Gospel Story Finder

One of these enduring frontierswomen, Lucy Hannah White Flake 1 received her basic education in the home from her schoolteacher mother. The eldest of eight children, she also assumed many responsibilities in caring for the younger children. Lucy was baptized in the Missouri River at a time when the ice had to be broken to perform the ordinance. Then, along with her parents, she walked every step of the way from the Missouri River to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake, arriving there in August 1850.

Lucy spent her childhood in Cedar City, Utah. There, at the age of sixteen, she met William Jordan Flake, and they were married in 1858.

After years of hard work and many disappointments, William found a ranch he could buy in what is now called Snowflake, Arizona. There the Flakes lived in a four-room adobe dwelling called the “White House.” For many years this house served as a courthouse, post office, meetinghouse, and school. Lucy eventually bore thirteen children—nine sons and four daughters—five of whom died in childhood.

Sister Flake made her life tolerable by her many religious activities and by the pleasure of doing for her family. She was an officer and teacher in the Primary, Sunday School, and religion class, and had been stake president of the Primary for five years at the time of her death in 1900 at the age of fifty-eight. Among the activities that she chronicled one spring were whitewashing her home; gardening and irrigating; gleaning wool from carcasses along the trail over which sheepmen were, by this time, making a seasonal circuit to and from the Salt River Valley, and picking, washing, and cording it to make a mattress; sewing, including making underwear, shirts, and carpet rags; tending her grandchildren; and feeding her husband and growing children. On one occasion she set down in simple detail her morning tasks, which were typical of pioneer women generally:

“I will just write my morning chores. Get up, turn out my chickens, draw a pail of water, water hot beds, make a fire, put potatoes to cook, brush and sweep half inch of dust off floor … , feed three litters of chickens, then mix biscuits, get breakfast, milk besides work in the house, and this morning had to go half mile after calves. This is the way of life on the farm. …”2

The first year the party was held, only the Primary children and their parents were invited, but about halfway through that evening the young people realized they were leaving out almost half the children of the neighborhood. The next year everyone under 12 and their parents were invited. “This year we brought nine nonmember neighbors,” said Adrienne Brantzeg, a Laurel. Two of those were six-year-old Martin Seraphin and his mother who had recently moved with their family to Salt Lake City from New Jersey. “He’ll remember this until he’s 43,” Mrs Seraphin said of her son. “I can’t believe there are young people who would go to all this work just to serve the neighborhood children.”

For Tino, missionary service took an unexpected turn. Deferment of their mandatory military obligation is not allowed for Portuguese missionaries, and Tino was called into his country’s air force. He still remembers the counsel of R. Perry Ficklin, then president of the Portugal Lisbon Mission, who explained that Elder Moreira’s missionary service wasn’t over, that he was only being “transferred to another area—more difficult.” Tino went on to teach and baptize a number of people in the air force.

Years ago on Christmas Eve, a cousin lost a little five-year-old boy to quick-pneumonia. The family gathered around the casket for the family prayer. A small blanket, made by his mother, lay folded across the little boy’s feet.
Just as they were to close the casket, my mother stepped forward, put her arm around the grieving mother, and helped her unfold the blanket and tuck it around the little boy. The last his parents saw of their little son, he was asleep, covered with that favorite blanket. It was a very tender moment. That is what grandmothers do!

Usually when Floyd and Dad were riding in the car, they had a lot to talk about, but not today. They had driven over to see Floyd’s new school, and Floyd hadn’t said a word all the way back. Dad broke the silence and asked, “What’s the matter, Son? Are you worried about going to a new school?”
Almost in a whisper, Floyd answered, “Yes.” This would be his fourth school, and he was only in the sixth grade. Dad was an electrical engineer, and his work required that they move often. “It’s always the same, Dad. I hate it.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like about it. You always do well in school, and you have friends and pen pals all over the country.”
Floyd didn’t want to answer. It would only embarrass him and probably cause trouble, but before he knew it, the words came tumbling out. “When I get there, I’m going to meet a bunch of Jims, some Mikes, a lot of Johns and Bobs, a couple of Garys, and a Steve or two—ordinary guys with ordinary names. I’ll be the only Floyd, and I’ll hear Floyd jokes for months. Why couldn’t I have an ordinary name?”
Dad knew what Floyd was talking about; he had heard about the jokes. “You’re right,” he said, “Floyd is no ordinary name. Do you know where your name came from?”
“From someone named Floyd who lived a long time ago when there were lots of Floyds and other weird names!” He said it before he could stop himself. Now I’m in trouble for sure, he thought. He knew better than to talk that way, but it had been bottled up inside for too long.
“You’re right again,” Dad replied evenly, “but there’s a lot more to it than you realize. Would you like to hear about a young man named Floyd who was not very ordinary?”
Surprised that he wasn’t in trouble, Floyd blurted out, “Sure!” But he wasn’t as excited as he sounded. How could anyone named Floyd be interesting? he wondered.
“Your name has belonged to some great men,” Dad began. “That’s why we gave you the name. We weren’t worried about anybody making jokes. That’s no big deal. Your mother and I hoped that having the same name as a great man might help you be a little like him. I want you to remember this story, Son,” Dad said as he pulled into the driveway of their new home. “My great-grandfather told me this story when I was about your age, and I’ll never forget it. …
“It was in the fall of the year 1857, as I remember, and a small group of Mormon pioneers were late starting across the plains. They got caught in an early snowstorm, and it slowed their travel. Many of them had become ill with colds, fevers, and pneumonia. They traveled as fast as they could, but because of the cold and sickness, they were just plain worn-out from pulling handcarts and carrying the smaller children.
“One day they came to a river that they had to cross. Everyone was so tired that the river seemed an impossible challenge. It seemed too wide, too deep, and too cold to the exhausted pioneers. One weary lady stood on the bank of the river, holding her baby as the tears silently streamed down her face. She didn’t have the strength to face one more trial that day. For a minute it looked like the journey might end right there for the small band of weary pioneers.
“Then, without saying a word, a young man waded into the cold river and made his way to the other side to see how deep it was. The icy water came up to his waist. He was certain that the handcarts were too small and too heavily loaded to carry children and those who were sick across safely. He knew what needed to be done, and he didn’t have to be asked. He knelt down with the rest of the pioneers and led a prayer, asking for strength to get everyone across safely. He was seventeen years old, and he was tall and strong, but he knew that he would need the help of the Lord to deal with the numbing cold of the river.
“The boy jumped up from the prayer and carried his sick mother across first, then his younger sister, and finally his three-year-old brother. When they were safe, he started carrying other children across. Another boy, a little younger but just as strong and nearly as tall, joined him in the cold river. The two youths carried across all the children and others who were too weak to make it through the icy water on their own. When everyone else was safely on the other side and the handcarts were across, the boys came out of the river to get dry and to warm themselves by the fire.
“Their legs and feet were blue from the cold. They got into dry clothes and wrapped up in blankets. Everyone thanked them for their help, but the boys said that they had just done what needed to be done. That night they sent everyone else to bed while they stayed by the fire to get warm. They talked about how things were going to be when they got to their new homes, but their conversation was often interrupted by muscle cramps and violent shivers. The cold water had chilled them more than they thought possible. The next morning they were still sitting there, wrapped in their blankets. When the leader of the group walked over to talk to them, he was saddened by what he found. During the night the boys had both died as they sat by the fire.
“The youths were buried right there on the edge of the river. They had lost their lives while helping others. The older boy, the one who had prayed for strength to get the others across safely, was one of your relatives. His name was Floyd. His three-year-old brother was your great-great-grandfather. When I was a little boy and Grandfather was in his nineties, he told me this story. That was when I learned that Floyd meant courage, relying on the Lord, and helping others.”
Floyd looked out the window at the old tree in the front yard, trying to keep the tears from overflowing his eyes. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Wow!”
Dad paused too. He couldn’t tell the story without getting tears in his eyes, either. Then he said, “That brave lad named Floyd is part of you. And you certainly were right—Floyd is no ordinary name! It’s a name to be proud of, and it’s a name for you to live up to.”
“I don’t know if I can be as brave as he was,” Floyd said with conviction, “but I’m going to be the best person that I can. And, Dad, I’ll tell you something else: When I go to school in the morning, I’m going to tell them that my name’s Floyd and that Floyd’s no ordinary name!”

Several stakes chose to serve the older members of their areas. In the Salt Lake Holladay North Stake, each Young Women class adopted a “grandmother” or “grandfather” to help throughout the year. They took turns helping with transportation and home cleaning. As a special service, they made white handkerchiefs for their newfound friends to take to the Jordan River Temple dedication. In addition, the girls arranged to tape record the older members’ personal histories. They transcribed the tapes and made a typewritten copy for each grandmother or grandfather to keep, with enough extra copies to give to their children.

When Gordon was ordained a deacon and eligible to attend stake priesthood meeting, his father took the somewhat unwilling boy to his first meeting and, as a member of the stake presidency, went to the stand. Gordon stayed on the back row.
The congregation of men sang as the opening hymn “Praise to the Man.”
Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah
Jesus anointed that prophet and seer. …
Something happened! “There welled up in me an overwhelming conviction!” President Hinckley said later. A spirit of confirmation flowed into his heart, and a spirit of testimony affirmed to that boy deacon that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. He knew it! He knew it! He knew it as firmly as he knew that he lived! From that moment on he was armed with that “residual of faith.”
Later, when the faith of this bright university student was challenged by doubts (always a part of the education of the young members of the Church), the memory of that moment sustained him. Even today, more than sixty years later, he cannot tell of that experience without putting a finger under his glasses to prevent a tear from rolling down his cheek.

When our youngest daughter was about four years of age, I came home from hospital duties quite late one evening. I found my dear wife to be very weary. I don’t know why. She only had nine children underfoot all day. So I offered to get our four-year-old ready for bed. I began to give the orders: “Take off your clothes; hang them up; put on your pajamas; brush your teeth; say your prayers” and so on, commanding in a manner befitting a tough sergeant in the army. Suddenly she cocked her head to one side, looked at me with a wistful eye, and said, “Daddy, do you own me?”

She taught me an important lesson. I was using coercive methods on this sweet soul. To rule children by force is the technique of Satan, not of the Savior. No, we don’t own our children. Our parental privilege is to love them, to lead them, and to let them go.

Here is another trial. There have always been a few who want to discredit the Church and to destroy faith. Today they use the Internet.
Some of the information about the Church, no matter how convincing, is just not true. In 1985, I remember a colleague walking into my business office in Florida. He had a Time magazine article entitled “Challenging Mormonism’s Roots.” It spoke of a recently discovered letter, supposedly written by Martin Harris, that conflicted with Joseph Smith’s account of finding the Book of Mormon plates.19
My colleague asked if this new information would destroy the Mormon Church. The article quoted a man who said he was leaving the Church over the document. Later, others reportedly left the Church.20 I’m sure it was a trial of their faith.
A few months later, experts discovered (and the forger confessed) that the letter was a complete fraud. I remember really hoping that those who had left the Church because of this deception would find their way back.

I used to farm with my dad. I didn’t always enjoy it, but when lunchtime came we’d sit in the shade of the tall poplar trees, eat our lunch, and talk. My dad didn’t use this as a golden teaching moment to lay down the law and straighten out his daughter. We just talked—about anything and everything.
This was the time I could ask questions. I felt so safe I could even ask questions that might provoke him. I remember asking him, “Why did you embarrass me in front of my friends last week when I had stayed out too late and you came and got me?”
His answer leads to another aspect of love. He wasn’t being arbitrary. There were certain standards of behavior I was expected to live. He said, “Having you out late worried me. Above all, I want you safe.” I realized his love for me was stronger than his desire for sleep or the inconvenience of getting dressed and driving down the road looking for me.

Work opportunities later took the young couple to Hanover, Germany, where Sister Held received a powerful impression that their lives were about to change.
“I told Mathias I had a feeling that we would get a message from heaven,” she said. That heavenly message arrived on a rainy afternoon in 1987 with a knock at the front door. Standing outside were Mormon missionaries speaking German with American accents.
For the next 10 months, the Helds studied with the missionaries and made friends in the local LDS congregation. After much prayer, they received spiritual confirmation of the gospel’s truthfulness and were baptized in 1988.

“Look at this window!”

Randy came back to reality. He was standing in front of a men’s clothing store. In front of him in the display window was a mannequin wearing a light jacket. There was a poster which read, “Men of action prefer Brock Jackets.”

“Just look at this!” the clerk pointed. “You’ve got fingerprints all over my window. What if everybody put their hands on it, hey? What then?”

“It’d get messy,” Randy answered philosophically.

“Don’t get smart with me! Look at this mess! You smeared ice cream on it too, didn’t you?”

“That wasn’t me.”

“Well somebody did.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Who do you think has to clean up this mess anyway? Me, that’s who. So quit mucking up my display window!”

Randy reached down and picked up his trumpet case and walked away.

He was on his way to a music lesson.

Mr. Janowski’s living room had a high ceiling and a cracking linoleum floor. Stacks of music cluttered every table and chair. Even the fishbowl, complete with a small goldfish, sat precariously on top of a stack of music on the coffee table.

Randy ran through the trumpet exercises while Mr. Janowski sat back in an ancient overstuffed chair with one hand over his eyes. Randy often suspected that Mr. Janowski slept through part of each lesson, except that whenever he made a mistake, Mr. Janowski would call out, “Flat!” or “Sharp!”

The doorbell rang. Randy stopped while Mr. Janowski answered it. A father and his daughter appeared in the doorway.

“I’m Mr. Reynolds. I talked to you on the phone about starting my daughter with flute lessons. We just moved into town.”

“Oh yes, I remember. Come in. What was your daughter’s name?”

“Michelle.”

Randy whispered the name to himself. It was the most beautiful word he’d ever heard.

As they came inside, Randy stood up, hoping for an introduction, but Mr. Janowski ignored him. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain how we work the payments for the lessons.”

The two adults left the room, leaving Randy and Michelle alone. He watched while she took the flute out of the case and assembled it.

A minute later she happened to drop her lesson book. He lunged across the room to pick it up—knocking over the music stand, which hit the coffee table, causing a large stack of music to slide to the floor. The fishbowl nearly fell too, but he grabbed it at the last second. Finally he reached her book on the floor and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she smiled. “Now let me help you pick up things.”

On hands and knees they picked up the scattered sheet music. He was close enough to sense a delicious smell. He closed his eyes and sniffed.

When he opened them again, she was staring at him.

“Probably my shampoo,” she said.

He nodded his head and went back to work.

When they finished, she walked back to her flute.

He followed, staying within sniffing range.

She picked up her flute and, unaware he was so close, quickly turned around.

He had to duck to avoid being hit by the end of the flute as she swung around. Falling sideways, he crashed into the coffee table, knocking over another stack of music. The fishbowl fell to the floor and shattered. The goldfish flopped helplessly on the soggy music.

He scooped it up in his hands and desperately looked around for some water.

“I’ll go find a bowl in the kitchen,” she said, then left.

Time was running out for the goldfish. Then he saw the open bathroom door.

In the bathroom, he closed the drain to the wash basin, turned on the water and gently dropped the fish in. Then he looked in the mirror and practiced saying the word Michelle.

She returned with a large soup pan. He plunged his hand into the water, splashing water on himself, but coming up without the goldfish.

“Maybe if we let a little water out, it’d be easier,” she suggested.

He placed his hand on the drain mechanism, preparing to open it a little at a time.

At that moment Mr. Janowski and Michelle’s father returned to see the floor covered with water-soaked music, the fishbowl broken, and Randy and Michelle looking with great interest into the wash basin.

Randy began to gently ease down the drain handle.

“WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?” Mr. Janowski yelled.

Randy’s hand jerked downward. He looked over at the two scowling adults. When he looked back at the wash basin, the goldfish was gone.

“Young lady, I want an explanation!” her father said abruptly.

“We leave you two minutes,” Mr. Janowski raged, “and look what you do!”

“It wasn’t our fault!” Randy said. “If there hadn’t been so many stacks of music, it would never have happened!”

Mr. Janowski picked up the broken fishbowl. “Where’s my goldfish?”

“It’s not dead,” Randy said.

“Then where is it?”

Randy looked sadly into the empty wash basin. “On a long voyage.”

“You dropped my goldfish down the drain?” Mr. Janowski asked.

“It wasn’t our fault! We were trying to save its life. Besides, it’s only a goldfish.”

“OUT OF MY HOUSE! NEVER COME BACK! NEVER AGAIN LET YOUR SHADOW DARKEN MY DOOR! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! NEVER EVER AGAIN!”

“What about next week?” Randy asked.

“YOU ARE A NUMSKULL! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Randy shrugged his shoulders and returned to the music room to put his trumpet in its case.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

“GET OUT OF HERE!”

That night at supper, sandwiched between a lively discussion by his brothers and sisters, Randy quietly announced, “I won’t be taking lessons anymore from Mr. Janowski.”

“Why not?” his mother asked.

“He kicked me out of his house and told me to never come back.”

His father raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

The phone rang and it was for his father. Randy quickly finished eating and went to his room to study.

An hour later he brought the hall telephone to his room, looked up Michelle’s number, and phoned her.

“Hello,” her father answered.

“Is Michelle there?”

“No—would you like to leave a message?”

“Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Randy.”

“Randy?”

“I met her this afternoon—at her music lesson.”

“Oh you,” her father said, sounding angry again.

“I’ll just call back.”

“Don’t call tonight—it’ll be too late by the time she gets back.”

“Maybe tomorrow then.”

“Suit yourself, but she’s very busy with school.”

There was a long frigid pause. “Okay, bye.”

At eight thirty his father came in, sat down on the bed, and said, “I’m interested in knowing what happened at your music lesson today.”

Randy told him the story.

“It might be nice if you went back and apologized to Mr. Janowski.”

“Dad, he doesn’t want to see me again. Besides, it wasn’t my fault—it happened because of his messy room. If I go back, he’ll just get mad all over again and start yelling.”

“Maybe you could buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish.”

“It wasn’t my fault. You should’ve seen where he had the fishbowl. It’s a wonder it hadn’t fallen off before. I’m not apologizing for something that’s not my fault.”

His father looked at him for a long time, then said, “Okay.”

Randy was puzzled. It wasn’t like his father to give up so easily.

His father stood up to leave, then asked, “Hey, aren’t you hungry? How about if we go for a pizza.”

…

“You still want me to go back and apologize, don’t you?” Randy asked.

“And you still feel you shouldn’t have to, don’t you? Let me ask you a question—under what circumstances can you ever imagine yourself apologizing to anyone?”

“When I’m in the wrong.”

“You mean when you’re entirely in the wrong. When there’s nobody else you can point to and say it was partly his fault too—when you’re 100 percent in the wrong.”

“Yes,” Randy said, “then I’ll apologize.”

“It’ll never happen.”

“But why should I apologize for something that isn’t my fault?”

His father looked at him for a long time, then asked, “What do you know about Mr. Janowski?”

“He teaches music lessons.”

“Does he have a wife? Any children or grandchildren?”

“I’ve never seen anybody else at his house.”

“So maybe he lives alone.”

“I guess so.”

“Maybe he never married, or maybe he was married and his wife died.”

“Maybe—all I do is take trumpet lessons from him.”

“He’s not a young man, is he? Maybe he’s been alone in that house for 20 years. Does he have a dog?”

“No.”

“I wonder why he kept a goldfish, don’t you? Did the fishbowl have a filter system on it?”

“No, it was just a bowl.”

“That means he had to change the water every day. Why do you suppose he went to the trouble?”

“Dad, I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s just imagine. Maybe he kept it for company. Maybe it gave him something to care for. Maybe he imagined the fish liked music. Maybe sometimes he talked to it, or had a name for it. On Christmas maybe he dropped a little extra fish food in the bowl. But now it’s dead.”

“Maybe not—if it can swim through the pipes to a lake.”

“But it’s gone. I wonder if he’ll buy another one, don’t you?”

“They don’t cost much. He could afford it.”

“Maybe he’ll decide not to bother—then he’ll be completely alone.”

Randy sat and looked at his last slice. He wasn’t hungry anymore. They left.

“You really think he cared about a goldfish?” Randy broke the silence on the way home.

“I don’t know—but he could have. One thing though—he knows you didn’t care about it very much.”

Several blocks of silence passed by.

“Dad, I can’t apologize to him,” Randy said painfully.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Buy him a new fishbowl and a goldfish and knock on his door. Two words, Randy, that’s all I ask—I’m sorry.”

“But that’s admitting it was all my fault.”

His father sighed and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“We go through life pretending that somewhere a grand court is convened with every misunderstanding, and that it issues an official decision, ‘He was in the wrong’ or ‘It wasn’t his fault.’ And we play out our life for that imaginary court, making our defense before it every day of our life, justifying our mistakes, minimizing our errors. Well, the court doesn’t exist. And much of the heartache in the world comes, not only because of sin, but also because we hurt each other’s feelings.”

Randy thought about Mr. Janowski changing the water every night for the goldfish. Did he really talk to it?

“Randy, there’s no loss to your manhood to say you’re sorry. It’s not even admitting guilt. Go ahead and learn to lessen the hurt of those around you. That’s what the Savior would do—you know he would.”

They pulled into the driveway and sat for a minute. Finally Randy grinned. “The pizza was just a plan to talk to me, wasn’t it?”

His father laughed. “How can you argue with me when I’m paying ten dollars for you to gorge yourself?”

The next day after school Randy went to a store and asked the clerk for the happiest goldfish they had. After 15 minutes of trying to please Randy, the clerk reached in with a net and pulled out a fish. “This is the happiest one we have,” he announced with an air of finality.

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” the frustrated clerk said.

An hour later, Randy knocked on Mr. Janowski’s door.

“I told you never to come back here again!” Mr. Janowski fumed.

Randy thrust out the new fishbowl with a goldfish swimming around in it.

“Mr. Janowski, I’m sorry.”

He watched the anger melt on Mr. Janowski’s face.

“Come in.” They went inside. Mr. Janowski cleared off a place on top of the piano for the fishbowl, got some fish food, and scattered it in.

“I think I’ll call him Otto.”

“Otto that’s a good name. Does he look happy to you?”

“You’re right. He is happy, isn’t he?”

That night Randy knocked at another door. Michelle’s father opened it and scowled. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry,” Randy said.

Mr. Reynolds looked at him strangely. “You came to apologize?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Michelle,” her father called out, “we have company.”

When she showed up, he said it again. “I’m sorry.”

She smiled warmly at him. He stayed for popcorn, and they invited him to go waterskiing with the family in the summer.

There’s magic in some words, he thought as he walked home. For instance, take the words I’m sorry—and also the word Michelle.

Min-Jun stared out the window at the clouds. “It looks like it will rain tomorrow,” he said.
Grandfather looked up from his newspaper and nodded. It was late summer in Seoul, South Korea, and monsoon season had begun.
Min-Jun set an umbrella next to his clothes for Sunday. “I think we should leave early tomorrow.”
Grandfather smiled. “Good idea. We’ll have to walk the longer way, in case the lower road floods.”
“Do you think the Church building will be all right?” Min-Jun asked. Last year the basement had flooded during monsoon season.
“Yes,” said Grandfather. “But it never hurts to pray.”
“Then I’ll pray for the church tonight. And that we can make it there safely. Jal-ja-yo (good night).” Min-Jun bowed and went to bed.
In the morning they left the apartment early. Min-Jun looked up at the dark clouds that filled the sky.
“Have faith,” Grandfather said.
Min-Jun followed Grandfather up the narrow staircase on the hill near their apartment. They paused at the top to catch their breath. Their white shirts were already damp from the heavy humidity in the air.
Grandfather held out his hand to feel the first raindrops. “Do you feel that? The rain is starting.”
They opened up their umbrellas. By the time they reached the next staircase, the rain was coming down fast. Min-Jun squinted to see each step through the rain. “Whoa!” he cried as he slipped and landed on his knee.
“Are you hurt?” Grandfather asked. He leaned down to look at the hole in Min-Jun’s trousers.
“It’s just a scrape,” Min-Jun said, his voice shaking.
“We can fix it up at the church,” said Grandfather.
Min-Jun and Grandfather climbed the rest of the stairs and turned onto the upper road.
“The wind is worse up here,” Grandfather said, clutching his umbrella. Min-Jun could barely control his umbrella. Suddenly a gust of wind came and flipped it inside out, tearing the umbrella at the seams. Min-Jun’s shoulders drooped.
Grandfather held out his umbrella. “Come under mine. We’re almost there.”
Min-Jun and Grandfather shared the umbrella, but it did little to keep out the constant rain. As they came near the church, Min-Jun heard music playing.
“They’ve already started!” Min-Jun ran to the front doors. Then he saw his reflection in the glass. His hair was matted and dripping, his trousers were torn, and his shoes were muddy. He shrank away from the door and back down the steps.
“I … I can’t go in,” Min-Jun stuttered.
“You’re just fine,” Grandfather said.
“But I’m all dirty and wet!”
Grandfather looked at Min-Jun, then looked at the rain gauge tied to the fence.
“It’s easy to measure the rain, Min-Jun, but how do we measure ourselves?”
Min-Jun blinked up at Grandfather.
“You see muddy shoes, a scraped knee, and messy hair, and you think you don’t measure up to much,” Grandfather said. “But Jesus Christ has a better way of measuring. He sees your heart and knows that you’re doing what’s right. If you measure yourself His way, you’ll see that the gauge is overflowing.”
Min-Jun looked at the rain gauge. It kept rising with each raindrop. He thought of how hard he had worked to get to church and how warm and happy he felt when he was there. He thought about how much he loved the Savior and how much the Savior loved him.
Min-Jun hugged Grandfather, and together they walked into church.

When I first saw Aaron, he made me uneasy, even a bit scared because he was so … well, different. I had never really been around anyone like Aaron.
At Madison School, Mrs. Wood’s kids with special needs—we called them “SN kids”—had their classroom down the hall from Mrs. Parrick’s fifth grade room. The first day of school, as Mrs. Parrick lined us up to go to the cafeteria, Mrs. Wood marched down the hall with the SN kids—Paula, the girl in the wheelchair; Carlos, the Down’s syndrome boy with the funny grin; Maggie, the girl with the braces and twisted legs; Charles, the chubby boy who never smiled or spoke; and Aaron.
I had seen Aaron a couple times before because his family moved into our ward a few weeks before school started, I remember staring at him as his mom and dad brought him into the church. He was grinning and grunting and mumbling things that nobody could understand. Although he was about my age, he couldn’t talk, and Mom told me later that his mind would never grow up, that he would never be able to talk like other kids.
When Aaron passed me in the hall that first day of school, he stopped in front of me and grinned. I felt uneasy and embarrassed, even a little afraid. I looked at the floor, hoping he would disappear down the hall, but he reached out, pushed me, and shouted something I didn’t understand. All the kids in my class laughed, and my cheeks burned as Mrs. Wood led him on down the hall.
“What a weirdo,” Paul snickered behind me. “Watch out, Ben—you’ll get bugs from him.”
“Why did Heavenly Father make someone like Aaron?” I asked Mom that evening.
Mom thought for a moment. “Well, Benjamin, he’s a child of God too. Heavenly Father loves him as much as He loves any of His children.”
“I didn’t figure that He didn’t love him.” I fidgeted with the salt and pepper shakers. “But if He loves Aaron, why did He make him so different?”
Mom thought for a long time. “I’m not sure we’ll ever know why some of God’s children are born with such special needs. But He does love them, and He wants us to love them too.”
“How can you love someone like Aaron? I mean, you can’t play with him because he doesn’t know how to play. You can’t be friends with him because he doesn’t even know you. I bet he doesn’t even know who his teacher, Mrs. Wood, is.”
“Benjamin, I think you’d be surprised by how much Aaron knows. Not about math or reading or science but about people and about how much they care for him.”
I didn’t know if I believed everything Mom told me, but every day at school, I watched Aaron as he went down the hall, ate his lunch in the cafeteria, or charged crazily around the playground during recess. Always alone.
Most of the kids in my class laughed at him. When he came around, they ran away screaming, like some monster was after them. They said that anyone who hung around him would get cooties. It was all a game. For them.
I especially didn’t like going to the cafeteria because wherever I sat, I found myself watching Aaron eat his lunch in a kind of daze, sometimes spilling down his front, always smearing his food across his face, even when Mrs. Wood was there to help him. I felt sorry for him eating alone, but I didn’t dare get close to him. I didn’t want the other kids to talk about me like they talked about him.
One day I finished my math early, and Mrs. Parrick called me up to her desk and asked me to take a note to Mrs. Wood.
My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry as I pushed open the heavy door of the SN room. Mrs. Wood was on the other side of the room, working with Paula. Aaron was at a corner table, stacking huge plastic blocks. He watched me rush across the room and hand the note to Mrs. Wood.
I turned to charge from the room, but Mrs. Wood stopped me. “Wait, young man. Let me write an answer for you to take to Mrs. Parrick.”
I stood beside Mrs. Wood, staring at the floor and poking my fists deep into my pockets. Suddenly a cool hand touched my arm. I jumped and turned. Aaron stood there, grinning and staring. As I backed up, he touched me again.
“Aaron just wants to play,” Mrs. Wood said, smiling. “When you have some time, you’ll have to come down and play with the children. They love visitors.”
I wasn’t supposed to run in the halls, but as soon as I was out the door, I ran back to my classroom. I wanted to get as far from that SN room as I could.
“I don’t ever want to go in there again,” I told Mom that evening. “It gives me the creeps. They’re so different. I don’t know what to do around them.”
“Benjamin, Heavenly Father would be very happy if you would show real kindness and love to those special children.”
“I don’t know how to be kind to them. And I sure don’t want everybody thinking I’m one of them.”
The next Sunday in Primary, Sister Roth told us about how Jesus had loved and been kind to everyone, even to people who were sick, crippled, dirty, or wicked. He reached out and cared for them all. Just the way she told the stories made me want to be like Jesus. Then she challenged us to help someone in need, like Jesus did.
I thought of Aaron. Not because I wanted to. I wanted to be kind to someone normal. I didn’t care if that someone was sick or dirty, but I didn’t want to help someone who made me feel uncomfortable. That week I did everything I could to stay away from Aaron. I didn’t want to even think about him.
On Friday I got to the cafeteria late, and all the tables were filled—except the one where Aaron sat alone. I frantically looked for a table where I might crowd in.
Then I remembered Sister Roth. I thought of Jesus Christ. And I knew that more than anything else, Jesus would want me to sit by Aaron. I wanted to refuse, but I couldn’t.
I walked toward him, sure that every eye in the cafeteria was on me. “Hi, Aaron,” I rasped. I set my tray next to his and sat with my head down so that I wouldn’t have to look at anyone. Aaron stared at me for a moment. Then he grunted something and held his pizza in front of my face. I nodded. “Yeah, it looks good.”
He shouted and touched me with his other hand. It was covered with pizza sauce, and I had to use my napkin to wipe it from my arm.
When I looked up, I saw Marni at the next table. She’d just moved into town and started school here on Tuesday. She was a very nice girl, and I’d been happy when she was assigned to my class. She was staring at me as I sat next to Aaron. I could feel my cheeks and ears burning, but there was nothing I could do except stay there and eat my lunch.
The best way to keep from noticing the staring eyes was to concentrate on my own lunch and to help Aaron. I helped him cut his pizza into small pieces. I used a napkin to wipe his face. When he knocked his carton of milk over, I helped him clean it up. When it was time to dump our trays, I helped him carry his.
Then he disappeared outside! I hotfooted it toward a different door.
“Benjamin?” Marni was standing there. “Benjamin, I think … well, I think you’re the most wonderful boy in this whole school!” Then she scurried past me to the playground.
“Do you like eating with that weirdo?” Paul snickered as he brushed by.
Later, while I was working on a science project, Marni came over to my table. Usually I don’t talk to girls because they make me nervous. I couldn’t think of anything to say then, either, so I just sat there and pretended that one of the nicest girls in the whole school wasn’t standing next to me.
“Is that boy in the cafeteria a friend of yours?” she asked.
“I know him a bit. His name is Aaron.”
“I have a cousin like Aaron.” Marni looked down at the table. “He’s not exactly like Aaron, but …” She pressed her lips together. “I like David—that’s my cousin’s name. Once you know him, he’s really a neat kid. But he’s different. Ever since coming here, I’ve watched Aaron because he reminds me of David.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she confided, “Benjamin, that was a brave thing you did today.”
I coughed. “It wasn’t anything.”
We were still talking—not just about Aaron and David but about lots of things—when Mrs. Parrick came over. “Benjamin, Mrs. Wood wondered if you’d like to work with her students for a few minutes this afternoon.”
Paul, who was sitting at the next table, grinned and muttered, “Benjamin’s getting so he really likes those retards.”
Mrs. Parrick was starting to scold him, when Marni asked, “Could I go with Benjamin?”
Paul’s mouth dropped open, and Mrs. Parrick apparently decided she didn’t need to say anything more to him. She just told Marni that Mrs. Wood would be delighted.
Marni and I were both a little nervous, but as we worked and played with all the kids—not just Aaron—the jitters left us, and I realized that I was actually having fun.
The following Monday at lunchtime, Marni and I sat on either side of Aaron and helped him with his lunch and talked to him, even though he didn’t understand anything we said. By the end of the week, lots of kids sat at Aaron’s table. Even Paul came over on Friday and squeezed in between Aaron and Marni.
In the afternoons, if I finished my work, Mrs. Parrick let me go to Mrs. Wood’s room for a few minutes. Sometimes Marni went with me. Sometimes I went alone. One day Randy, who sat behind me, asked, “Can I go with Benjamin today? I’m finished with my work.”
It was funny how, after a few weeks, our class kind of adopted Mrs. Wood’s class. If we were working on an art project or having a class program, we invited them to come to our room. At recess Aaron would hang around while my class played football or soccer. He didn’t know how to play, but he chased around the field and shouted and laughed like he was part of the game.
“I saw Mrs. Wood in the store this afternoon,” Mom told me one evening. “She said that you’ve become great friends with Aaron.”
I smiled. “He’s fun. He doesn’t make me nervous anymore. I still don’t think he knows me, though. I’m just some kid to him, like all the others.”
“But Heavenly Father knows you and knows how kind you’ve been to Aaron.”
The next Sunday I was walking down the hall at church, when I heard a shout. I turned and saw Aaron charging toward me. His mother was down the hall, struggling to catch up to him. Laughing wildly, he crashed into me and threw his arms around my neck. When his mother reached us, Aaron pushed away, jabbed his finger against my chest, and grinned at his mother.
For a moment she just stood there. Then a huge smile covered her face. “You must be the boy at school! We’ve known for some time that Aaron had someone very special at school. He can’t exactly tell us things like that, but we knew that there was someone. You must be Aaron’s very special friend.” Her face was beaming, and tears wet her cheeks.
Aaron stopped pointing and wrapped his arms around me again. I felt a strange, happy warmth spread over my body, and tears jiggled in my own eyes as I wriggled loose and put my arm around the shoulders of my special friend Aaron.

While serving in Pennsylvania several years ago, I was pleasantly surprised to be visited by a minister of a huge Protestant congregation. We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the doctrinal subjects on which we could find benign agreement. Suddenly he interrupted our conversation by stating, “You teach one belief with which I could never agree. It is your idea that ‘as God is, man may become.’” (See History of the Church, 6:302–17.) He held a well-worn white Bible in his hand. I asked him to turn to Matthew 5:48. His nimble fingers quickly turned to that reference, and he read, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”

He gasped and then hesitatingly agreed to man’s great potential. We read other scriptures, such as: “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Gen. 1:26.) He understood, and found a new respect for our teachings. He left a wiser man, and I felt a renewed gratitude for the inspiring truths that we understand and teach.

When I served as president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, Canada, there was a devoted family history worker in the mission by the name of Myrtle Barnum. Oh, she was faithful in this sacred work. She had accumulated a lot of data on the St. Lawrence River area. She had come to the end of her line. She did not know where she might turn. She studied. She searched. She prayed. But she never gave up. And though she was frustrated for month after weary month because of her apparent inability to find that which was needed, she never lost hope.
One day she was walking by a secondhand store and felt compelled to go inside. Looking up and down the shelves, she noticed a set of books which drew her attention. Why, she will never be able to testify other than that the Lord was able to inspire her. The title of those two books: Pioneer Life on the Bay of Quinte, volumes 1 and 2. They sound like novels. She reached up and took those two dusty volumes down from the shelf, and as she opened them, she was amazed. These books were not novels. These books were genealogical records of all of the people that had lived near the Bay of Quinte from the time records could be maintained. She hurriedly searched through page after page, and there she found the information which opened up her family history lines once again, that her research might continue.
An elders quorum in that area raised the considerable sum needed so that she might buy those two books. They were sent to Church headquarters in Salt Lake City, and I received a letter indicating that these same books had been the means of opening up the lines of connecting heritages for thousands of names of those who had gone beyond the veil. A large number of people rejoiced to learn of this treasure trove which connected to their family lines, including President Henry D. Moyle, then a member of the First Presidency. One of his grandfathers had come from that very area. All this came about because a faith-filled servant of the Lord had refused to give up, refused to be discouraged, refused to say, “There is nothing that I as an individual can do.”

I know of one family who took their children to a welfare farm in the Salt Lake valley. The three-, ten-, and eleven-year-old children were given the opportunity of pulling weeds in a sugar beet field with their father. As the work became harder, the ten-year-old girl suddenly stopped, turned to her father, and asked, “Why are we doing this, Dad?”
He explained that all the work they were doing was helping the sugar beets grow. After the beets were grown, harvested, and processed, the sugar would be taken to the Bishops Central Storehouse. The processed sugar, along with all the other different kinds of food from welfare farms throughout the Church, would be put into bishops storehouses for those members of the Church who don’t have enough money to buy the food they need.
The Welfare Services program, however, involves more than this. It means learning and planning how to help ourselves and our families in many areas.

Zulma sat on one of the church benches and smoothed the skirt of her school uniform. Colored light shone through the stained-glass windows, and a cross stood at the front of the chapel. Zulma went to a church school, so she went to worship services twice a day with the other students. Zulma liked her church. She loved Jesus and loved to learn about Him.
She sat quietly as the priest began to talk. But today something felt different. Suddenly a new thought came into her mind and heart: There is more truth out there.
Zulma scrunched her eyebrows. More truth? What did that mean?
The thought came again. There is more truth.
Zulma closed her eyes and focused on what she was feeling. She had learned lots of good things at church. But now she wondered if something was missing. Maybe there was more that God wanted her to know. But how could she find it?
Later she talked to her older brother, Alberto, about her thoughts.
“You think there’s more truth out there?” Alberto asked.
Zulma nodded. “I want to learn about other churches,” she said.
“OK,” Alberto replied. “I’ll go with you!”
For several years, Zulma and Alberto visited different churches. After one church service, Alberto said, “That church taught good things.”
Zulma agreed, but they still felt like something was missing, so they kept searching.
One day Alberto raced up the steps to their house. “I found the church we’re looking for!” Alberto said. He gave Zulma a big hug.
Zulma’s eyes got wide. “Where? How?”
“My friend met some missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Alberto said. “I listened to them, and I believe what they taught!”
Zulma and Alberto were so happy that they danced all around the house. But then Zulma got some bad news. Mamá didn’t want her to meet with the missionaries. “You’re only 12,” Mamá said. “You’re too young.”
Since Alberto was older, he was allowed to keep meeting with the missionaries. A few weeks later, he was baptized.
Zulma kept asking Mamá again and again if she could learn from the missionaries. Finally, Mamá said yes.
When the missionaries taught Zulma, she felt warm in her heart. One of the missionaries had a hard time speaking Spanish, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how good Zulma felt. When she learned about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, she knew she had found the truth she was looking for!
Zulma wanted to be baptized. But what would Mamá say? Zulma was so happy when Mamá said yes!
On the day of her baptism, Zulma dressed all in white. She knew God loved her. She knew He knew her. And she knew that He had helped her find His restored Church!
Here is Zulma as a young girl in Uruguay. On the right is a photo of her today with her husband, Elder Walter F. González of the Seventy.

Col. Halvorsen said that children sometimes wrote to him with special requests. “I received one letter with a beautiful map in it. The little girl said hers was the white house with the chickens in the backyard and that she would be waiting there at 2:00 P.M. I never found her house so I mailed her a package.”
Twenty years later when Col. Halvorsen returned to Tempelhof as commander of the base, the same girl, now grown up with a family of her own, wrote to him again. She invited him to dinner in the same home he had failed to find during the airlift. The two families still keep in touch with each other.

Several years ago at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico, the participants were expressing gratitude to the ranch chairman, who happened to be me. They had asked my son, Scott, married with children, to say something. He came up on the stand, dressed in his Scout uniform, stood in front of me, raised his arm to the square in the Scout sign, and said:
“Dad, on my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; and to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight” (see Boy Scout Handbook, Boy Scouts of America [1998]). He said it with sincerity and as an oath, tears glistening, his voice filled with emotion. I knew he meant it with all his heart and soul.
Before you take an oath, it’s important to know what it means. “On my honor” means that we will keep the oath—that our honor depends upon it. If we fail to keep the Scout Oath, we are violating a solemn promise. It continues, “… to do my duty to God.” This means, from a Church point of view, that we attend Church, pay tithing, accept callings, honor the priesthood, keep God’s commandments, and keep the standards of dress and conduct. Then the oath states, “… and my country.” Wherever we live in the world we should do our duty to our country by obeying the laws, sustaining good leaders, honoring the flag, and being good citizens.
An important part of the oath states, “… to obey the Scout Law.” The Scout Law is a wonderful model for life.
A Scout is trustworthy. Imagine if every Scout practiced this first principle of the Scout Law with all his heart. There are millions of Boy Scouts and leaders around the world. What a dramatic impact we could have on those around us if we all were trustworthy.
Each principle of the Scout Law is a sermon and demands action if we would live and practice the oath we take: a Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.
A Scout who takes the Scout Oath weekly should remember it is something he is committing his soul to. Imagine what a blessing it is to be loyal to Scouting, family, Church, country, and friends!
We take an oath to be friendly, kind, and courteous. At a national jamboree a 12-year-old Scout got separated from his patrol. He was standing alone in a sea of Scouts and about to break into tears. An older Scout saw him and went over and introduced himself. “I have a gift for you,” the older boy said. “It is a hand-carved bolo tie. A great Scouter, Bill Burch, carved it. He numbers each one. He has carved over 40,000.”
The older Scout presented the tie to the young scared Scout. About that time the patrol found the boy. They gathered around him, and for a few moments he was the center of attention with his new bolo tie. The tears had disappeared; he felt important. The older Scout had truly been friendly.
Not one of the 12 points mentioned in the Scout Law is selfish; the prophets of God in the Book of Mormon and other scriptures have taught each point. I believe the Scout Oath is an inspired oath for all young men.
For example, to be obedient is a great and wonderful blessing. It is a privilege to be obedient. It is not a “have to do” because of the standards; it is a “get to do.” We really are free when we are obedient to God’s commandments and to the Scout Law.
It is a blessing, as well, to be cheerful. I recall Elder Loren C. Dunn (1930–2001) of the Seventy several years ago suggesting in a talk “that a certain man looked like he had been weaned on lemon juice through a dill pickle.” Cheerfulness is contagious and is a strong positive influence for good. People enjoy being around others who are happy. In Proverbs we read, “A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance” (Prov. 15:13). Also it states, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine” (Prov. 17:22).
If being cheerful is good for the soul, being thrifty is good for our financial well-being. Wastefulness and indulgence are not of God. They are negative influences and have serious consequences on us by and by. When we are thrifty we are self-reliant, able to be free to assist those in need. Scouting instructs us to be wise with our resources.
Profound knowledge and direction come from the Scout Law. A Scout is brave, clean, and reverent. Bravery is usually not sensational, although it may be. Bravery is manifest in many small acts, such as defending a young man against those who would mock or physically abuse him. It is standing up for an ideal and letting your voice be heard.
Bravery is a trait every young man can develop. It is based on love for others more than safety for self. One Venturer Scout who is blind signed up to go on a hike in southern California with his Scout troop. They hiked to Lord Baden Powell Peak over a steep trail. The young man held on to the shirt of a fellow Boy Scout every step of the way. It was a long hike and took two full days. This boy did not complain, did not seek pity, just kept grinding on and on until they came to the trail’s end. Equally as brave was the Scout who volunteered to lead his friend over a steep and challenging trail. He felt honored to help.
The traits of cleanliness and reverence complement each other. To be clean refers to body cleanliness, clean clothing, being well groomed and wearing appropriate attire.
To be reverent demands that we acknowledge God, that by our actions we express our devotion to Him. Reverence for the Lord has a profound impact on our conduct, our language, our personal prayers, and our standards. It is interesting that reverence is the 12th point in the Scout Law. It sums up all the others. Violating any of the other 11 points would be irreverent.
We declare in the Scout Oath that we will “help other people at all times.” A 12-year-old Scout went to troop meeting at Mutual one Tuesday evening. When Mutual was over, he did not show up at home for about an hour and a half. His parents were concerned and were about to go look for him when he came through the door. “Where have you been?” the anxious father asked.
“One of the members of the bishopric was putting up the chairs all alone,” he replied. “You remember my patriarchal blessing states, ‘You were born to serve your fellow men.’ I stayed and helped him put away all the chairs. I sure love him.”
We do love those we serve. Imagine millions of men and boys helping other people at all times.
If we are true to the oath, we will also keep ourselves “physically strong.” We will eat wholesome foods, stay in good physical condition, and not abuse this wonderful body we have. Physical health brings happiness. It increases our capabilities in so many ways.
The Scout Oath includes being “mentally awake.” We must have good health to be mentally awake. Our eyes reflect whether we are awake or not. To be mentally awake we must see what is going on around us. We must be alert and aware.
The oath concludes with being “morally straight,” which means we do not deviate or compromise standards of chastity, virtue, or wholesomeness. We stand on higher ground and remain morally clean. A Scout who makes an oath that he will be morally straight is duty bound to live that way. The Scout Oath prepares us for the priesthood oath and covenant. Virtue is an essential part of our priesthood oath.
Think with me about President Gordon B. Hinckley, President Thomas S. Monson, and President James E. Faust taking the Scout Oath. Can you think of anything in the oath that they are not living daily? Do the other great men you know—your fathers, bishops, stake presidents, seminary teachers, and Scout leaders—live in harmony with the Scout Oath? They do.
Fellow Scouts, remember the sacredness of an oath. It is violated only to the detriment of your character. By living the Scout Oath and preparing for the oath and covenant of the Melchizedek Priesthood, you are truly preparing yourself to serve God, your fellow man, your family, and your community. Taking the Scout Oath is a sacred trust endorsed by the First Presidency. Living the Scout Oath will help you become the kind of man God can use in building His kingdom on earth.