Gospel Story Finder

Our present-day prophet, Spencer W. Kimball, has a great love for all the children of the Church. AFriend reader wrote to share with you an experience that expresses our prophet’s love.
“My name is Margo Busch, I am seven years old and live in San Antonio, Texas. I have three sisters and one brother. Something very special happened to our family. When we were on a 747 jet flying from Salt Lake City to Augsburg, Germany, we saw the prophet on the plane. We wanted to talk to him, but the stewardess wouldn’t let us. We were sad because we really wanted to meet him. So my sisters and I drew some pictures and the stewardess took them to him, and he answered by writing back to us on the pictures. When the plane landed, we were the last ones to leave. As we got off the plane the prophet was there waiting for us to shake our hands. Spencer W. Kimball really loves children very much and everyone in our family loves him too.”

Her name was Millicent, and she was my closest friend—literally. Millicent was a big, bulky back brace I wore in the ninth grade to help straighten the abnormal curvature of my spine. I called the brace Millicent because—well, because someone suggested I give it a name just for fun, and because that was my least favorite name at the moment.
I just wanted to fit in that year, but my days of melting into a crowd were over, at least until I stopped growing. Now I was stared at—a lot. Most of the time I tried to ignore the extra attention, but inside it really bothered me. And sometimes, more often than I would like to admit, I would even glare back.
But one time was different. I was with my family in the airport, eagerly waiting for my brother to get home from his mission. We talked in excited anticipation before his arrival. As we were talking, I glanced across the airport terminal and saw a woman watching me intently. This time, instead of scowling, I smiled and returned to my family’s conversation.
A few minutes later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see the woman standing beside me. “I couldn’t help noticing the brace you’re wearing,” she said. “I had to wear one years ago when I was in high school, only mine was a lot more obvious than yours!” We chatted for a few minutes about our respective experiences, and then she wished me well and went on her way.
That experience got me thinking. I was encouraged to know there were others who knew how I felt. But it also made me realize I had always assumed people had negative reasons for staring at me—that they thought my brace was funny looking or strange. I’m sure some did think that. But there were probably plenty of other people who were not thinking negatively. And maybe I could have made some new friends if I had acknowledged them with a friendly smile.
I realized then how easy it is to jump to conclusions about people. We don’t always know what they’re really thinking or what their motivations are. And a smile will open more doors than a frown or glare ever will.

Illustrations by Bradley H. Clark
On January 12, 2010, Heavenly Father showed me His power after a four-story concrete building collapsed around and on me following a terrible earthquake that devastated Haiti.
While I was crying out under the weight of the rubble, a peaceful voice spoke to me: “Jimy, why don’t you pray instead of shout?”
I couldn’t stop shouting, however, because I was afraid I was going to die within a few minutes. The voice, which sounded like a good friend motivated by a great desire to help, spoke to me again: “Jimy, you must pray.”
The pain in my legs was becoming unbearable, and I was running out of oxygen in the darkness that surrounded me. The voice came one more time: “Jimy, you must pray.”
At that moment I stopped resisting. In a feeble voice I said: “Heavenly Father, Thou knowest my strength, and Thou knowest how long I can bear this pain. I ask Thee, please take this pain from me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Immediately after uttering this simple prayer, I fell asleep. I don’t remember what happened after that, but when I awoke from a profound sleep, the pain was gone. A short while later, rescuers found me as they searched for victims among the ruins of my office building.
Afterward I learned that of the five employees on the second floor of the Port-au-Prince building where I worked, I was the only one who came out of the debris alive. Because of my injuries, I lost one of my legs and spent several months in the hospital. But I know that the Holy Ghost prompted me to pray and that Heavenly Father answered that prayer.
I can testify that Heavenly Father answers our prayers in His own way and according to His own desires—wherever we are and whenever we pray.

I would like to conclude with an experience we had in March 2000. Sister Andersen and I were invited to attend the temple dedication in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I knew that I would be asked to speak and that my remarks should be brief.

We entered the celestial room dressed in white. President Hinckley sat in the middle chair with a member of the Twelve on his right and with me on his left. As we reverently awaited the first session, I felt a distinct and specific impression that I should adjust the remarks I had prepared. The impression came: “Speak of the keys. Speak of the keys.”

I quickly turned to the scriptures to locate the passages that explain the keys of the priesthood being returned to the earth. Then—and I can remember it as if it were yesterday—a powerful spiritual feeling came into my mind and heart. The feeling that burned within me was this: “He who sits next to you holds all the priesthood keys upon the earth. He who sits next to you holds all the priesthood keys upon the earth.”

I took a deep breath. I looked over at President Hinckley. I could not deny the powerful manifestation of the Spirit. I thought of this scripture:

For his word ye shall receive, as if from mine own mouth. . . .
For by doing these things the gates of hell shall not prevail against you; yea, and the Lord God will disperse the powers of darkness from before you, and cause the heavens to shake for your good. [D&C 21:5–6]

The light flickered, blinked, flickered once more, and then the room went dark. Marta blinked and rubbed her eyes, but there was no seeing through the blackness.
“Now what?” Lisa asked in a shaky voice.
Outside, the wind sang and whistled as it rattled the windows of the old house the family had recently bought. It was the family’s goal to restore the old place to its original splendor, but so far not much had been done with it.
“Methinks ’tis winter,” Marta said, trying to make her words sound Old English and funny. But no one laughed. “Where has your sense of humor gone?” Marta asked.
“It went with Daddy,” replied seven-year-old Peter, his voice choked with fear.
“I wish Mom and Dad had fixed those old windows,” Lisa said nervously. “That rattling is scary.”
“I wish Mom and Dad were home,” Peter whimpered.
For a moment no one moved or spoke. The wind heaved and buffeted the house, died mischievously to a tickle on the window-panes, then rushed again with horrendous screams as though it was demanding to be let inside.
For as long as Marta could remember, there had been terrible windstorms in the valley—at least two or three times a year. Once, in their old home down the street, a winter wind had exploded through a window, shattering glass on the carpet and making its icy way into every corner of the house. Most of the time the wind wasn’t so violent, and Marta, though she didn’t exactly know why, had come to enjoy the storms. Maybe it was the eerie darkness that resulted when the electric circuits were shorted out. Or maybe it was because she remembered enjoying the stormy-night fires her father started in the fireplace and the way the family huddled around the blaze, wrapped in blankets and holding cups of hot chocolate. Her father always seemed to make an adventure out of storms.
Tonight, however, her parents had gone across town on an errand. A little while ago they’d called to say that they would have to wait until the snowplows cleared a path for them to get home.
The wind gasped, beat viciously against the house, then moaned pitifully.
Marta chuckled to herself, but Lisa shuddered and Peter began to cry. Marta never remembered her older sister being frightened of storms before.
“Isn’t anyone going to get some candles?” Marta asked.
“I—I will,” Lisa stammered, but she didn’t move.
“That’s all right; I’ll get them,” Marta said. She started feeling her way through the darkness. It was like playing blindman’s buff. First she felt the piano bench, then the banister, the hall wallpaper, and the buffet; then she groped her way through the doorway into the kitchen. Finally she found the right cupboard. It seemed strange not to be able to see even her hands in front of her. Opening the cupboard door, Marta’s fingers groped through its contents—paper napkins in a noisy cellophane package, rattly boxes of cold cereal, two long, smooth candles and their holders.
“Now for the matches,” Marta muttered, reaching farther back into the cupboard. “I know they’re in here.” Way back in the corner she felt the raspy side of the matchbox. Marta quickly shut the cupboard door, struck a match, and lit the candles. Slowly she walked back to the living room.
“Marta, Marta, is that you?” Peter called out.
“Of course, Peter,” Marta said cheerfully.
“This house is all ghosty,” Peter whispered.
“It’s all right, Peter.”
Marta heard Lisa trying to comfort their brother, but the words were not convincing. It seemed strange to be enjoying something that frightened her brother and sister. What can I do when even my big sister is scared? she asked herself. Quickly Marta placed the candles on the mantle.
“There, Peter. See, it isn’t so bad,” Lisa said.
As if to prove her wrong, the wind knocked viciously against the house. The candles flickered, then burned brightly again. Marta looked at Lisa’s face. Usually it was a happy, princesslike face, but now it only mirrored fear.
“Shall I start a fire?” Marta asked.
“No!” Lisa answered abruptly. “This wind is worse than most. It could blow down through the chimney and start the house on fire.”
Marta had never heard of such a thing. “What?” she asked.
“Last year in a storm like this, two homes burned,” Lisa explained. “The newspaper account said that it had something to do with downdrafts. I’m not exactly sure how the fires started, but we’d better not light one.”
Marta felt helpless. Why can’t Peter and Lisa feel like I do about storms? she wondered. Why can’t they relax and laugh at the weird sounds of the wind and makebelieve fun things about the dancing shadows the candles make on the wall? Aloud she said, “I’ll get some blankets then. At least we can keep warm until the heat comes back on.”
Marta walked out of the dim candlelight and felt her way down the hall to the linen closet. The blankets were stored on the top shelf, so she had to jump to get them down. When she managed to get three, she returned to the living room. “Lisa, you can curl up on the couch,” she said, “and Peter and I will lie down on the floor.”
“No,” Peter said.
“Why not?” Marta asked. “It will be like a slumber party.”
“No, it won’t.” Peter started to cry again.
“It’s all right,” Lisa said, hugging Peter to her. “Come on. Let’s have a slumber party.” She tried to sound excited, but the words came out stilted.
“Or we can pretend we’re pioneers,” Marta said, “It’s a game, Peter. We’re pioneers, and it’s nighttime, so we have to go to bed.”
“Pioneers didn’t have windstorms like this.”
“Yes, they did!” Marta countered. “I’ve read about them. And they were outside in the storms, not inside like we are.”
Lisa climbed onto the couch, and Peter reluctantly lay down on the braided rug. Shadows from the candles danced on the walls and ceiling of the tall, drafty room.
“Well, what did the pioneers do?” Peter asked.
That’s it! Marta realized. That’s how I can help Lisa and Peter. Aloud, she told Peter. “They prayed and did things to keep their minds off the storm.”
“That’s a good idea,” Lisa said. “Let’s say a prayer for us—and for Mom and Dad too.”
“After we’re through, I’ll tell you a story,” Marta added.
Peter prayed with them, but he stopped to look around every time another rush of wind rattled the house.
“This storm may last five more minutes or all night,” Marta said after they finished their prayer, “but we’ll have fun telling stories.”
“I hope it’s only five more minutes,” Lisa said.
Marta’s mind was racing. What story can I tell that will help Peter and Lisa? First she thought of some fairy tales, then of some stories she’d heard in school. But none of them seemed to be the kind that would give comfort … That’s it! She remembered the scripture story she’d heard in Primary last week that had filled her with a secure and comforting feeling.
Marta smiled at Lisa and Peter, then began: “One time Jesus and His Apostles were traveling in a boat when a fierce storm started tossing and turning their boat about. The Apostles became frightened, but Jesus slept through the whole noisy, scary storm.”
Outside, the wind whistled and screamed and rattled the windows and doors, while inside, Marta told the story of how Jesus had awakened and commanded the storm to stop. Marta tried to make her voice sound reassuring and comforting, but even if her voice wasn’t, she knew that the story would ease their fears.
When Marta finished, she looked over at Peter. In the dim candlelight she could see that he was already asleep.
“I’m glad you’re here, Marta,” Lisa whispered. “You’re a lot like Dad.”
Surprised by her sister’s remark, Marta didn’t say anything.
Soon Lisa went on, “It’s not that either of you really likes storms or that you wish they would come to hurt us or to do damage; but when they do come, you both manage to make the most of the situation. I wish I had such a gift.”
Marta was surprised. How often she had wished for Lisa’s long, thick hair instead of her own thin, wispy hair. Marta had never imagined that Lisa would ever be wishing for something that her younger sister had.
Lisa snuggled down on the couch, and Marta pulled her own blanket up to her chin and thought once more about the scripture story. “Peace, be still. …” Marta thought of the words from the story, the words Jesus had used to still the stormy waters. As she listened to the noises around her, Marta smiled.
Marta’s thoughts drifted to Lisa and what her sister had just said. It felt so good to comfort and to be comforted. She smiled again and then let herself relax and listen to the music of the wind as it accompanied the dancing shadows on the wall.

While I served as mission president in Scotland from 1975 to 1978, the Church received considerable opposition and criticism. On one occasion, three ministers made derogatory public statements in a particular city. I wrote an open letter to the local newspaper announcing that we would be holding a public meeting in that city to dispel some of the misunderstandings which were being voiced around. It was a wonderful meeting. We first showed the fine Church film “Meet the Mormons,” and then I spoke to the large group concerning our beliefs and way of life. When we opened the meeting for questions, a number of people who were not members of the Church stood and said kind things about the Church and the Latter-day Saints they knew. Positive results ensued and the work moved forward.

A few days later, Erica was getting ready for bed. She brushed her teeth and put on her pajamas. In a few minutes, Dad would come listen to her bedtime prayer and tuck her in tight.
But then Erica heard something. It was her brother Tate in his bedroom next door. He was talking to Dad, and it sounded like he was crying.
“Nobody likes me,” she heard Tate say between sobs.
Erica thought about the picture of Jesus Christ in the broken frame. She thought about what Dad said about how the Savior can help us when we feel hurt or broken. It sounds like Tate feels hurt right now, she thought.
“I love you. Tomorrow can be better,” she heard Dad say to Tate. “I’m going to say goodnight to Erica. I’ll be right back.”
When Dad walked into her room, Erica asked, “Why is Tate crying?”
“Some of his friends at school said some mean things to him,” Dad said.
Erica frowned. Then she had an idea. “Can we say a prayer with him?”
Dad smiled. “I think he’d like that.”
Erica knocked gently on Tate’s bedroom door and peeked inside. “Tate? Can we say a prayer with you?”
Tate sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Sure.”
Erica, Tate, and Dad knelt down, and Erica said the prayer. “Heavenly Father,” she said, “please bless Tate. Help him to know that he is loved and that he is special.”
When she finished, Erica and Tate gave each other a big hug. “Thanks,” he whispered.
Then Erica went back to her bedroom with Dad. As he tucked her in, he said, “I’m glad you asked if we could pray with Tate. What gave you the idea to say a prayer with him?”
“I felt sad when I heard him crying,” Erica said. “And I thought about Oma’s picture of Jesus with the broken frame. I thought Tate needed to remember that even though he feels hurt, Jesus loves him and cares about him.”
“That’s a great reminder,” Dad said. “I know He loves and cares about you too, sweetie.”
Dad kissed her on the head and turned out the light. Erica snuggled into her blankets. She was grateful that Jesus Christ would always be there to help her family.

September of last year, I returned home to New Zealand to attend the funeral of a remarkable man, his name is Junior Wineera. In March, 1944 Junior was the youngest of thirteen children born to Raha and Leah Wineera. His parents noticed very early in his development that his reflexes were slow and he did not respond to movement. Baby Junior was taken to an eye specialist who confirmed their fears, he had been born blind. Raha was not active in the church and Leah belonged to the Anglican faith. In 1945 President Matthew Cowley of the New Zealand Mission visited the Porirua Branch. Upon hearing that President Cowley was attending the church services, Raha took his 9 month baby to the meeting that Sunday. He said, "Brother Cowley, our baby hasn't been blessed yet; we'd like you to bless him." President Cowley said, "Why have you waited so Long?" Raha responded, "Oh, we just didn't get around to it." President Cowley said, "All right, what's his name?" Raha gave him the name and just as President Cowley was to start the blessing Raha said, "By the way, give him his vision when you give him a name, he was born blind." After the initial shock President Cowley said to himself, "Why not, I had faith in that father's faith." A few years later, when visiting the area, President Cowley asked the Branch President about the status of Junior. He remarked, "Brother Cowley, the worst thing you ever did was to bless that child to receive his vision, he's the meanest kid in the neighborhood, always getting into mischief."
I had the privilege of growing up in the neighborhood with Junior, he may at one time been the meanest kid, but he was without guile. Every Sunday morning his mother Leah, who remained true to her Anglican faith, laid out a clean, ironed white shirt in preparation for Junior to attend his Sunday morning Priesthood meeting. As the only active member of five brothers, he grew up honoring his Priesthood and fulfilling his duties. When he was a Priest he would often repeat the Sacrament prayer several times, he slowly articulated the words until he eventually got them right. He was not conscious of how long it took and neither were we. Junior never received his driver's license and would often be seen walking to Titahi Bay or Porirua city, four mile hikes. He just enjoyed walking and meeting and talking with people, often addressing them with this salutation, "How might you be today, Sir." He would have enjoyed the Kahuku Bike path. I am not sure how the locals would have responded to his salutation. He loved his Priesthood and excursions to the Temple. He had embraced the simplicity of his father's faith with good works. Junior knew he had received a special blessing but to him being a worthy member of the church was special.

Shortly after my mother and I were baptized, she began working as a registered nurse. As a single parent, she didn’t have time to cook, so we began eating more processed and fast foods. Although I was only 12, my health began to decline. I didn’t have the energy I once had. I felt tired and anxious. I gained weight.
I asked my mom how I could get into better shape. Hoping for a medical response, I was a little surprised when she simply said, “Live the principles of the Word of Wisdom.” I thought she would give me advice on calories and carbohydrates and fats, but her answer was exactly what I needed.
For family home evening the following Monday, we reviewed Doctrine and Covenants 89 and outlined an eating and activity plan. Our lifestyle change was dramatic. We both began to feel healthier and happier. I noticed more peace in my life and more quiet promptings from the Holy Ghost.
I am grateful to a loving Heavenly Father, who wants to communicate with us. I know now that we must be prepared physically and spiritually to receive sacred, personal revelations.
Eric D. Richards, Utah, USA

The first time I renewed my temple recommend the member of the stake presidency who interviewed me was Val R. Christensen, now president of the Rexburg Temple. In the interview he asked me: "What have you done during the past year that makes you more qualified today than you were a year ago for a temple recommend?" Startled by this unexpected question I quickly reviewed the past year to determine if I had improved my life during the previous twelve months.
That interview became a defining moment for me; every time I have renewed my recommend since I pause to reflect on my life and am prepared to answer President Christensen's question (even though no priesthood leader has ever asked me again) because I know the Lord wants to know if I am living the kind of life that will qualify me to follow the bridal party. And I truly desire to make my life a journey toward discipleship, my lamp trimmed and burning brightly when the Lord returns.

In 1982, because of my continued alcohol abuse, my wife, who had never failed in her faith, filed for divorce. At the time my family was living in Oklahoma, USA, but I had returned to Illinois, USA, where I had been raised. I had reached the point where I was about to lose the only thing that truly mattered to me: my family.
I began praying on my knees morning and evening to a God who I was no longer sure existed or, if He did, I figured He had long ago forgotten me. Yet for three months I prayed faithfully. Early one morning, while I was deep in prayer, a feeling of great relief came upon me and I knew that God lived, that He knew me, and that He loved me. I also knew I would never touch another drop of alcohol.
That very evening I received a call from my wife to let me know she was going to mail me the divorce papers to sign. During that conversation she suddenly said, “There is something very different about you. I don’t believe you are ever going to drink again, and I am going to tear up these papers.” We reunited, and two years later she gave birth to our third son.

One inspiring story about leadership in the home is about a mother named Katie Davis Majors, a young woman from Tennessee who had always dreamed of traveling the world and doing something meaningful with her life. So, at the age of 18, she decided to take a gap year and volunteer at an orphanage in Uganda.

During her year in Uganda, Katie fell in love with the children she was caring for and with the country itself. She decided to stay in Uganda permanently, and she eventually founded a non-profit organization that helps provide education and healthcare to children in need.

But even more than her work in Uganda, Katie is known for her leadership in her own home. She and her husband have 13 adopted children, many of whom have special needs. Katie is a devoted mother who has created a warm and loving home for her children, despite the many challenges they face. Katie’s leadership in her home is characterized by patience, kindness, and selflessness—three additional qualities on our Top 10 list. Katie has taught her children the importance of hard work, perseverance, and compassion, and she leads by example, putting their needs before her own.

Katie’s story is a powerful reminder that leadership isn’t just about what you do outside the home—it’s also about how you lead within your own family. Her example shows that the qualities of a great leader can have a transformative effect on those around you.

I had never before used that experience in a talk—never thought of it.
I wanted to fix it in my mind before speaking of it in conference, so I located a daughter of Emery Wight. She agreed to meet me at their old home and show me the field her father would have been plowing that day.
One of my sons took me there early one Sunday morning. He took a number of pictures.
It was a beautiful spring morning. The field was newly plowed, just as it had been those many years before. Seagulls were feeding in the newly turned soil.
That quickened memory, remembering that conversation, is not uncommon to me. It reaffirms the truth of the scripture—one, incidentally, I memorized in my youth—
“Neither take ye thought beforehand what ye shall say; but treasure up in your minds continually the words of life, and it shall be given you in the very hour that portion that shall be meted unto every man.”4
There follows a promise to those who treasure up knowledge:
“Whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”5

It was a typical Olsen family home evening. Mother played the piano while little Christopher waved his arm and led everyone in “The Golden Plates.” After Amanda gave the opening prayer, Dad stood to give the lesson. “Who remembers what we did at the Olsen family reunion last summer?” he asked.
“Watched home movies!” Julie cried out. Then she giggled, thinking about Uncle Jack dancing the hula in Hawaii.
“Ran races!” Amanda chimed in, remembering her Best Effort award.
“Corn on the cob!” Christopher yelled, and everyone laughed.
“That’s true,” Dad said. “Now who remembers what Uncle Bob asked us to do?”
Scott frowned. “Not family history,” he groaned.
“Very good,” Dad said. “Uncle Bob challenged each family to do something new with our family history.”
“But, Dad,” Julie countered, “Uncle Bob said that the only research left had to be done overseas.”
“Do we get to go to Europe?” Amanda asked excitedly.
“Sorry, Pumpkin,” Dad answered. “I think that research is out. We’ll have to be more creative than that.”
“There’s nothing creative about family history,” Scott complained. “It’s just a bunch of old names and dates.”
“Well, when Joseph Smith first saw the golden plates,” Mom noted, “it was just a bunch of old markings until he translated them.”
“That was different,” Scott said. “The Book of Mormon was important, so Heavenly Father helped him translate it.”
“Family history is important, too,” Dad persisted, holding up his book of remembrance. “Maybe we just need help to translate ours.”
Julie looked puzzled. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“Translate means to make something understandable,” Dad explained. “Maybe we need to translate our records into something more than just names and dates.”
“Aw, Dad,” Scott said, picking up a family group sheet. “There’s nothing here except—Hey, I never noticed that!” He pointed, staring at an entry.
“What?” Amanda said, looking over her brother’s shoulder.
“This guy, Jacob Olsen, was born on October fourth, just like me.”
“That ‘guy,’” Mom said, “was your great-grandpa. He was really happy that you were born on his birthday.”
“I don’t remember him,” Scott said.
“He died when you were just a baby,” Dad explained. “He really liked it when we took you to visit him.”
“His family had two boys and two girls in it, just like ours,” Julie noticed. “But look—the last one died the day that she was born.”
“November fifteenth,” Dad said without having to look. “Grandpa told me that his sister was born prematurely and was just too tiny to live. But they always remembered Baby Annie and put a rosebud on her grave every November fifteenth.”
“That must have been a sad day,” Julie said quietly.
“It was,” Dad agreed. “But it was happy too. It reminded them that they had a sister they could see again someday.”
“I wonder,” Amanda said, “if anyone remembers Baby Annie now?”
“We can!” Scott put in. “Can’t we, Mom?”
“I think that that would be nice,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll just mark November fifteenth on our calendar.”
“And write down Grandpa Olsen’s birthday, too,” Scott suggested.
“But at the end of the year,” Julie realized aloud, “we’ll just throw the calendar away and forget them.”
“Then I guess that we need another way to remember,” Mom said, going into the next room. “How about this?” she asked when she returned. “We never used this old 1988 calendar. I didn’t know why I was saving it, but it must have been for this project. And since it was a leap year, it even has February twenty-ninth on it, in case we need it.”
“But it’s two years old,” Julie said, giggling.
“That doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “We need a calendar for yesterdays, not tomorrows.”
“I get it!” Scott said. “We can remember our ancestors’ important days on that calendar, just like we remember our own important days on our current one. What other dates can we write on it?”
“Well, between Mom’s records and mine, there surely are enough of them here!” Dad laughed, thumbing through the pages. “How about if we study one family every week, then put all their birthdays and weddings and deaths on the calendar?”
“Starting with Jacob Olsen,” Scott proclaimed, eagerly turning to the October page. “Dad, do you think he enjoyed his birthday as much as I do mine?”
“I’m sure that he did,” Dad said. “Do you still think that family history is just a bunch of old names and dates?”
“I guess not,” Scott readily admitted. “At least, not after we translate them into people.”

Let me share with you briefly what one of our dear friends taught Margaret and me about a better way to see our opportunities to settle down as if "for the duration" even if we won't be in a particular ward for long and even without a formal calling.

In one ward we attended, we observed a couple, Sandy and Nancy, who seemed to know everyone in the ward and were involved in helping them though neither was involved in a calling in which they would be expect them to do so. When we asked Sandy about this he told us an interesting story. At the end of a year when he served as elders quorum president in a BYU ward, his bishop thanked him for his service and told him that he wanted to give others the opportunity to serve so he was recommending that the stake president release Sandy.

Furthermore, he explained, "I'm not going to give you a formal calling, Sandy. But I call you to be a Christian. I call you to notice those who sit alone in church and sit with and get to know them. I call you to walk with those who walk alone and find those who need help and pray for inspiration to see how you or others can help them."

Sandy explained how awkward it felt initially to put himself forward in those ways. However, he related that this was the most meaningful year of Church service he had ever had. He met people he would never have known and found the Lord inspiring him to see needs he had been unaware of as an elders quorum president. He was involved in reactivating several people, doing missionary work as he helped others to change a flat tire, and giving blessings to others in the hospital. His life was full and more meaningful than ever. When they married, he and Nancy had committed they would continue to be Christians thereafter.

The children in Ryan’s new neighborhood were from all over the world: Australia, Canada, Egypt, England, India, Kuwait, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Scotland, the United States, and Vietnam.
Ryan had been amazed to meet people from so many places, but he noticed that sometimes children in the park played only with other children who spoke the same language. Ryan couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t want to play together, no matter where they were from or what language they spoke. Sometimes children from one country would be mean to children from another country. That made Ryan sad.
Ryan wondered what he could do, but it was hard to think of anything. He couldn’t just tell everyone to be friends—because they spoke so many different languages, they wouldn’t understand.
One day Ryan’s family took a walk down the street. Some of the boys who had been mean were outside. One of them was holding a soccer ball. Ryan liked to play soccer too. Getting up his courage, Ryan walked over to the boys. He knew a few words of their language, and they knew a little of his. Ryan and the boys started smiling and laughing as they tried out the different languages. Then Ryan pointed to the soccer ball. “Do you want to play soccer with me?” he asked slowly, hoping they would understand. He smiled extra big.
The boys looked at him, then at each other. They talked for a minute, but Ryan couldn’t understand the words. Then they looked back at Ryan and nodded. Ryan grinned, and they ran to the nearby park. Ryan waved to his friends who spoke English, and a little shyly they walked over. One boy set down the soccer ball, and the game began.
A while later Ryan took a quick break to run home for a drink of water.
“How’s it going out there?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Ryan said. “It’s like this, Mom. We’re all shoes!”
“Shoes?” Mom asked.
“Sure. We’re all different, but we all wear two shoes—and that’s all you need for soccer.”
“Good discovery,” Mom said. “You’re all children of Heavenly Father, and you’re more alike than you think.”
Ryan waved as he ran back out the door to play with his new friends.
After that day the children in the neighborhood went to the park every Thursday to play soccer together. It didn’t matter what languages they spoke or where they were from—they were all shoes, and that was enough.

“Please, somebody, open the door,” Jeff called.
Mother placed a casserole in the microwave, turned on the timer, then hurried to the back door and opened it. “You’re late,” she said.
Jeff came into the kitchen and set down a big brass horn.
Father turned from rinsing salad greens in the sink. “What,” he asked, “is that?”
“It’s a sousaphone,” Jeff said proudly.
“What’s a sousaphone?” His little brother, Ben, looked up from setting the table. “Wow!” he said, staring at the enormous horn.
“It’s like a tuba, only its bell is turned so that you can carry it in the marching band.” Jeff wriggled into the center of the circular tubing and let the horn with its flaring brass bell rest on his left shoulder. “Like this, see?”
“I see,” his mother said. “But what about your trumpet? I thought that you were going to play trumpet in the school orchestra again this year.”
“What I really want to do is play in the marching band,” Jeff explained. “But they have too many trumpets already. So Mr. Gunderson said that he could teach me to play the sousaphone. He’s been looking for someone to play it.”
“And he found you,” Father said, putting the salad greens to drain. “Isn’t that a lot of horn for a boy?”
Jeff drew himself up straight and shifted the sousaphone carefully. “Mr. Gunderson says that I have good posture and the best breath control in the brass section. That’s what’s important.”
“Blow on it!” Ben shouted, dancing around Jeff and the big horn. “Blow on it!”
Jeff put the large mouthpiece to his lips and blew—baroomph! braphoom!
“I’ll need to practice,” Jeff said quickly. “Mr. Gunderson is going to give me lessons every week.”
The microwave pinged, and Mother took out the casserole. Father tossed the salad while Jeff washed up for dinner.
Afterward, while Ben and Father watched TV, Jeff helped Mother with the dishes. “Do you really want to play the sousaphone?” she asked.
“Oh yes!”
“You realize that you’ll need to practice a lot, just as you had to when you learned to play the trumpet?”
“I know. Mr. Gunderson thinks that I should be good enough to march with the band in the Thanksgiving Day parade.”
“In just three months?”
“They’ll be simple pieces, Mom. Mr. Gunderson is going to make some of the sousaphone parts simpler this year. And by next year …”
“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Jeff?”
“Oh yes, Mom!”
Mother put her hand on his shoulder and smiled, “Well, then, you work hard at it, Jeff.”
And Jeff did. Mr. Gunderson gave him a private lesson once a week, and he practiced at least half an hour every day. He learned to hold the big mouthpiece correctly against his lips to get a proper tone. He was careful not to puff his cheeks out too much when he blew into the instrument. It didn’t take as much breath as he had thought it would, only about as much as when he blew up a balloon.
“Why do they call it a sousaphone?” Ben asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the family room while Jeff practiced.
“It’s named after John Philip Sousa. He was a famous bandleader and composer. They call him the ‘March King.’ He’s the one who wrote ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’”
“Oh, I love ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ Can you play that?”
“Not yet.” Jeff took a deep breath and went back to his practicing.
“Jeff wants to play the sousaphone in the worst way,” Father joked to Mother, coming in from the garden. “And that’s the way it sounds.”
“Now, John,” Mother said, “remember those first weeks with the trumpet?”
“I remember,” Father said. “And I’m sure that he’ll soon be as good on the sousaphone as he became on the trumpet.”
Jeff polished the sousaphone carefully with cheesecloth, making the coiled tubing and the flaring bell shine. It’s the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen, he thought.
By the end of October he had learned how to press the valves just right. He had learned how to move his lips and control his breathing for a steady supply of air.
“You’ve made real progress, Jeff,” Mr. Gunderson told him.
“You’re beginning to sound a lot better,” his father said.
“I’m proud of you,” Mother said and smiled.
“Will you be in the Thanksgiving Day parade?” Ben asked.
“I sure hope so!” Jeff replied.
The band began to practice for the parade the first week in November. It wasn’t hard to do the marching part, but making the square turns with the big instrument on his shoulder was a bit tricky to learn. Jeff didn’t have to play anything really difficult—just some deep, satisfying bass notes to mark the beat of the tunes.
At last it was Thanksgiving Day. Jeff’s family drove him to where the parade was to begin. His mother kissed him. Father clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Good luck, Son.” Ben yelled, “I’ll wave to you, Jeff!”
The band marched along Main Street, sounding loud and clear. Soon they reached the reviewing stand, where the mayor and other officials watched. Jeff carried himself proudly in his red and blue uniform with its white trim and with the big sousaphone resting on his shoulder.
“Hey, Jeff! Jeff!” Ben was jumping up and down and waving. “That’s my brother!” he told everyone.
“Way to go, Son!” Father called.
Mother smiled and waved.
Jeff tilted the bell of his sousaphone toward them ever so slightly and made a little bow. Then he marched on, blowing strong, true tones: Oompah! Oompah!

This is our second child, Chrysanne. She is extremely creative, and a joy in my life. Several years after the birth of our first child we started working with medical experts in Southern California in order to have a second child. Nothing seemed to work. I would give my wife daily injections, we would then go to an infertility clinic in Hollywood each month for a procedure, only to be told later that it did not work out. Trust me, for us Hollywood is a place of many shattered dreams. Again we were filled with heartache and petitioned the Lord for help with this righteous desire. Shouldn’t we have another child? Didn’t our little girl deserve a sibling?

After years of trying we had dinner at the home of some friends who were not members of our Church. They too were dealing with infertility and had started the process of adoption. They detailed what was required, and we felt their excitement and hope to have a child of their own. Adoption was something Caryn and I had never contemplated before. As we discussed adoption with our friends, the Spirit entered our hearts and we both felt that this was something we should explore. Maybe we needed to open up another window for the Lord to send us this desired blessing. However, what we did not realize was what a hassle it was to become eligible for adoption in the state of California! We had to become certified foster parents first, take infant CPR & first aid, take several child raising courses, have home inspections, and fill out mountains of paperwork. To be honest, we both got discouraged by the shear scope of the endeavor. We had a sweet little girl at home, and my life was busy with my PhD program and being in the bishopric. Maybe we were ok with just the three of us. And then the Lord spoke to me. I was working on some homework and looked over at the adoption paperwork on the desk nearby that still needed to be done, and the Spirit said quite forcefully “Do it! Do it NOW!” I immediately stopped what I was doing and started working on the numerous essays that still needed to be written. I called out to Caryn, and said, “I feel we need to get this done right away.” Together we finished the paperwork, submitted it to the LDS Family Services, and then got back to our lives. I don't know why I had that strong impression from the Spirit, since nothing progressed with the adoption for months.

As time went along, we moved from Los Angeles to Oklahoma City, and started a new phase of our lives. My new job was exciting and fulfilling, and we bought a beautiful home. A few months after arriving we got a call from the Oklahoma offices of LDS Family Services asking if we were still interested in adoption, and that they got our paperwork transferred from California. They asked us to meet with them the next day. When we arrived for what we thought was just a “get to know you” meeting, we were told we had been selected for adoption, and that the baby would be arriving in 3 weeks. Just imagine, this is like finding out you were 8 1?2 months pregnant and didn’t realize it!

We were told about a young woman in California who, when she found out she was pregnant, saw our paperwork just 2-3 days after we had finished it. It was her first opportunity to consider who the adoptive parents for her future baby would be, and the Spirit had strongly spoken to her as she saw our pictures that we were the parents who the Lord wanted to raise this baby. If I had not listened to the Spirit back when I was busy with my PhD program, she would never have seen our paperwork, and we would not have our beautiful and creative Chrysanne as part of our family. Because Caryn and I, as well as this sweet young woman, listened to the spirit, and followed up on those promptings, the Lord was able to change four lives for the better.

My parents adopted three children--not all at once, mind you; over a period of four or five years. Thus, I have precious memories of my first three temple trips; I was 4 when Shanna was sealed to our family, 6 when Lisa was sealed, and 10 when Darren was sealed. In fact, to attend Darren's sealing, since I was over age 8, I actually had to obtain a temple recommend I remember being interviewed by the Bishop the week before we went. I can also remember many little details about the temple: the games in the children's waiting area, the beautiful white clothing we put on, the labyrinth of halls, and, of course, the sealing room. Like all sealing rooms, it was lovely--with a stone altar, velvet cushions, a breathtaking chandelier, and those incredible eternity mirrors. The room was filled with people dressed in white: relatives, friends, the sealer, and, of course, our parents. After some brief instructions, the entire family knelt around the altar and joined hands. I remember the feelings I had as my parents and the six children encircled that altar. I felt safe. Whole. Complete. Encircled by the arms of love.

Sister Holland and I were married about the time both of us were reading poems like that in BYU classrooms. We were as starstruck—and as fearful—as most of you are at these ages and stages of life. We had absolutely no money. Zero. For a variety of reasons, neither of our families was able to help finance our education. We had a small apartment just south of campus—the smallest we could find: two rooms and a half bath. We were both working too many hours trying to stay afloat financially, but we had no other choice.

I remember one fall day—I think it was in the first semester after our marriage in 1963—we were walking together up the hill past the Maeser Building on the sidewalk that led between the President’s Home and the Brimhall Building. Somewhere on that path we stopped and wondered what we had gotten ourselves into. Life that day seemed so overwhelming, and the undergraduate plus graduate years that we still anticipated before us seemed monumental, nearly insurmountable. Our love for each other and our commitment to the gospel were strong, but most of all the other temporal things around us seemed particularly ominous.

On a spot that I could probably still mark for you today, I turned to Pat and said something like this: “Honey, should we give up? I can get a good job and carve out a good living for us. I can do some things. I’ll be okay without a degree. Should we stop trying to tackle what right now seems so difficult to face?”

In my best reenactment of Lot’s wife, I said, in effect, “Let’s go back. Let’s go home. The future holds nothing for us.”

Then my beloved little bride did what she has done for 45 years since then. She grabbed me by the lapels and said, “We are not going back. We are not going home. The future holds everything for us.”

She stood there in the sunlight that day and gave me a real talk. I don’t recall that she quoted Paul, but there was certainly plenty in her voice that said she was committed to setting aside all that was past in order to “press toward the mark” and seize the prize of God that lay yet ahead. It was a living demonstration of faith. It was “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen” (Hebrews 11:1). So we laughed, kept walking, and finished up sharing a root beer—one glass, two straws—at the then newly constructed Wilkinson Center.

Twenty years later I would, on occasion, look out of the window of the President’s Home across the street from the Brimhall Building and picture there on the sidewalk two newlywed BYU students, down on their money and down even more on their confidence.