Gospel Story Finder

On at least one occasion, I gave a spiritual thought with one message in mind, and the Spirit conveyed a totally different message to a student who was listening. Here is one such example from an anonymous student:

Thank you so much for your spiritual thoughts. A few weeks ago you shared a scripture that really changed my life, no exaggeration. I had been on a bit of a downward spiral, and to tell you the truth, during the first month of class it kind of irritated me that we would have “spiritual thought time” in a finance class, when the thought would have nothing to do with what we were talking about. The scripture you shared was in [Doctrine and Covenants] where the Lord tells Joseph that he is chosen, but because of transgression he will fall if he isn’t careful. He tells Joseph to repent and that he is still chosen and called again to the work, but if he does not repent, he will lose his gift and his chosen status (see D&C 3:4–11). That scripture hit me hard and started a chain reaction of introspection with my wife into our lives, so that now I feel like I’m back on a spiritual high akin to that on my mission.

This week I found out that my dad has been [struggling with personal issues that would in the end cause him to leave my mother]. . . . [Y]esterday I was able to talk to him and share everything that has happened to me over the last month (starting with your scripture) to help me find my testimony again and get myself back on track. I felt the Spirit so strong, and I know he did, too.

I’m telling you this story because it is very likely that your scripture not only saved me, but it could save my family and my parents’ temple marriage. If my dad could [move beyond his struggles] to making the right decision, it would be nothing short of a miracle—all because of how you have let the Lord work through you. Don’t ever stop the spiritual thoughts, no matter what anyone else says! Thank you!

A couple weeks later, I received this follow-up from this unknown student in the suggestion box:

I just wanted you to know that over the past two weeks my dad got his act together. My parents are going to stay together! His testimony is starting to return, and he is committed now to working hard on it and his marriage. Thank you! I truly believe this is all because of your spiritual thoughts.

Miracles are brought about through fasting and sincere prayer. In 1850 Lorenzo Snow, who later became president of the Church, labored in Italy as a missionary, trying to open that country to the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ. He was somewhat shy and self-conscious, but spiritually, he was a giant. One family who had befriended him had a critically ill child. In fact, Elder Snow realized that only through sincere fasting, mighty prayer, unswerving faith, and through the power of the priesthood could that three-year-old child be saved. He knew how much the healing of this boy would mean to the people in this small Italian village.
Climbing with his companion to a place of seclusion on the foothills of the Alps just above the village, in the spirit of fasting and prayer, he earnestly petitioned and pleaded with the Lord for six long, anxious hours for the privilege of using divine power to heal that little boy. Finally, the answer came; the reply was yes, he would be granted the privilege.
As a humble servant of the Lord, he walked down the mountainside with perfect faith that the dying child’s life would be spared. The boy was then given a blessing and a promise that he would live. A few hours later when Elder Snow and his companion returned to the home, they found that the child was greatly improved and was well on the way to recovery. Elder Snow realized that his fasting and prayer had reached the throne of a benevolent Heavenly Father. He remarked to the grateful parents: “The God of heaven has done this for you.” (See Eliza R. Snow, Biography of Lorenzo Snow, pp. 128–29.)

I want to tell you about my little brother, Hans. When he was born, he didn’t seem to like being here on earth. He would wake up in the night, and when he saw that he was still here, he would start crying. He would only stop when Mom fed him. After he got older, he seemed to feel better about being here.
We slept in the same room, and at bedtime we always played games. He would never just go to sleep. After Mom kissed us goodnight and shut the door, Hans would jump up, hold onto the rail of his crib, and begin to bounce. He would wave and yell at me until we both were laughing hard. I really liked sharing a bedroom with him, even if he was a baby.
Some people think that babies are a bother, but Hans wasn’t. He was good. He would watch us, then try to do everything we did. He used to go around the house picking up little pieces of rubbish that no one else saw. Then he would run to the wastebasket and throw them in. He always tried to help everybody. He was smart about it too. One day he decided to help Mom. He climbed up onto the stove when he was alone in the kitchen. Later we found him sitting beside the burners stirring a pot full of cold water. When we came in, he clapped his hands and said, “Oh, see!”
Hans was very adventurous. He wasn’t afraid of anything. His best trick was to climb up our big bookcase. He could get nearly to the ceiling. Mom always lifted him down, but I thought that he was better than a mountain climber.
Once I did something terrible to him without meaning to. He was coming up the stairs, steadying himself with his hand on the wall. When he got to the door at the top, his hand poked through where the door hinge is. I didn’t see him, and I slammed the door on his finger. He screamed and screamed. Mom and Dad rushed him to the hospital because the end of his finger was badly cut and he needed stitches. I felt awful. But when he came back home, he gave me a hug, so I knew that he still loved me. He was really brave and hardly ever cried about his finger, and he wasn’t even two years old! I felt awfully proud of him.
When the weather was nice, we used to go for walks together down the street. He really liked to play in the vacant field, running on his little legs along the paths. He liked the flowers and bugs and birds too.
I guess that we had the most fun one day when Mom went visiting teaching. She left Daddy to take care of us. He was busy in his study, so we looked for something fun to do until Mom got home. Hans opened a cupboard and took out a big can of flour. He took off the lid and showed it to me. It looked like something fun to play with, so we took it into the living room, where he poured it all onto the carpet. Then we rubbed it in big circles. If felt soft and nice. Hans rubbed a white circle around one of his eyes. He looked so funny! Mom came home right after that, and she couldn’t get mad when she saw how funny he looked. She just got her camera and took a picture of us.
Now I’m really glad that she took the picture. It helps me to look at it. It helps me to tell you about Hans too. You see, he got really sick last month—Mom said it was meningitis. Even though the doctor and the bishop came to help, he died, and I don’t ever want to forget him.
We all cried when Hans died. Mom and Dad hugged each other and cried. They hugged me too. Our neighbors and friends came over, and they cried. I’m glad that our friends were there. Mom and Dad had to be gone sometimes, getting things ready to bury Hans. It helped to talk to my friends. It helped to just sit on the porch with them beside me.
Mom decided to make a little white suit for Hans to wear for his funeral. She got the pants made, but when she had trouble with the jacket, one of her friends took it and finished sewing it. She and Dad went to the mortuary to put the suit on Hans.
After Mom and Dad came back, we all dressed in our Sunday clothes. My grandmas and grandpas were there too. We went together to the mortuary to see Hans. The stake president, who is also the mortician, was there, and he put his arm around me. That helped me feel better.
I never saw anyone dead before. I knew that Hans would be different, that he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I wondered how I would feel when I saw him.
Mom held my hand, and we went into a beautiful room with lots of flowers. There was quiet music playing. The room was just for our family so that we could be alone with Hans.
Hans was lying in a casket. It looked like a little white bed. His eyes were closed. He looked different, but he looked nice.
Hans’s funeral was in the morning. All my cousins and aunts and uncles came. Our friends and neighbors were there, too, and we sang “I Know My Father Lives.” Mom and Dad played a song for Hans on the piano and then talked a lot about Jesus.
Hans is buried near a little pine tree. I like that tree. Dad says that we can watch it grow. It will remind us that Hans is really alive, too, only with Jesus.
I know that Hans will always be my brother because Mom and Dad were married in the temple. I didn’t know how important that was until Hans died. Now I do.
Sometimes we go to the cemetery to put flowers on Hans’s grave. I told Mom that it’s kind of like the park where we had our family reunion. She hugged me tightly and told me that when Resurrection Day comes, the good people who have been buried will meet with everybody that they love, and it will be the biggest family reunion that you ever saw. I can hardly wait to hug Hans when he is resurrected. I miss him a lot, but I know that he is happy because he lives with Heavenly Father and Jesus.
When I die, I won’t be afraid, because I will see Jesus, and I will be with Hans again. I am going to try to be as good as Hans was so that we can live together some day.
When I take the sacrament, I think about how Jesus was resurrected so that we can be too. I love Jesus for doing that. Even though Hans is dead, because of Jesus I can feel happy.

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

One day there was a conference in our city. My parents were excited and grateful when they learned we would have Elder Marvin J. Ashton (1915–94) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles among us.
On the day of the conference, the chapel was overflowing. My mother could not get close to Elder Ashton. When my six-year-old brother saw my mother’s despair, he managed to get through the human barrier and reach him. He asked Elder Ashton to bless his brother who was very sick and insisted that he come to where we were. But Elder Ashton couldn’t come at that moment. We prayed for an opportunity to meet him at the end of the conference.
To our surprise, at the beginning of his talk Elder Ashton said, “When I got here, a little boy asked me to bless his brother who is gravely ill, and I would like to say to all within the sound of my voice that your brother will get well and fulfill his mission here on earth.”
For my parents, this was the balm they had prayed for, a relief from their days of pain and sadness. We began a new treatment, and with confidence in the power of Elder Ashton’s promise, I found my life changed completely.

Six months later, I was at school, sitting at lunch with a group of friends. All of a sudden there was commotion in a corner of the lunchroom. I looked over and saw that a boy was bending over and flapping his arms. Everyone who was watching was in shock, standing around just watching the uncomfortable scene. I got the impression that this boy could be choking. I jumped up from my table, ran over to the boy, and made the choking sign as a question to him. He nodded his head. I quickly got behind him and started doing the Heimlich maneuver. The food came up, and he started breathing again. The lunchroom erupted in applause, but I knew that it wasn’t me. I knew the Spirit prompted me to do what I did.
I am so grateful for what I learned from the experience during the summer so that I was prepared when the situation in the lunchroom happened. It added to my testimony that the Lord allows everyone opportunities to have experiences so they can then use them to help others.

Several years ago, I was selected to be honored as the Father of the Year in Utah. Each of our children was asked to say something special about their relationship with their father in a short video presentation.

However, one of my young sons approached me privately and confessed: “Dad, you know I love you, but I don’t think I really have anything I can say. Honestly, you spend so much time working and also serving in the Church, and the time that you do have seems to be spent more on my brothers than on me. I just don’t feel comfortable speaking on the video.”

To say the least, I was crushed by his comment. More than that, I was heartbroken that he felt less valued and loved by me, his father. My relationship with him meant more to me than any silly award. But somehow, in pursuit of my own dreams and aspirations, I was failing to focus on his needs. I vowed in that moment to change and to work harder to make him—and all of my children—a priority in my life.

My young friends, my wife and family are the abundance in my life. They mean more to me than any earthly possession. We certainly are not perfect, and we have had our share of adversity and heartache, but if we have done anything right in our lives, it has been to place the Savior and our sacred covenants at the center of our lives and to raise our family in the gospel of Jesus Christ. That has made all the difference!

After joining the Church, her daily life was surrounded by home, school and Church activities. A few years after joining the Church, her father had a massive stroke which left half of his body paralyzed and he lost his voice of speech.
This incident did not allow Sabita and her sister to have much freedom in life anymore. They had many dreams but were obliged to work for the family while their mother attended to their father’s needs and the household, not forgetting their two little brothers who were still attending school.
Sometime after this incident, their branch president approached both sisters and asked if they would be willing to serve missions for the Church. They couldn’t readily say yes because of their circumstances. As they went home, they discussed with each other regarding this opportunity. Usha offered to stay home and work for the family to allow Sabita to serve a mission.
She was very happy for what her sister had said, but was also worried, thinking that Usha would be alone to meet the family expenses with her meagre salary. Their mother was not happy with this. As the news spread to their relatives, one of their first questions was, “What’s in it for you?
As Sabita was struggling to decide what to do, she happened to receive the answer through one of her regular institute classes. Her teacher quoted President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), “Do your duty; that is best; Leave unto the Lord the rest!”1
Sabita immediately decided to leave home to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary and was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission in 2002. She said, “My family was taken care of. Miracles happened. The one and a half years that I served the Lord selflessly has been a lifetime experience of mine.”

This Christmas carol was written, set to music, and performed for the first time all in one day. On Christmas Eve in 1818, the organ at a small Austrian church was not working. Knowing they needed music for the evening church service, Joseph Mohr, an assistant parish priest in Oberndorf, Austria, wrote the words for a new hymn in a flash of inspiration. He took the lyrics to the church organist, Franz Gruber, who wrote a melody on his guitar. Franz and Joseph performed their beautiful new hymn, “Stille Nacht,” or “Silent Night,” that evening. Its popularity spread quickly throughout the world. Today we sing the first, sixth, and second verses of the original hymn (see Hymns, no. 204).

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary over. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles, and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
To be continued …

It was Christmas Eve, and large, soft snowflakes were falling gently. Three small girls—Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Sarah Amelia, who was often called Pet—were home alone while their widowed mother was at work. The three girls were worried about Santa not being able to get down their chimney, so they decided to sweep a path for him from the outside gate to the front door.
After they finished, Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet went inside their house and cuddled up in a very large rocking chair. They were beginning to get tired when they heard their family cow, Boss, mooing and mooing. “Poor old Boss,” Pet said. “She must be hungry.”
They were quiet for a minute; then Pet said, “It’s Christmas, and Boss doesn’t have one Christmas present, not even something to eat.”
Caroline came up with a wonderful idea: “Our mattress is filled with nice dried grass. Let’s feed it to Boss.”
So Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet pulled the covers off their bed, struggled to get a good hold on the mattress, and pulled it into the front room. They put on their coats and gloves, then dragged the mattress through the doorway and over to the barnyard. They ripped open the mattress and dumped out the grass. Old Boss stopped mooing and got busy eating her Christmas Eve supper. The very tired girls returned to the house. They curled up in the big rocking chair and were soon fast asleep.
When their mother got home, she awakened the girls and told them to go to bed. Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet told her they couldn’t go to bed because they had fed their bed to the cow! So their mother let them sleep in the big rocking chair.
Sometime that night Santa came and filled their stockings with yummy things to eat. And the next morning a good neighbor came with a load of hay and straw. So old Boss got a second Christmas present, and Mary Ellen, Caroline, and Pet got a new straw bed.

My boyfriend was not exactly thrilled about going on a mission and leaving home and me for two years. I was and still am the one who insists that I want to date only future or returned missionaries. I pushed and pleaded, threatened and fumed, but he still wouldn’t entertain the idea of a mission—even for me much less his parents. After about a year I gave up!
Then we started talking about what was really worrying both of us about a mission, both of us asking questions and trying to work out a way for both of us to be happy with the results. There were questions neither of us could answer alone, since we both would be affected by the outcome. Our search began with reading the Book of Mormon together. We also began to talk to our bishops about our questions. We also wrote to friends in the mission field to get their input on missions and how they came to the decision to serve. We came to the conclusion that he needed to put in his papers and wait for his call. I needed to go on with my life and future. When he gets back, there will be plenty of time to answer the questions about us.
Name Withheld

Promised blessings vary from person to person according to need. Sometimes it may even seem that the blessings promised could not ever be fulfilled, but we need to remember that our Heavenly Father sees things from a different perspective than we do. For example, Elder Thomas S. Monson, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, tells this story:
“Several years ago a patriarch gave a blessing to a teenage girl … who lived in Poland. In the blessing he felt impressed to promise her that she would marry in a temple of the Lord. He hesitated to give that promise, for there was absolutely no way for her to leave Poland allowing her to marry in a temple. But he responded to the whisperings of the Spirit and gave the girl the promise.
“After giving the blessing, the patriarch came to my office and asked, ‘Did I do the right thing?’ I indicated that a man always does the right thing when he responds to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit. He said, ‘But I have bestowed a promise which cannot be fulfilled.’ I replied, ‘Let us trust in the Lord with all our hearts …’ Within a period of two years, a pact was signed between Poland and Germany that permitted those of Germanic origin to return to West Germany. That lovely teenage girl moved to Germany where she would be free to go to the temple of the Lord when the time came for her marriage.” (Scandinavian Area Conference, August 1976, page 10.)

Sally was a relatively new member at the time of the martyrdom. She and her husband and their two sons had joined the Church near Buffalo, New York, and migrated to Nauvoo in 1843. Here they found many Saints sick with fevers, malaria, and measles. Writing to her family in the eastern United States, she said, “It is very sickly here at present … , and a great many children die” from the diseases.
Sally’s oldest son, 14-year-old George, soon got sick and died about three weeks later. With “a heart full of grief and sorrow” from her son’s death, she received word eight months later of the Prophet’s martyrdom. In this state of grief, she wrote her family to detail the events, share her emotions, and give perspective to events of the time.

Not long ago I had an opportunity to speak in Portland, Oregon. Lo and behold, in the audience was my former bishop, Raymond Kirkham. He was my bishop when I was an Aaronic Priesthood boy. I had the courage to call on him—and you know that can be risky, to call on a bishop who remembers you when you were a boy. I reminded him as he took the pulpit, “Remember, I am the last speaker.”

He got bold and told those young people of some interesting experiences involving my youth. He said, “I knew this young man was destined for a position of leadership. He is the only deacon I ever had who, after passing the sacrament, could crawl under a bench and get out the back door before I recognized he was gone.” He said, “I knew he was going all the way, because he took the whole quorum with him.”

Now you young priesthood bearers, I have repented; and I am grateful for bishops who stood at the back door and redirected my paths.

The sophomore math whiz sat in the classroom after school waiting for the football star to come in for his weekly tutoring session. The guy who enjoys algebra, calculus, and trigonometry would spend an extra hour or so each week teaching polynomial expressions and practicing exponential equations with the football hero, whom many called the best high school running back in the country. Turning upfield for another 10-yard gain he could do. But algebra? Linear inequalities were something of a challenge. That’s when the tutor came to the rescue.
When the school year ended, so did the tutoring sessions. The tutor had his junior year to look forward to while the tutor’s “student” graduated and accepted an athletic scholarship to the University of Miami.
That’s when the math whiz says, “Someday when he’s a famous running back in the National Football League, I can tell my kids I taught him math.”
It’s a year later, and once again Maurice Navarro is sitting in a classroom at Coral Gables Senior High near Miami, Florida. School ended 30 minutes ago, but, just like the year before, a group of students is gathered around Maurice as he teaches a math concept his fellow students aren’t quite understanding.
That’s Maurice Navarro. Still the math tutor. Still helping others.
“That comes from my mother,” says Maurice. “She taught me that if I’m able to help others, it’s important that I do. It’s difficult for some of the kids to grasp some math things, so that’s why I tutor. Since math does come pretty easily to me, I’m glad to help.”
The same must go for his volunteer work at two area medical centers. Each Friday and Saturday, Maurice donates about nine hours doing numerous jobs at both hospitals.
“I work with patients, moving them in wheelchairs or in their beds through the hospital,” he says. “When I’m there, I get to see the smiles on the people’s faces when they see you’re doing something nice for them. I love meeting the patients, seeing their faces, and seeing their reactions.
“It’s that way with tutoring,” he continues. “When I hear somebody say, ‘I got it!’ about a concept I’m teaching, I feel I’ve done my job. And it’s the same in the hospital with the patients, only with smiles.”
In the Fountainebleau Ward, in the Miami Florida Stake, Maurice is the first assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. Not long ago, he was a young deacon looking up to the priests who were preparing to leave on missions. Now it’s Maurice’s turn to lead. “Since I’m the oldest one in Young Men, I hope the deacons and teachers look at me as an example in the same way I looked to the older boys when I was that age,” he says.
Tangible evidence of Maurice’s example to other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward came in the way of service for his Eagle Scout project he completed last year. Maurice organized a child identification day where he invited people in his community to bring their children to the ward on a Saturday so the children could be fingerprinted and videotaped. After police gave a presentation on ways to protect children, the parents in attendance took the fingerprint cards and the videotapes home. Now, if ID information is ever needed, it will be at the parents’ fingertips.
Maurice spent numerous hours coordinating this project that attracted close to 100 children. As a bonus, he also asked people who came to bring one or two cans of food that he could then donate to a food bank. He eventually filled three big boxes with canned goods.
“What I enjoyed about that project is that it was different,” Maurice says. “I really wanted to make a difference. I hope people never have to use their video or the fingerprint cards. I don’t want it ever to come to that point. But they are a good safety net.”
Maurice is 18 years old and will turn 19 in November. He will graduate from high school in four months, then he’ll get his chance to perform some serious, long-term service.
He’s received plenty of peculiar looks from classmates as he talks about the Church’s missionary program. When it comes to Church subjects—confusion over what missions are or questions about the Word of Wisdom—Maurice is the one who students turn to. At Coral Gables Senior High, Maurice is the school’s only Latter-day Saint.
“People at school ask me about missions all the time, and I’m glad to explain. For many of them, it’s hard to comprehend that I would want to do this. They’re amazed when I tell them we go for two years and that nobody’s making us go. I’m definitely going on a mission.
“My dad was baptized when he was in his 20s, so he never went on a mission,” he adds. “The only person in my family who has gone on a mission is my uncle. So I see a mission as me starting a tradition in our family.”
Throughout his life, Maurice has played a small part in the lives of a lot of people. Coral Gables students who have been tutored by Maurice are passing math tests, and Maurice can feel that he contributed to their successes. Parents have recorded information about their children on file—just in case. They can thank Maurice for that. And there he is, wheeling a patient from one room to another at the hospital. No big deal? Perhaps. But it’s another small thing Maurice finds time to do.
Maybe it won’t be exactly how Maurice envisioned it after all.
One day in the future, the football star might just turn to his children and talk about a guy he knew in high school. “Kids,” he’ll say, “Maurice is the guy who taught me math.”

Ammon sighed as he and Dad left the soccer game. “I don’t get it,” he said. “We have so many good players. Why can’t we score?”
Dad was a good soccer player. Maybe he could help.
“I think you need to learn to work as a team,” Dad said. “You all want to score goals, right?”
“Yes,” Ammon said. “But we can’t all be the one to score. Is that what you mean?”
Dad nodded. “You can’t score a goal on your own. First the defenders need to take the ball from the other team, right?”
Ammon laughed. “It’s pretty hard to score if you don’t have the ball.”
“Right,” Dad said. “Then the defenders give it to someone who can score. No one can do it alone.”
“I guess,” Ammon said.
When they got home, Mom was holding the baby while she made dinner. “How was the game?” she asked.
“We lost again,” Ammon said. “But we’ll do better next time.”
“That’s a good attitude,” Mom said.
“I’m starving!” Lorrin shouted as he, Seth, and Spencer ran in.
“Boys, can you help set the table and put the toys away?” Mom asked.
All four boys groaned.
“But I didn’t play with the toys,” Seth said.
“It will take forever!” Lorrin wailed.
Dad laughed. “I think our family has the same problem as Ammon’s team.”
“What’s that?” Seth asked.
“We aren’t working together,” Ammon said. “We all want to score a goal by eating dinner. But we’re leaving it all to Mom.”
“Right!” Dad said. “How can we work as a team?”
Ammon had an idea. “What if Seth and I set the table? The other boys can pick up the toys.”
“Great idea!” Dad said.
Soon dinner was ready. Ammon folded his arms for prayer. He was glad his family had worked as a team. He hoped his soccer team could do the same thing.

“The orphans are going to like all this stuff,” John said as he loaded the last box. The back of the panel truck was filled with presents and bags of food gathered by his Scout troop. He found room for a big bag of apples. “Perfect fit!”
“Boys, it’s time to go,” Dad said as he closed the back doors. “Get in.”
The truck was a bit crowded, but nobody minded—everyone was too excited about the Christmas party at the orphanage. Everyone except John.
He’d never met any orphans before, and the Korean boys, he’d been told, didn’t speak English. Meeting them made him nervous, but he didn’t say anything—after all, his dad was the troop leader. Besides, the other boys had been in the troop longer, and the party had been their idea. They thought this wasn’t just a good Christmas service project but a way of celebrating the end of the war by helping the Korean kids who had lost everything they had, including their parents.
Each boy was supposed to pick out three of his own toys to give to the orphans. Good ones, too—not old, broken ones. “Something you’d like to get as a present,” John’s dad had insisted. John tried to act as excited as the others. “I hope the boy who gets my race car likes it,” he said. “It’s my favorite.”
It wasn’t quite true, but no way was he going to give away his best stuff! Dad’s transfer was only going to be for a few months, and John hadn’t been able to bring all his things, anyway.
He’d had a hard time deciding what he could part with—certainly not his favorite race car, the one with the rip-cord starter and huge, knobby tires that went vroom-vroom when it zipped across the floor! So he’d picked another one. It was almost as good but didn’t go as fast. The teddy bear and wooden puzzle he gave up weren’t favorite things, either.
John sighed now and stared out the window. They’d been driving for miles through the Korean countryside. Gray slushy snow lined the road. The farm fields were a patchwork of dirty snow and brown mud. As the truck made its way to the top of the narrow, winding road to the orphanage, John got his first look at it. What an ugly place! he thought. As soon as his dad parked the truck, the boys scrambled out and began unloading the gifts.
All except John, who was too busy looking around. At the end of the yard was a long shed. Its roof was nothing but scraps of rusty sheet metal. The plywood walls weren’t even painted. Scrawny chickens pecked around in the straw, and equally scrawny goats wandered in and out the open door. Just inside the door, he could see rabbit cages. Hiding behind the cages was a skinny little kid with thick bangs cut sharply across his forehead. One of the orphans, John guessed.
The boy peeked around a cage at John but didn’t smile. John noticed that the boy wasn’t wearing a coat, just a ragged sweater. No mittens, either, nor a hat. Isn’t he freezing? John wondered. Then he glanced at the boy’s feet.
No shoes! Just rubber flip-flops and those funny-looking Korean socks. He called them “mitten socks” because they had a space between the big toe and the other toes for the flip-flop thong. He knew that they were only funny looking because he’d never seen them before, and that both they and the flip-flops (which would later be known as thongs) were practical and useful—he’d seen Korean farmers wearing the same socks with flip-flops—but he had not realized that anybody wore them in the wintertime too!
Suddenly the small boy smiled and waved a shy greeting. Then he darted away. John stood watching as silent Korean boys did their chores. Most wore coats, but only a few had mittens. One boy’s hands looked blue with cold. John turned to say something to his dad, but he and the other Scouts were heading inside the orphanage. John raced to catch up. Inside it was warmer, but not much. He decided to keep his coat on.
“Come on, boys, help me put the things out,” Dad said as he started unloading the food they’d brought—big bags of rice and beans, two huge turkeys, cookies, oranges, apples, candy canes, juice, and cupcakes with green coconut frosting.
Some of the Korean boys helped. They put the presents under a scraggly tree decorated with homemade ornaments and paper chains. On Christmas morning the orphans would open their gifts. Now they laughed and shook each present, chattering away excitedly.
John couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but he could see how they felt. He was excited about Christmas too! Maybe he should have given away his favorite race car. But there was no time to think about that—the party was starting. The other Scouts were already lining up to sing Christmas carols.
Soon the singing and games were finished, the cupcakes and cookies were eaten, and the party was over. As John headed for the door, he spotted the little boy who had smiled at him outside. The boy smiled and waved again from across the room.
John took his red mittens from his pocket and went over to him. “Here. You keep these. Merry Christmas!”
The boy looked puzzled.
“Go on, take them. They’re for you—to keep.” John held the mittens out again.
Slowly the boy reached for the mittens and slipped them on. His face split into the biggest grin that John had ever seen! He bowed his head and kept repeating something that John couldn’t understand.
“Kim Lee, Kim Lee!” the boy then said, pointing at his chest.
“Oh, I get it,” John cried. “Your name is Kim Lee!” He pointed at his own chest. “John Morris.”
The boy nodded, said, “John Morris,” then repeated those same strange-sounding words.
This time John knew what they meant: thank you. He wished that he could stay longer, but it was time to go. As they headed down the gravel driveway, John turned to see red-mittened hands waving from the barnyard gate. “Merry Christmas, Kim Lee,” John whispered.
All the boys were quiet on the way back. John broke the silence. “Dad, those boys at the orphanage will like the toys and other stuff, but they really need some warm clothes.”
“You’re right—they do,” Dad agreed.
“Do you think we could buy a bunch of mittens and hats and stuff like that and take it out there? In time for Christmas?”
“I think that’s a great idea. What do the rest of you think?”
The boys eagerly agreed: “Let’s buy them some warm socks.” “Maybe we could get them some snow boots too. I’d sure hate to walk around in the snow in flip-flops!” “Me too! Let’s get mittens and socks and hats and boots.” “My dad and mom will help us.” “Mine too.” “And mine.”
As he and Dad went home after dropping the other boys off, John was happy about the Scouts’ new plans. He was even happier as he got out his race car with the rip-cord starter and huge, knobby tires and covered it with Christmas wrapping paper.

When I was a boy, we lived in the city during the school term and lived on a farm in the summer. On that farm we had an apple orchard and a peach orchard and various other trees. When we were in our early teens, my brother and I were taught the art of pruning trees. Every Saturday in February and March while snow was still on the ground, we would go out to the farm. We attended demonstrations put on by the agricultural college. I think we learned something about pruning as it was taught in those days. We learned, for instance, that you could prune a peach tree in February and in large measure determine the kind of fruit you would pick in September. The idea was to prune in such a way that the developing fruit would be exposed to air and sunlight, uncrowded as it occupied its place on the branch of the tree.

I wrote in my journal about band practice that Valentine’s Day. My friend Jill and I had to stay after school a half hour with the rest of the brass section because we couldn’t get the notes right to “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
We tried to phone home for rides, but only got answering machines. So we both had to walk the three miles. We hardly said anything the whole way. Over the last couple of blocks, it started to rain. We couldn’t run very fast because I had my trumpet case and Jill had her French horn case. When we got to Jill’s, she discovered she didn’t have her key, so we ran across the street to my house. We sat in my bedroom with our wet hair and clothes and griped about the day.
We each hoped someone would invite us to the Sweetheart Dance that night. Never mind that neither of us had a boyfriend; we thought someone secretly fascinated with us might make himself known and appear at the last moment. My friend Tara had been asked the week before, and we’d watched a bunch of girls get little bouquets of flowers all day at school. It was getting later, and no one called. We checked the messages on my family’s answering machine and then called Jill’s mother, who had finally gotten home, to ask if there was a message for Jill. The only messages were the two of us begging for someone to give us a ride home from school.
So we knew the dance was out. We were two mediocre band students with soggy hair and no romantic prospects.
Jill looked through my CDs and we played a couple of songs, but they were all about love and romance. I considered trying to see how many ways I could destroy a CD, but CDs are expensive and I only had four anyway.
So it’s no wonder we did what we did, even though there is no excuse for it.
It started when we wandered into the kitchen for a snack. Mom said, “Hi, girls. Sorry I wasn’t home or I’d have come to get you. How was school?”
I just threw her my don’t-ask look.
Mom gave us some leftover heart cookies she had made for Brandon’s kindergarten class. That’s when we saw Brandon’s blank animal valentines he hadn’t used because he wanted the Spiderman ones instead. Even now I don’t know why we took the valentines.
In my room we were feeling unloved and grouchy. We started writing on the valentines. One of them had a hippo on it. It said, “I like you a ton.” I wrote on the back “Weight Watchers, 7:30 P.M. on Tuesday” and signed it illegibly, giggling. Jill started laughing, too. She found one with a skunk on it that said, “Don’t be a stinker—be my Valentine.” On the back of it, she wrote, “Try deodorant and a fly swatter.”
Now we were really rolling. We wrote something mean on the back of every single valentine. We managed to twist every little animal into a negative label.
I’m sorry to say it was my idea to actually deliver the valentines. It was too bad the rain had let up, or it might have squelched the idea. We waited until after dinner and told my mom we would be back soon. Then we ran a few blocks away from our houses. We put each valentine on a porch, rang the doorbell, and ran. We hid behind a car or a tree, then laughed when someone came to the door and looked around with a puzzled expression, finally noticing the white envelope on the doormat. Then they would pick it up and take it into the house. I’m only glad we got tired after leaving eight of them.
At one house, a bunch of little kids answered the door and jumped up and down, hollering, when they found the valentine. We quit after an elderly woman had trouble stooping to pick up her delivery.
Jill went home and so did I, feeling more hollow as the night progressed. I’d started to wonder if the rude valentines had hurt anyone’s feelings. I hoped all the recipients had thrown them in the trash and gone back to watching TV or whatever it was they’d been doing. I thought about how I would have felt to get one of our valentines. I’d have been crushed.
The crummy day got crummier.
In the weeks that followed, Jill and I talked about it.
“Lauren, you know what? I wish we hadn’t done that.”
“I know,” I told her. “I bet that one lady had arthritis or something.”
“Yeah, and maybe her children have all moved away and no one writes to her or calls her,” Jill said.
“And then we go and leave a rude valentine on her porch. Bet that just made her day,” I added glumly.
We sat in silence for a while.
“How can we fix it?” Jill asked.
“I’ve thought about that a lot. But I don’t know. Do you remember whose houses we went to?”
Jill shook her head. “It was so random. We were just going wherever. I don’t know who those people were.”
“We wouldn’t have done it if we had known them.”
“But somebody knows them. They’re somebody’s kids or somebody’s grandmother.”
“Well, keep thinking. Maybe there’s a way to fix this.” But I knew we couldn’t undo the damage we’d done.
I prayed a lot more, all through March and then April. Jill and I both felt terrible. I didn’t write much in my journal. I just didn’t feel like it. My mom always told me I had a hyperactive conscience. But I thought it was better to have a hyperactive conscience than no conscience at all.
I went over and over what we’d done, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The next time we had to stay after school to get a song right, we walked home together. We didn’t even call for a ride because we didn’t feel we deserved one.
On a boring Tuesday in May, I was drifting off in Mr. Bates’s history class when a folded sheet of looseleaf paper slid onto my desk. I popped awake.
I opened it.
It read: “Hey, cute stuff! Tried to call your house but got no answer last night. Do you want to go with me for dinner and a movie on Friday? Let me know after class.” It was signed “Nate Campbell.”
Nate Campbell? Talk about cute stuff!
I folded the note up and turned around to give Nate my most dazzling smile when I saw the name on the front of the note: “Shannon.” It might as well have said in red neon letters, “NOT YOU.” I turned down the wattage on my smile and passed the note to Shannon, two seats up.
Of course the note wasn’t for me. Shannon probably didn’t write mean things on valentines and deliver them to the elderly. A wave of embarrassment swept over me, and I kept fully alert for the rest of the day. Who knew what else I would do to humiliate myself before the day was out?
School ended for the summer, and we still hadn’t figured out how to repair the damage we might have caused by our rude valentines.
The summer passed, and I kept practicing my trumpet. We marched in the Fourth of July parade. I dropped my trumpet once, and some boys laughed and pointed at me. I had to run to catch up to the rest of the band. My face was already hot because of the temperature; afterward, it felt even hotter. My family was nice and told me how well I’d done, avoiding any mention of my klutziness.
The orthodontist put braces on me in July, and I decided I was being humbled by degrees.
I played with Brandon during the summer, and we built a zoo in the backyard with his stuffed animals in cages made out of overturned laundry baskets. We made tickets, and I popped popcorn for everyone who visited the zoo. Word got out in the neighborhood, and some of Brandon’s friends came three times.
I helped Jessica, my seven-year-old sister, set up a lemonade stand, and I counted change and went back and forth to the house to keep her in paper cups. She turned eight and was baptized just before school started again. My brother Stephen gave a short talk about the Holy Ghost, and my sister Emily gave a talk about repentance. And I thought about what I’d done on Valentine’s Day.
Dad baptized Jessica, and she came out of the water smiling and fresh.
I remembered my own baptism and wished I could go back in time. It wasn’t like I’d killed someone, but I was frustrated because I had deliberately done something hurtful I couldn’t undo. If I’d hurt someone I knew, I could have gone to them and told them how sorry I was. I decided that I really needed to think about what I was doing before I did it. What we did wasn’t such a huge thing, but it preyed on my mind.
After the baptism, I found a note on my pillow:
“Dear Lauren, It seems like you’ve been having a rough time lately. If you want to talk, I have two listening ears. I want you to know how proud I am of you. You’ve been a big help with your little brothers and sisters this summer. You’re a thoughtful, kind person. I love you very much. Love, Mom.”
The next morning, I waited until everyone else had gone out to play or work. Mom was busy doing dishes.
“Mom, thanks for your note. I needed it.” I took a breath as she turned around. She was smiling until she saw my face.
“Except I’m not really such a thoughtful person.”
Mom dried her hands with a towel and asked me, “Why not?”
I didn’t want to be too specific. “I just did something mean awhile ago.”
“Did you repent of it?” Mom asked gently.
I shook my head. “I’m still trying to figure out how.”
“Do you need to talk to the bishop about this?”
“No, it wasn’t that mean. I just did something mean to people I don’t know, so I can’t even tell them I’m sorry.”
Mom looked thoughtful. “That is a tough one. But being kind and considerate to your family and everyone you come in contact with may help. You really have been wonderful with the little kids.”
School started and I was lugging my trumpet back and forth again. We put on a concert, and Jill and I did pretty well. I don’t think I played any wrong notes when we played “When the Saints Come Marching In.” I think I had finally gotten it right.
Homecoming came and went. Jill got asked to the dance, but I didn’t. It really didn’t matter. I tended my brothers and sisters while Mom and Dad went out that night. We had a good time watching a Godzilla movie, turning the sound off and making our own subtitles and monster noises.
Jill and I made plans for Halloween. We had received an answer to our prayers, finally coming up with the best thing we could think of to repent for our meanness. We did some baking and targeted certain homes in our ward.
We headed for Sister Campbell’s first. She was living by herself in a tiny farmhouse in the middle of an apple orchard. We rang the doorbell and waited.
“Treat or trick,” we yelled, when she answered the door.
“What?” asked Sister Campbell. “Oh, girls, I wasn’t expecting anyone clear out here. I’m sorry, I don’t have a scrap of candy. But you’re welcome to the apples.”
“That’s okay,” we told her. “We’re reverse trick-or-treating. We bring you the treat.” She laughed and invited us inside. She told us about the things she used to do at Halloween.
“Some of us played terrible pranks.” Jill and I looked at each other. “We knocked over an outhouse while a boy was in it.”
“Oh, no!” I laughed, though I didn’t mean to.
“I felt awful about it,” Sister Campbell said.
“What happened? Did the boy get even with you?”
Sister Campbell giggled. “I’ll say he did. He married me.”
Next we visited the Shepherd family. They have seven kids, ranging in age from three months to 12 years. We offered to help paint faces on the kids and get them into their costumes. Sister Shepherd gladly turned over their Halloween preparations to us while she finished getting dinner ready.
We took some cinnamon rolls to Brother Baird, who walked with a limp. We helped him out to his porch. Then we covered him with a blanket so he could watch the trick-or-treaters. He laughed at the costumes and the excitement of the little kids.
Last, we left notes on some porches. One went to one of our Young Women advisers, thanking her for her wonderful lessons; one to the bishop’s family to thank them for loaning their dad and husband to the ward; and one to Julie Beck, a girl a year older than us who didn’t date much and was shy and quiet. We told her what a nice person she was and how good she was with animals, since she had two well-groomed cats and a parakeet.
We signed the notes legibly this time.
We came home empty-handed but full-hearted, in time to help pass out candy to the little neighborhood ghouls. Maybe we had canceled out our Valentine’s Day mischief. We both felt better about ourselves. We felt like we had repented.
I’ve got it all down in my journal. For a while, I didn’t have anything very good to write about. But I have been writing a lot more lately. Ever since Halloween, I’ve enjoyed holidays so much more.
And life in general.