answered their question as to whether or not he was really a prophet. He responded by asking the reporters a question that caused them to bow their heads and withdraw from the room without further comment. He simply and quietly said: “Look me in the eyes. Can you tell me that I am not a prophet?” It was a tremendous moment in my life because I knew then better than ever before that he truly was the Lord’s prophet and we as young, inexperienced, and unpolished missionaries were really on the Lord’s errand.

My companion elbowed me. “Why don’t you talk to the next person?”
Her words terrified me. Why would anyone want to hear what we had to say? These people were all on their way to work or out having fun for the day. I was positive that no one would appreciate being interrupted by a couple of women with a spiritual message. Central Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, just didn’t seem to fit with a couple of Latter-day Saint missionaries.
The man I was to approach didn’t look particularly intimidating, just an everyday commuter. But at that moment, there couldn’t have been a more frightening sight. I’m used to listening and observing, not talking and being noticed. My companion, on the other hand, was a tall, beautiful, forthright woman. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t let me remain in my silent, comfortable world. After all, I was just on exchanges with her. I wasn’t a real missionary.
The man was standing on the train platform next to us now, so my companion gave me another healthy nudge. I walked slowly up to him and said, “Hello. My name is Sister Eagar, and this is Sister Hippolyte. We’re from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and we were wondering if you had some time so that we could share a message with you.”
My face turned red, and I waited nervously for his reaction. To my great astonishment, he answered with a smile and said, “Yes, I have some time until my train comes.” Sister Hippolyte gave him some pamphlets and information. The man had questions for us, and I helped with the answers as best I could. His train came, and he left with a friendly good-bye.
Similar things happened throughout the day. People didn’t brush us off as I had expected them to. They were actually friendly. I had been sure we would make no contacts at all and come home with our backpacks as full as when we had left in the morning. But I was wrong!
It made me think of a scripture, “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” (2 Tim. 1:7). I had no reason to fear. We were preaching the truth, and the Lord was on our side. He loved those people and wanted them to hear the gospel and understand it. We may not have been able to hold the attention of even one individual if we had to rely on our own strength, but we were serving the Lord. He was our strength. I felt ashamed at my lack of faith and resolved to be fearless in our future tracting.
I now know that the Spirit guides the missionaries of this Church and leads them to those who are ready to accept the Savior, Jesus Christ. If we listen to the promptings of the Spirit and heed them with faith that the Lord will help us, we have no need to fear.

As soon as I had finished my education, June resumed hers, and the completion of her bachelor’s degree was an important family project during most of our years in Chicago. She had supported me magnificently during my education, and I felt I an obligation and privilege to give support and cooperation in the completion of hers. I firmly believed that an education is just as important for a woman, married or single, as it is for a man. (I urge you to give careful consideration to a statement I will publish on that subject in the Universe later this week.)

During our first years in Chicago, June attended Roosevelt University, Wheaton College, and Elmhurst College. She also came out to BYU several summers to take courses in Summer School while I stayed in Chicago, though I joined the family briefly for the weeks permitted by my vacation. During these summers in Provo, June and the children lived in rented student apartments, including one summer in an apartment in Heritage Halls, where I also lived for a week during my vacation. She also took the maximum number of hours permitted through BYU Home Study, and the sight of her studying or at the typewriter in our home was a familiar one to all of us. A favorite experience that characterized this period was the time that our oldest son, then five or six years old, came up to his mother and showed her a shirt that was missing a button. “Mother,” he asked sweetly, “will you sew on this button after you have graduated?” Finally, in 1965, fourteen years and five children after she had enrolled at BYU, June received her bachelor’s degree from Brigham Young University. All of us consider that one of our family’s finest achievements. In the meantime, the boy learned how to sew on his own buttons, which will help him on his mission.

Today I would like to share a story with you. Kieth Merrill, a filmmaker and Academy Award winner, tells this story about his youth.

When I was a young man I lived in a small community close to the mountains. I was a lifeguard and did lots of swimming. . . . We went swimming at a place called East Canyon, a beautiful man-made reservoir. The dam is in a narrow neck of the canyon between sheer rock walls.

None of us had boats, so we couldn’t water ski, but we would do what we called cliff diving. We’d climb up those rocks and dive into the reservoir. We’d always wear tennis shoes because the rocks were so sharp. . . .

After we’d been there several times and pretty well knew the rocks, cliffs, and the water depth, two or three of us hard-core East Canyon divers got into the inevitable teenage contest of raw courage. One guy climbed up to where we always dove from and yelled down, “Hey! I’ll bet I dare dive higher than anybody here!”

“Ah, go on!”

So he climbed up to the top of the dam. The dam was about 50 feet off the water. Diving into the air he arched into the water, and like a bunch of sheep we crawled up the rocks, out onto the dam, and all of us dove off. . . .

Well, that didn’t satisfy my friend, and so he said, “All right, I’ll do one better!” He climbed 60 feet up the side of the cliff. And not wanting to be outdone, I climbed up by him. After all, everyone was looking at me. I had a great suntan, and I was sure everyone expected me to do what he was doing. He swallowed hard, buried his fear, and from trembling knees arched his back, and floated through 60 feet of air into the water.

I was grateful nobody was watching me as I prepared for my dive. When he’d cleared and seemed to be all right, I took courage, and made my dive. By now the other members of our diving contest had backed down, figuring it was a little high. But not my friend. He climbed on up to about 70 feet and once more prepared to dive. From below I could barely see him. Seventy feet is a very long way up on the rocks. I said to myself, “I hope he doesn’t do it because if he does it, then obviously I’ve got to do it, and I really don’t want to.“ About then I saw a pink body float through the air and splash into the water not far from me. He came up laughing, rubbing his shoulders and his eyes, and said, “Well, Merrill, are you going to do it?”

“Of course, I’m going to do it!” Everybody on the shore said, “Yeah, of course he’s going to do it!”

And so I swam back to the shore and climbed up the rocks. I knew I only had the courage for one more jump. . . .

I scrambled up 80 feet to the very top of the cliff. As I turned around and looked down, I saw that the cliffs were back away from the water at that height. I had two challenges: to fall 80 feet and to get enough clearance to avoid hitting the rocks at the bottom. Everybody was egging me on in a negative way. “You’re chicken, you’re chicken!”

I stood there all alone, everybody waiting down below. The water was so far away it looked like crinkled tinfoil in the sun. I was just terrified, I was committed, but I had not even based my decision on what I wanted to do or what I felt was right. I had based it on about a half dozen guys whose names I don’t even remember who were yelling, “Hey, chicken, are you going to do it?”

I realized that in order to make the jump I would have to run a distance to get enough momentum to carry me over the rocks below. So I backed up and ran as hard as I could toward the edge. I found the mark I had carefully laid at the edge of the rock and sprang out into space. I don’t know how long it takes to fall 80 feet, but for me it took about a week. On the way down I remembered distinctly how my parents and teachers had taught me to be careful when making decisions because I could kill myself with a wrong one. I said to myself, “You have done it; you have killed yourself, because when you hit the water you’ll be going so fast that it might as well be concrete.“ And when I hit the water, I was sure it was concrete. I don’t know how far down you go when you jump from 80 feet, but I’ll tell you, I was a grateful lad when my head finally popped above water. I took a quick inventory to make sure that the throbbing pain in my right thigh didn’t designate the loss of anything important.

Well, why did I jump? Did I prove myself to the guys? You think they cared? You think they’re sitting at home tonight saying, “Remember old Merrill, brave old Merrill, jumping off the. . . .” They don’t even remember! They don’t care! But for me that moment was as important as my life. I made what could have easily been a fatal decision. Through the grace of a very patient Heavenly Father I wasn’t killed. I didn’t land on the rocks; I missed by only a few feet. I didn’t drown, and I didn’t have a concussion or a number of other things that could easily have happened because of such a stupid decision.

I was subjected to pressure that was hard to withstand, the pressure of friends expecting things of me that I didn’t want to do because I knew better. But I yielded to the pressure. I was living in the world, and at that moment I was of the world because I was not in control of myself. I was not making decisions about my own life. [Kieth Merrill, “Deciding About Decisions,” New Era, June 1976, pp. 12–13]

From my personal chronology of courage, let me share with you an example from military service.

Entering the United States Navy in the closing months of World War II was a challenging experience for me. I learned of brave deeds, acts of valor, and examples of courage. One best remembered was the quiet courage of an 18-year-old seaman—not of our faith—who was not too proud to pray. Of 250 men in the company, he was the only one who each night knelt down by the side of his bunk, at times amidst the jeers of the curious, the jests of unbelievers, and, with bowed head, prayed to God. He never wavered. He never faltered. He had courage.

It had been a long, hard day. First the youth from the Ephraim Utah Stake had cleaned up an old cemetery. Then they had a picnic lunch and a water fight. Now they were on a two-mile hike to find the campground where they’d spend the night. Was there really time to stop and help the woman and children whose car had broken down on the side of the road?
There had better be. The people in the broken down car were part of the youth conference, put there to see if the youth were really learning their lessons. They were. Every group that came by offered to help.
The service-oriented youth conference also found the youth reseeding the ground cover, cleaning up trash, and making new trails in the area of a popular campground. Their service never stopped.

Dr. Audrey Tarr and her husband, David, had been living in Oregon, where she practiced obstetrics and gynecology with an additional specialty in urology. She and David, a recently retired engineer, were trying to figure out what was next for them.

“I had thought about sometime in the future serving as an area medical advisor for one of the many missions in the Church,” said Dr. Tarr. “But we got a call from Church headquarters with this opportunity to serve now as a practicing physician.”

She felt it was especially important for her to come, as she is a female physician who has worked to build awareness of health issues unique to women. Dr. Tarr is concerned about the high cancer rates among women in American Samoa and plans to help the Department of Health improve health prospects for local women.

While they are in American Samoa, Elder David Tarr—a seasoned aerospace engineer—is serving with the engineering and maintenance team at the hospital. He says life as a missionary has been interesting. “Since I wear my missionary badge, everyone knows I am a member of the Church. It’s been a great chance to answer questions from others and share spiritual experiences I have had.”