Gospel Story Finder

I had the pleasure to experience the dedication of the Copenhagen Denmark Temple back in 2004. Prior to the dedication, I— together with many members—was involved in the all the practical things in connection with the open house for thousands of visitors. All the preparation and the uplifting experiences going through with visitors during the open house, made the dedication a special event, which had an effect on the members, and motivated them to come often to the temple to serve and to feel the Spirit.

Sometimes helping those in need requires reaching beyond political boundaries. Holland enjoys a relatively comfortable standard of living. But just several hundred kilometers miles away in Poland, many do not enjoy the same life-style or have the same blessings.
Brother and Sister C. R. Kirschbaum of the Haarlem Ward, The Hague Netherlands Stake, realized that alone they could do little to relieve the suffering of a whole nation—unless they joined together with others. So the Kirschbaums helped form a foundation called Holland Helps Poland. The foundation crossed religious boundaries, with members of nineteen different religious denominations.
Members of the Haarlem Ward worked with members from the other religious groups to collect food, clothing, shoes, blankets, vitamins, soap, and medical supplies. With plastic bags and lists of needed supplies in hand, volunteers collected door-to-door. Money donated was used to buy oil, butter, baby food, and vitamins at low prices. Hospitals offered expensive surgical equipment. A truck and a van were made available free of charge, along with two drivers. “Help came from all directions, in truly miraculous ways,” says Sister Kirschbaum.
Volunteers sorted, packed, and loaded the supplies. After a short religious service, the $83,000 shipment was on its way. The aid went to Methodists and Baptists, a home for the elderly, a children’s home, and a children’s hospital.
Sister Kirschbaum notes that reaching out together has created and strengthened friendships between people of many faiths in Haarlem. “It was as if all the walls that usually divide people had disappeared,” she said. In a religious service held after the vehicles had safely returned, a Baptist minister quoted from the New Testament: “For [the Lord] hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us.” (Eph. 2:14.)

Arthur Parker walked and walked and walked. Even though he was only six years old, he sometimes helped his mother and father pull their loaded handcart. When everybody stopped to rest, he liked to explore. He wandered around to see other people, the prairie grass, a stream, or a grove of trees.
Arthur had one brother and two sisters: Max, 12; Martha Ann, 10; and Ada, 1. The Parkers had sailed from England to America that spring. Now they were traveling west with the McArthur Handcart Company. As Max helped his parents pull the handcart, Martha Ann walked behind, taking care of Arthur and Ada.
But one day Arthur’s father became ill. Martha Ann took his place helping to pull the handcart and sent Arthur to walk with a group of other children in the company. When Arthur sat down to rest beside the trail and fell asleep, the other children didn’t notice. The company moved on without him.
By the time Arthur’s family discovered that he was missing, it was too late and too dark to go looking for him. That night, the cloudy sky burst open. Thunder and lightning raged, and many tents blew over. Water ran across the ground in streams as people huddled in wet clothes. All night long, the Parkers worried about Arthur, lost out in the stormy darkness. They hoped somebody would bring him to their tent, but no one did.
The next morning, search parties went back along the trail to look for Arthur. The handcarts stayed camped all day so the searchers could continue looking. Where was the little boy? Was he hurt in the thunderstorm?
After searching for two days, the company could not wait any longer. They had more than a thousand miles left to go.
Arthur’s parents didn’t give up hope. They decided that Brother Parker would go farther back along the trail to look for Arthur, while Sister Parker and the other children would stay with the company and pull the handcart.
Before Brother Parker left, his wife pinned a bright red shawl around his shoulders. If he found Arthur dead, he would wrap him in the shawl. But if he found Arthur alive, he would wear the shawl on his shoulders or hold it in his hand to signal that Arthur was all right.
The worried father retraced the trail—calling Arthur’s name, searching everywhere he could, and praying. He walked and searched for 10 miles, determined not to leave without finding his son.
Meanwhile, the handcart company moved ahead. Two days went by. Sister Parker kept looking back anxiously, hoping to see her husband and son catching up with them.
At last, Brother Parker came to a mail-and-trading station. He asked if anyone had seen a lost six-year-old boy. Someone said that a boy had been found! He was being cared for by a farmer and his wife. Arthur’s father went to the farmhouse and found his son. How glad they were to see each other!
Arthur told his father that he had spent the first night under some trees, which protected him from the rainstorm. Then he had wandered until he came to the farmhouse. Brother Parker figured out that Arthur had walked about nine miles!
The handcart company was now 60 miles past where Arthur had disappeared. Arthur had been missing for four days, and his mother had hardly slept at all since then. She kept watching the trail behind her, looking for her husband, hoping he would be waving the red shawl.
A few days later, as the sun was setting, she suddenly spotted the red shawl waving in the distance. Arthur was alive! Captain McArthur sent a wagon back to meet the father and son. Everyone in the company rejoiced to see Arthur, but no one felt as happy as his mother. Completely exhausted, she slept soundly for the first time in days.
The Parkers continued on their journey. Arthur kept walking, singing, and exploring—but he stayed a little closer to his parents. Each night, they hugged him a little tighter.

In the late 18th century, Catherine the Great of Russia announced she would tour the southern part of her empire, accompanied by several foreign ambassadors. The governor of the area, Grigory Potemkin, desperately wanted to impress these visitors. And so he went to remarkable lengths to showcase the country’s accomplishments.
For part of the journey, Catherine floated down the Dnieper River, proudly pointing out to the ambassadors the thriving hamlets along the shore, filled with industrious and happy townspeople. There was only one problem: it was all for show. It is said that Potemkin had assembled pasteboard facades of shops and homes. He had even positioned busy-looking peasants to create the impression of a prosperous economy. Once the party disappeared around the bend of the river, Potemkin’s men packed up the fake village and rushed it downstream in preparation for Catherine’s next pass.
Although modern historians have questioned the truthfulness of this story, the term “Potemkin village” has entered the world’s vocabulary. It now refers to any attempt to make others believe we are better than we really are.

It had been a good year for pumpkins. That was the trouble.
“I really have to congratulate you, honey,” my mother said to my father. “I never dreamed I’d ever be married to a successful pumpkin farmer, but here I am.”
My father smiled. “I’m a regular Johnny Pumpkinseed,” he said.
I asked, “What are you going to do with all these pumpkins, Dad? There must be a million of them!”
“They’re going to market first thing tomorrow morning, Dot. Pumpkins like these will make me a rich man.”
“How rich?”
“Rich enough to pay the bills, if he’s lucky.” That was my mother’s line.
My father had been a machinist in an auto factory. When it closed down, he borrowed some money and said that he was going to make his dream come true. Mother told everyone that he was “going into pumpkins.”
Dad had said what he always said, “If I can make my dream come true, you can take an art class and work on your dream.” My mother had always wanted to study commercial art, but there was never enough money for it. I heard her tell Dad that she was going to do this as soon as we kids got through school.
“But,” my mother had wailed, “if your dream doesn’t pay off, we’ll be in worse debt than ever. Wouldn’t you like to get retrained in computers?”
“Dear, you have a negative attitude,” Dad said as he lifted a pumpkin to test the weight and solidness of it. “I hope it doesn’t rub off on the children.”
It might rub off on my little brothers, but I knew it wouldn’t rub off on me. I loved the farm too much. I figured if we could make it work, I’d be able to get a horse someday.
Well, here we were, looking at enough pumpkins to make a million Cinderellas’ dreams come true. We all picked pumpkins and loaded them into the back of the pickup. Then we picked another load and filled the back of the station wagon. It didn’t take many. Some were too big for me to carry.
The biggest pumpkin of all was too big for the station wagon. Dad saved that one for its seeds—and for the Biggest Pumpkin contest at the county fair.
Dad drove the truck, and Mom drove the station wagon into town. Sure enough, Dad sold the lot of them at the first supermarket. We had a party that night. I went out after supper and looked at all the rest of the pumpkins shining in the sunset like pure gold. For the first time, I was glad that my father had lost his factory job and decided to live off the land.
Then trouble came to Pumpkinland. It had been a good year for pumpkins—not just for us Martindales but for all the other pumpkin farmers as well. After we’d sold a few more loads of pumpkins, Dad stopped taking his pickup into town. The markets had plenty of pumpkins.
My mother made and froze pumpkin recipes until there was no more space.
Dad said, “I wonder what Johnny Appleseed would have done?”
“He would have moved to town and gone into computers,” my mother said.
Dad decided to open a roadside stand. All the time I wasn’t in school, I helped to work at the stand with Mother. It was fun at first, when the customers came to buy pumpkins. But soon they were whizzing by without so much as a wave.
“We need a sign,” I said that Thursday afternoon.
“What for, Dot? They can see this pile of pumpkins a mile away.”
“We need a sign that really stops traffic.”
Mother had been painting on a small canvas while we sat there watching customers ignore us. “Bring me the biggest pumpkin you can carry,” she said.
In a few minutes, Mother had painted “PUMPKINS” on it.
“It needs a picture,” I said.
She added a purple spider with long white fangs. I had to laugh.
The pumpkin took its place in front of the stand, facing the coming traffic where it could do its best to lure customers. My mother had such fun painting the sign that she painted a few more spiders on a few more pumpkins. I set them out front too.
The next cars that stopped bought all the spider pumpkins for Halloween. That encouraged Mother, and she painted jack-o’-lantern faces on pumpkins. Before long they sold too. Now, the shed roof didn’t have to fall on us to show us we had a good thing going. Mother painted pumpkins as fast as she could—weird faces, snakes, funny faces, and more purple spiders. Friday there was no school, and all day we sold her painted pumpkins. And those were about the only pumpkins we sold.
That evening when we told my father, he said, “Well, well, I never thought I’d be married to a successful commercial pumpkin artist, but here I am.”
My mother said, “Thank you, Johnny Pumpkinseed.”
After that, Mother couldn’t paint fast enough. She made some stencils and outlined the figures on the pumpkins. Then I filled in the outlines, and she followed with the details. We worked most of the night. Bright and early Saturday morning we were back in business.
Dad came home jubilant to tell us that he’d talked a chain of doughnut shops into giving away a free pumpkin with every two dozen doughnuts sold.
“With or without faces?” my mother asked.
“Ah! That’s the best part,” Dad announced. “They want some of your painted pumpkins to decorate the inside and then a truckload of unpainted ones to pile out front to give away.
Finally we were able to see the end of the pumpkins. We didn’t sell them all, but we did have enough money to pay the bills.
“There’s even enough left over for a horse,” Dad told me.
I thought about this for a long time, then decided that the money should go for an art course for Mother. It was her turn.

It was a noisy evening in my dormitory at the University of Ibadan in Nigeria. There was a downpour outside, and a cool breeze blew through the window. Music of different sorts came from many rooms on my floor, and girls were singing and calling to one another.
My older sister had gone to visit friends, but I chose to stay and prepare supper for myself and my roommates. I couldn’t explain why, but I had a strong feeling that I should stay behind.
As I began making soup, Ifeoma came in. She was a missionary for a church that met on campus. A discussion ensued between Ifeoma and my roommates. She preached to them for some time and invited them to attend her church. My roommates willingly accepted her invitation.
I was disappointed because my invitations for my roommates to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had been unsuccessful. The first time I invited them, they ridiculed me and the Church. Subsequent attempts during the following three years were also failures. I felt like a poor member missionary. But a voice within me insisted, “Don’t give up.” So I often fasted and prayed to meet someone in school who would listen to the gospel.
“Hello!” Ifeoma said, turning her attention to me. “Would you mind listening to me while you cook?”
“Not at all,” I answered.
“Are you born again?” she asked.
“Yes, if you mean by ‘born again’ what Jesus taught Nicodemus,” I said (see John 3:1–21).
“That’s interesting,” she said. “May I know which church you attend?”
“I attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I answered.
“The Mormons?” she asked in amazement. “I understand they use a different Bible.”
“It is not a Bible but the Book of Mormon,” I explained. “It is another testament of Jesus Christ.”
“Would you tell me what your beliefs are?” she asked.
“Certainly,” I answered with confidence. I told her about the Articles of Faith and the Book of Mormon. I told her about faith in Jesus Christ, repentance, and baptism. She listened quietly. Then I bore my testimony and gave her a copy of the Book of Mormon I had intended to give to someone else.
“You mean I can keep this?” she asked.
“Yes. It is a gift from me to you,” I said. Then I asked her to open the book and read 2 Nephi 25:26. She did so gladly: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
When Ifeoma finished reading, her countenance had become sober. I sensed she was convinced that what I had said was true.
“And I thought members of your church didn’t believe in Christ,” she said softly.
I invited her to attend church the next Sunday, and she agreed. “Thanks, Ngozi,” she said. “I have never felt such a warm feeling as I did today while talking with you.”
She left, and I understood why I had had the strong impression to stay rather than go with my sister. I had been led by the Spirit and had at last succeeded in sharing the gospel with someone who was willing to listen.

Not long ago I had the great privilege of visiting with my daughter as she moved into a new home, the home that had been built just for them. They were putting things away and as they started to use the new equipment, they found things didn’t work just the way they were supposed to. The first time they tried to use the oven it nearly fell out of the wall. They said, “Where is that manufacturer’s guide?” From that, my son-in-law found how to secure the oven to the wall and how to connect the power and make it useful.

A little while later the dishwasher flooded. They said, “Where is that manufacturer’s guide?” We found it and learned that the packing hadn’t been taken out of the dishwasher before it was run. Over and over we found ourselves needing these guidebooks.

I had the special assignment of putting things away in the laundry and sewing room because that is my personal domain. Every time I visit, it is my privilege to reign supreme over that room and the mending. I intended to be a cookie grandma, but that is not the way it turned out. My daughter says, “Mother, I’ll fix the food; you just thread the needle.” As I was putting things away, I said to her, “Where do you want me to put this little book of instructions for your sewing machine?”

She said, “Very close! Every time something disturbs the tension we have to read it and see how to adjust it again.” She was expounding wisdom that even she didn’t realize.

You who have spent Christmas Eve putting tab A into slot B and trying to connect angle C to D, know how important a manufacturer’s guide can be. Wouldn’t you think that if it is so critical for such things as dishwashers, ovens, vacuum cleaners, sewing machines, and toys, that it would be even more important for the greatest creation of all?

One day at school, a few of my classmates were making fun of another student by calling him names. It looked like fun, so I joined them. For a few weeks, I made fun of him with my friends.
Several weeks later, the boy told me how he was feeling. He was hurt by our words even though he pretended like he didn’t care that we were making fun of him. He said he cried every night. I almost cried when he told me. I wanted to help him and decided to apologize for what I had said to him.
So the next day, I went up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. I said, “I’m really sorry that I made fun of you.” He nodded at my words, and his eyes filled up with tears. But the other kids were still making fun of him. Then I remembered what I learned in my Primary class: choose the right.
I told my classmates valiantly, “Stop making fun of him! Do you guys know how hard this has been for him? Please say you’re sorry for what you have done and be his friend.”
But they wouldn’t change that easily. Instead, they were mad at me and said, “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? You made fun of him too!”
I still felt bad for what I had done before. So I said, “I already said sorry to him. I want you to understand how he feels and stop making fun of him too.”
One of them said sorry, and the three of us became good friends. A few people still make fun of him, but he feels better because he has us. I will choose the right by helping a friend in need.

The second story which, as I said, may or may not be related to the first, is told by President Spencer W. Kimball, then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, in his October 1969 General Conference address:

"When I was a youngster, a stirring challenge came to me that moved me not a little I cannot remember who issued the challenge nor under what circumstances it came. I remember only that it struck me like a 'bolt out of the blue heavens.' The unknown voice postulated:
'The ‘Mormon Church’ has stood its ground for the first two generations—but wait till the third and fourth and succeeding generations come along! The first generation fired with a new religion developed a great enthusiasm for it. Surrounded with bitterness, calumnee of a hostile world, persecuted ‘from pillar to post,’ they were forced to huddle together for survival. There was good reason to expect they would live and die faithful to their espoused cause.
The second generation came along born to enthusiasts, zealots, devotees. They were born to men and women who had developed great faith, were inured to hardships and sacrifices for their faith. They inherited from their parents and soaked up from religious homes the stuff of which the faithful are made. They had full reservoirs of strength and faith upon which to draw.
But wait till the third and fourth generations come along,' said the cynical voice. 'The fire will have gone out—the devotion will have been diluted—the sacrifice will have been nullified—the world will have hovered over them and surrounded them and eroded them—the faith will have been expended and the religious fervor leaked out.'"
Then President Kimball declared.
"That day I realized that I was a member of the third generation. That day I clenched my growing fists. I gritted my teeth and made a firm commitment to myself that here was one 'third generation' who would not fulfill that dire prediction."
Young Spencer Kimball " could not be shaken."

During World War II, many cities in the United States enforced nightly blackouts to conserve fuel. In Salt Lake City the floodlights on the Salt Lake Temple were turned off. The temple stood dark in a dark city for years. When the ceasefire was declared in Europe, President Heber J. Grant ordered the floodlights of the temple turned back on.
For Christmas 1945, President George Albert Smith planned an inspiring and meaningful Christmas card. On the front was a photograph of the three eastern spires of the Salt Lake Temple beautifully lit against a dark blue background with the angel Moroni figure standing above. Across the bottom were the words “Christmas—1945” and the message “The lights are on again.”10 Nothing could have better reflected the joy felt by everyone after so many long years of death and destruction.
But this beautiful Christmas card was also President Smith’s way of bearing his testimony of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel. Just as the end of the war brought peace and light in dark places, the Restoration of the gospel following the centuries-long Apostasy turned the bright lights of truth “on again” for all the people of the world.

Sis. Tew: Later, an orphaned 15 year old Joseph F. Smith was called on a mission to Hawaii. On Moloka'i, he became seriously sick with fever for three months. Lovingly, he was nursed along by a dear Hawaiian sister, Ma Mahuhii. Decades later, when President Smith visited Hawaii as part of its first jubilee celebration, Bishop Charles W. Nibley recorded the following:
Bro. Tew: "I noticed a poor, old, blind woman tottering under the weight of about 90 years, being led (into the meeting house where the Saints were gathering to greet President Joseph F. Smith.) She had a few choice bananas in her hand. It was her all—her offering. She was calling 'Iosepa, Iosepa!' Instantly, when he saw her, he ran to her and clasped her in his arms, hugged her, and kissed her over and over again, patting her on the head saying, 'Momma, Momma, my dear old Momma!' And with tears streaming down his cheeks he turned to me and said, 'Charley, she nursed me when I was a boy, sick and without anyone to care for me. She took me in and was a mother to me!'"

More than forty years ago I was a missionary in the British Isles. That was the time of the British Empire when it could truthfully be said that the sun never set on British soil, and when the British flag waved over a fourth of the world. In those days the peace of the world was peace in the British Empire. Now the British Empire is gone; its parts are independent nations, and the British Empire, symbolized by the lion that roared so loudly, is old and sick and weak.
It is easy for me to believe that the nations shall tremble when the Son of God comes again to claim his kingdom, for when that day arrives, “The Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall He sit upon the throne of glory:
“And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats. (Matt. 25: 31–32.) There will be a judgment not only of the nations but also of the people. “Behold,” said the Lord, “now it is called today until the coming of the Son of man, and verily it is a day of sacrifice, and a day for the tithing of my people; for he that is tithed shall not be burned at his coming.
“For after today cometh the burning … all the proud and they that do wickedly shall be as stubble; and I will burn them up, for I am the Lord of Hosts; and I will not spare any that remain in Babylon.” (D&C 64:23–24). Some years ago one of our brethren spoke of the payment of tithing as “fire insurance”; that statement evoked laughter. Nonetheless, the word of the Lord is clear that those who do not keep the commandments and obey the laws of God shall be burned at the time of his coming. For that shall be a day of judgment and a day of sifting, a day of separating the good from the evil. In my personal opinion no event has occurred in all the history of the earth as dreadful as will be the day of the Second Coming—no event as filled with the destructive forces of nature, as consequential for the nations of the earth, as terrible for the wicked, or as wonderful for the righteous.
It will be a time of great and terrible fears, of cataclysmic upheavals of nature, of weeping and wailing (D&C 19:5), of repentance that comes too late, and of crying out unto the Lord for mercy. But for those who in that judgment are found acceptable, it will be a day for thanksgiving, for the Lord shall come with his angels, and the apostles who were with him in Jerusalem, and those who have been resurrected. Further, the graves of the righteous will be opened and they shall come forth. (See D&C 88:97.) Then will begin the great millennium (D&C 43:30) period of a thousand years when Satan shall be bound and the Lord shall reign over his people. Can you imagine the wonder and the beauty of that era when the adversary shall not have influence? Think of his influence upon you now and reflect on the peace of that time when you will be free from such influence. There will be quiet and goodness where now there is contention and evil.
I know that you are familiar with all of this and with much more of that which is found in the scriptures, but I have felt impressed to repeat it as a reminder to each of us of the faith and the certainty that we have of these coming events. To know when these events will occur would take from us much of the self-discipline needed to daily obey the principles of the gospel.
Most of us seldom think of these millennial events, and perhaps it is well we do not. Certainly there is no point in speculating concerning the day and the hour in which they will occur. Let us instead live each day so that if the Lord does come while we are yet upon the earth we shall be worthy of that change which will occur as in the twinkling of an eye and under which we shall be changed from mortal to immortal beings. And if we should die before he comes, then—if our lives have conformed to his teachings—we shall arise in that resurrection morning and be partakers of the marvelous experiences designed for those who shall live and work with the Savior in that promised Millennium. We need not fear the day of his coming; the purpose of the Church is to provide the incentive and the opportunity for us to conduct our lives in such a way that those who are members of the kingdom of God will become members of the kingdom of heaven when he establishes that kingdom on the earth. May I suggest just two or three things which, if followed, will assist.
The prophet Micah declared: “He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8). There is enough for a long sermon in that one command. Let me talk about one point only: “To love mercy.” As an example, may I read a paragraph from a letter I received from a young woman who is engaged in this kind of activity as president of the Relief Society.
Yesterday [she writes] I spent most of the day picking up welfare groceries and delivering them. One of the two cases I called on was tragic. She is a woman who, years ago, was in a fire and her head was badly injured. For years she has undergone constructive surgery and has a number of pins holding her scalp together. She is divorced, and in order to support herself and her four-year-old girl, she works doing any small job she can find, until she is through surgery and can return to school to complete her training as a dietician. She has no car and relies solely on her bicycle for transportation in this great and busy city. She has ridden that bike all winter, with her little girl on the back, sometimes going as many as 48 kilometers in a day to get to and from a small job.
A week ago she slid on a patch of ice while riding her bicycle, fell, struck her head, and suffered a concussion. She refused to go to the hospital because she had no money to pay medical bills, so she remained in her apartment, suffering from pain until her sister found her and got medical help. Her mother was able to assist her just a little. Her home teacher happened to call and discovered her plight. When I, as the Relief Society president, called her, I discovered she had no food in the house, no medication for her diabetes, and no money. So yesterday I went to deliver the groceries and take her some medication. What an opportunity to serve someone so desperately in need!
Love mercy; obey the commandment of the Lord by imparting your substance for the work of this kingdom. Now let me share with you a testimony spoken by a man once poor in his childhood and now prosperous in his old age. He stood before the congregation and said,
“When I was a boy, on a summer’s day I would lie out in the alfalfa patch and chew on twigs and look up at the sky and wonder where the windows of heaven were that my parents had spoken of. I couldn’t see them in the clouds, and I thought they must be somewhere in the blue sky. I wondered how the windows could be opened so I could get a Boy Scout uniform and a pony and a bicycle. I never got these things, but I have come to see how the windows of heaven are opened as I have received the kindness of good and generous neighbors and friends in this ward in which we live.”
Finally, pertaining to this general subject, let me read a few more words of revelation: a few words of commandment, and a few more words of promise. The commandment: “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly.” The promise: “Then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God.” (D&C 121:45.) I have thought of that statement a great deal. It has been my privilege to meet a number of presidents of the United States and leaders, rulers, and governors in other lands, and it is a reassuring feeling to be able to stand in the presence of such men with confidence. As I have thought of that, I have also thought how marvelous it will be if someday I might stand with confidence in the presence of God.
“The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion,” the Lord continues in this statement, “and thy scepter an unchanging scepter of righteousness and truth; and thy dominion shall be an everlasting dominion, and without compulsory means it shall flow unto thee forever and ever”—including, I should like to add, that time when the Lord comes at the great day of sifting and separation of the righteous from the wicked. My brothers and sisters, of these things I testify, relying on the revealed word of the Lord; and I humbly pray with sincere desire that each of us may so live our lives here and now that we may have neither fear nor worry concerning that great and dreadful day of his coming. God bless us in our search for truth and peace and strength, I humbly pray in the name of Him who shall surely come at a time we know not, but whose coming shall be as certain as the coming of the sun in the morning—in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I want to share with you one precious experience that has affected my life and opened the eyes of my understanding. As a businessman I was responsible for the sales of a group of clients, and I was constantly challenged to maintain a good relationship for selling in spite of not participating in popular habits like drinking alcohol, smoking, or telling improper jokes, things which the Spirit did not allow me to do. One day while I was working in my office in. Dortmund, Germany, I received a telephone call from one of my clients. He was calling me from Paris, France. His company had an exhibition there, and he invited me to come and visit him and talk about more business. I was immediately warned and alarmed by the Spirit that his real reason for inviting me to Paris, besides talking about business, was to find someone who would pay his pleasure bills in that expensive city. I was honored by the opportunity for more business, but scared by the expectation of the uneasy decisions that lay ahead of me. I knew that I had to go because this was my obligation as a salesman. I took the night train to Paris, traveling with a serious, constant prayer in my heart, a prayer that I would have the power to be successful without compromising my standards.
My friend picked me up in the early afternoon at the train station in Paris. I immediately discovered that he was not in the mood to talk about business, but that he wanted to show the city and its amusements to me, a total stranger unable to speak French. I intensified my prayer to my Father in Heaven, and he gave me a spirit of comfort, and even happiness and joy. I told my friend how happy I was to see him, and that I had to take the early night train back in order to meet some important responsibilities at home. He looked at me, smiling, and said, “No, no, you will stay with me until tomorrow. We have many important matters to discuss, and I will show you the city in privacy. No one will see you, and I will not tell anybody. Today we will enjoy life.”
I knew that his understanding of the enjoyment of life was totally different from mine, yet I also knew that his company’s business was vital for the survival of our company. So I prayed harder, pleading for help. Finally he invited me to a nice little restaurant, wanting to show me the places that only the knowing know. The Spirit said that there was nothing wrong with having dinner with him, so I agreed, and we started one of those long-lasting, expensive French meals. He ordered for both of us because he spoke fluent French, and he ordered two bottles of wine in spite of my strong protest that he not order wine for me.
The conversation was good, his bottle was emptied; mine remained untouched. Finally he became aware of this, took the bottle and filled my glass and his glass. He took his glass in his right hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “My dear friend, you know how much I enjoy your company and the standard you keep, but now you will drink this one glass to my health. If you don’t you will not receive one more piece of business from me.”
I felt my blood freeze inside of me. It came to my mind, “Brother Busche, now you have to make a decision!” All kinds of rationalizations came creeping into my heart. But before I could say anything, I was overtaken by a power that filled me with great joy and light. To my surprise, I found myself putting my right arm around him. This Spirit made me say something that I would never have been able to think of myself, something that changed the situation totally. I heard myself say, “Mr. So-and-so, you know that I know you better than that. I know that you would never make a logical business decision and have it based on such illogical conditions.” I gave him a big hug, and smiled in his eyes with a deep feeling of love and friendship. This surprised him for a moment, and he was unable to speak. Then his eyes began to fill with tears. He hugged me back, and began to speak. They were words of apology. He wept and said, “I want you to forgive me. If you had drunk this glass of wine, I would have made a fool out of you tonight. I wanted to destroy you, but now you will be my friend forever. Don’t worry anymore. Right after this meal I will take you personally to the station so that you can get your train on time. You will also receive all the business from me that you want and are capable of handling.”
And so it went. When I was in the little sleeping compartment on the night train back home, I cried for joy and happiness and praised the Lord for his help at the right time and in the right way.

My mother was a young chemist who had to stay behind during two wars when she was between 18 and 22 years old. Others in her family were evacuated. She lived in a time of violence but always had that inner peace that passeth understanding (Philippians 4:7). She knew how to be still because the Lord was on her side. All she had to do was bear her cross patiently. She left it to God to order and provide in her life, remaining faithful in every change she encountered. She knew there would be a joyful end. And so it was when Elders Rex Call and Wayne Hassell brought the gospel of Jesus Christ to our home, and we chose to follow the Savior. Her joy was complete when she was sealed to my father who had died at the age of 32 and left her with two small children. Her eternal vision was clear, and she is enduring to the end.

One day my friend Todd and I decided to go shooting. But pretty soon we got totally bored. It wasn’t even lunchtime and we were ready to go home.
As we put our gear in the car, I noticed something odd. “Hey, Todd,” I said. “What do you think that big dark spot on the hill is? Looks like a cave, doesn’t it?”
We decided to take a look. We didn’t have any lights with us, so we thought we would only explore as far in as we could go and still see the light from the entrance.
We walked a few yards into the cave and turned back to check the light. No problem. We walked in several more yards. Sure enough, the light was still there, but now it looked only about a foot high. We stopped and thought maybe we shouldn’t go in any farther. Well, just a few steps more.
Suddenly everything went black. I don’t mean dark. I mean black. We turned a full circle. There was no light.
We put our hands against the wall and began walking in the direction we had come—or so we thought. After following that wall a longer time than it took to walk in, we still couldn’t see an inch of light.
We turned the other way, again feeling along the wall, but again we saw no light.
We kept turning one direction and another, but we found no light. We started stumbling over rocks on the floor of the cave. There hadn’t been rocks like this where we came in.
“I’m scared,” Todd confessed.
“I’m scared, too,” I answered.
“No one is going to come looking for us,” Todd said. “We told them we wouldn’t be back until late.” Todd was quiet for a minute and then he added, “Maybe we’re going to die.”
“Maybe.”
I didn’t think it was maybe. I thought for sure we were going to die. Even when we didn’t show up later that night, our folks wouldn’t know where to come looking for us. It would be days before they found us.
We walked on for a long time. Finally we both collapsed down onto the ground. I fought back tears. I didn’t want to die like this.
“Frank,” Todd said quietly, “I don’t know what to do now.”
“I do,” I replied. “What we should have done hours ago. We’re going to pray, and we’re going to pray very hard.”
We knelt down and poured out our hearts, pleading with Heavenly Father to show us the way out. We prayed longer than I’d ever prayed in my life. It was the most sincere and humble prayer I’d ever uttered. We were completely dependent on Father in Heaven’s mercy.
When we finished our prayers we stood there for a few moments then turned in the direction we felt impressed to try. Within a few yards we saw a tiny glimmer of light. With just that tiny glimmer we knew which way to go.
When we reached the entrance of the cave, we knelt down again and thanked Heavenly Father for answering our prayers. Then we looked at our watches. We had wandered around in that cave for eight hours! We got home and told our story, and the whole family thanked Heavenly Father.
The next day, Todd and I thought it would be interesting to take our big flashlights and go back to look at the cave.
We climbed up to the entrance and turned on the flashlights. We walked a few yards into the cave and froze with a chill of terror. It wasn’t a cave. It was an abandoned mine filled with endless horizontal passageways and several vertical shafts falling into seemingly bottomless abysses. One wrong step and Todd and I would have hurtled down one of those shafts.
When I think about this experience, I think about light and darkness. I think about how captivating it is to explore just a little into the darkness. Just a step at a time, always knowing you can turn around and, seeing the light—even if only a little light—you are sure you can find the way out again. But I learned that you can take just one step too far into the darkness, and the light is gone. So, I decided right then: the best course of action is to stay out of the darkness entirely.

Elder Marvin J. Ashton gave a modern example of this in a conference address about fifteen years ago. He quoted a young friend who lost his hand when it was crushed in a hydraulic press.
During the first night there were thoughts of “Why me? Was it something in my past? What have I done to deserve this?” Then I thought, “No more rodeo, football, or skiing,” and I wondered what type of a woman would want a one-handed husband.
Then came a fast Sunday when this young man gathered the courage to thank everyone for their prayers in his behalf. He later recalled:
After the testimony meeting, an admired friend gave me a special blessing. So many questions were answered during his blessing. He told me this accident was not punishment for anything I had done but, rather, an opportunity to help me become a better person and to amplify those particular traits which needed to be developed. He shared the thought that this challenge could make me more understanding of people, problems, and life. As I look back now, each point of his blessing and encouragement has helped in a very fulfilling way.
The young man concluded:
Today as I look back, I see the challenge of adversity as something upon which to build. [CR, October 1980, pp. 82–83]

Timothy stares down into the warm muddy water of the plastic bucket.
“What did we get?” Dad asks across the small fishing boat.
Timothy gives it a little swirl. “It looks like some more dragonfly nymphs, not much else.” He passes the bucket to Christopher, who, after a quick glance, passes it to Dad.
Dad takes the bucket and pours the water, mud, and nymphs into a plastic bag and places it in a big cooler. The cooler is the kind you might expect to be filled with sandwiches, fresh fruit, and soda pop, but this one is filled with samples of the insect life in the farm ponds of North Carolina.
Timothy (11) and Christopher (7) live with their family in the Raleigh First Ward, Raleigh North Carolina Stake. Today they are helping their father, a scientist who studies the insects that live in farm ponds.
“Insects in ponds? Underwater?” Both boys were surprised to learn that many animals that live on land also live underwater. There are insects and spiders that spend much of their life underwater. Some, such as the dragonfly, live part of their lives underwater as nymphs with gills before they become winged adults.
It’s hard work to help Dad take samples from the mud and plants of a pond. Timothy and Christopher start the day early. After family prayer, they and Dad load the pickup truck with a net, some special scientific equipment that will help them tell something about the water in which these insects live, and other supplies. When all is ready, the boys hop into the truck and wave good-bye to Mom and their two younger brothers, Jaron and Nathan.
On the way to the pond, the boys and their dad talk about the wonderful plants and animals that they are able to study and enjoy. Timothy wonders, however, why there are mosquitoes. “They only bite and hurt us—what good are they?”
“Do you remember the big bluegill fish you caught when we were fishing?” Dad asks.
“Yes, but what does that have to do with mosquitoes?”
“Well, when that fish was little, guess what it ate.”
“Mosquitoes?”
“Yes. If you look hard enough, you’ll find a reason all creatures were put on the earth, even the ones that annoy and bother us.”
Soon they arrive at the pond, which is about as big as a football field and is surrounded on one side by pines and on the other by fields of hay. Even though it is still early in the morning, it is already getting hot. Timothy and Christopher unload the truck and put everything into the boat that has already been put partially into the water. Then they get into the boat. Dad pushes it the rest of the way into the warm pond water and jumps inside.
“Timothy, please get the hummingbird out and tell us how deep the water is,” Dad requests.
The “hummingbird” isn’t really a bird at all. It’s a tool in a little box that tells them how deep the water is; it can also tell where fish are located. Timothy plugs its wires into the battery pack, then lowers a small black knob about the size of an apple into the water. He watches the screen and excitedly yells, “Nine feet!”
Dad rows the boat near the shore where there are thick patches of water plants. He gets out a sampling net and starts collecting the insects in the water. After he sweeps the net through the vegetation, he dumps whatever has been caught into a big bucket.
“What are you going to do with all these insects?” Christopher asks.
“They’ll help us know how healthy this pond is.”
“Healthy? Ponds can be healthy?”
“Yes, ponds can be healthy—or unhealthy.” When a pond is unhealthy—if it’s polluted for example—then certain kinds of insects die. By looking at the insects in it, you can tell if the pond is healthy or not.”
Dad stops the boat at several places along the shore to take more samples. Each time, one of the boys transfers the insects, water, and mud in the bucket to a plastic bag and places it in the cooler. Then it’s time to head for home.
On the way, Dad says, “We’ve just tested that pond to see if it was healthy. What if someone wanted to find out if our family were healthy? Just as I look at insects to get an idea about the health of a pond, what do you think someone might look for to see if our family was a healthy one?”
“You mean, if we are all sick or not?” Timothy asks.
“Not exactly. You see, the pond is healthy when all the plants and animals live in the balance that Jesus Christ created them to live in—there is enough food to eat and oxygen to breathe. In the same way, our family is healthy when it’s living the way Heavenly Father and Jesus want it to live.”
“Oh, I see—like if we all love each other?”
“Yes, that’s the most important sign of a healthy family. What else?”
Christopher puts in thoughtfully, “If we are doing the things the Lord has asked us to do.”
“Like what?” Dad raises his eyebrows encouragingly.
“Like having family prayer, family home evening, and personal prayer.”
Timothy adds, “Well, we read the Book of Mormon, and we try to follow the prophet.”
“So if a ‘spiritual scientist’ came to our house and saw that we were doing all these things, then he or she would decide we have a healthy family?”
Timothy and Christopher both nod.
“Do you think we have a healthy family?” Dad asks.
“Yup,” Timothy asserts.
“I think so, too,” Christopher agrees.
Dad gives them both a quick pat on the shoulder. “I think you’re right.”

One episode provides an example of how BYUH has defended its claim to distinguish its standards from those that dominate our culture through the mass media and Hollywood. The incident took place in 1964 when professional entertainer Elvis Presley got the word at the Polynesian Cultural Center where he was producing "Paradise-Hawaiian Style." Marie Nin Paongo, the manager of the International Student Services Office today, was a student dancer at the PCC. She remembered that one of the starlets in the Presley movie appeared on the set in "a skimpy little two piece bra type top, with her navel exposed."

After a hurried conference, filming was stopped and the immodestly dressed woman was hustled away. When she returned her outfit had been redone. And her body more covered.... "They had done it because it was not right that a guide at the PCC (or a BYUH student on campus) should be dressed immodestly... [xxvi]

As a mission president, that reliance was literally 24/7 for three years. It had to be. The telephone rang one morning, and I was told one of our marvelous senior missionaries, Elder Howard Jensen, was seriously ill in a Lexington hospital 75 minutes away. Elder Jensen was a sweet, good man and president of a small branch in southern Kentucky. He and Sister Jensen were a remarkable source of support and leadership to the saints there.

Things quickly went from bad to worse with Elder Jensen’s health. I got to the hospital, where he was receiving mechanical assistance breathing and with other vital functions. One of his sons was there with his parents, and I ran an errand to a nearby pharmacy. Elder Jensen’s prognosis looked grim. It was an agonizing time.

As I drove back into the hospital parking garage, I prayed fervently to know what to do. The impression came that Elder Jensen would not live, that I should offer Sister Jensen a blessing from her son and then bless Elder Jensen. The Lord would manifest His will through that blessing, and we all would know what needed to be done. That happened, and we released Elder Jensen to continue his faithful service on the other side of the veil, in accordance with the Lord’s will. As difficult as these events were, I think they would have been impossible without the constant guidance and support of the Spirit, which also provided great comfort in the aftermath. We received a powerful witness of Elder Jensen’s sublime status and preparation.

I suppose most kids dream about being rich. When I was little, I’d mooch along looking for money on the sidewalk. As I grew, so did my dreams. I’d think, “What if I see an unmarked envelope dropped into the weeds, and it’s stuffed with thousand dollar bills?” Since there would be no way to find the owner, I could keep the whole wad.
I quit looking for sudden wealth, because the most I ever found was a dime, which a bigger kid took away from me, and I began to think about relatives.
What if a great aunt or uncle died and, come to find out, they were not only secretly rich but—even more secretly—I’d been their favorite nephew, and they left me with a bundle.
But since my relatives ignored me, mostly, except to ask, “What are you studying in school?” I decided to treasure hunt.
I’d daydream about going out with a crew, and we’d find a Spanish galleon loaded with gold which had sunk off the coast of Quintana Roo, or I’d fancy myself fighting my way gamely up the Amazon River, where I’d stumble across an emerald mine.
By the time I was 16, I’d about given up my dreams of wealth, and then Mr. Boyd moved in next door.
Dad said the freeway took the elderly widower’s home, so he bought the house which had stood empty for a couple of months. It was a pleasant place, quiet, shaded by old trees and lilac bushes.
Mom said the rumor that got started about Mr. Boyd being rich had variations like a Bach prelude and was more fanciful. She said she was sure Mr. Boyd had as much money as the rest of us—just barely not enough—but I knew better.
To be sure, the car he drove wheezed like an elephant with the croup, and although he looked neat, with his bushy white hair and clear blue eyes, he sure didn’t dress like a millionaire, at least not like I’d dress if I had a bunch of money cornered.
Still, the vibes I got from Mr. Boyd convinced me he was an eccentric who had funds squirreled away in banks all over town. And when I found out he didn’t have any living relatives except for a lady cousin who lived in Arizona somewhere, I decided to become Mr. Boyd’s next of kin through adoption.
The way I had it figured, I would be underfoot in such a persistently helpful and noticeably warm-hearted way that I couldn’t help but be lovable.
I about wore out my eyes watching Mr. Boyd, waiting for chances to be helpful, although what I got in return were corner-eyed looks which told me he hadn’t been around teenagers for maybe 200 years. I could just feel the elderly man thinking I was a pill freak who roared around on a bike when I wasn’t lurking on street corners waiting to snatch purses from tottery old ladies.
That attitude irritated me. I wanted Mr. Boyd to notice I didn’t even own a motorcycle. I’m not big on them. And since he saw me in priesthood meeting every Sunday I felt he should know I wasn’t into drugs or alcohol. But since he never spoke to me, I couldn’t think of any clever way to tell him I could get a high—a near heaven kind of high—from listening to a Liszt rhapsody or looking at dew on rose leaves.
But for three months Mr. Boyd barely nodded to me except for the time I trimmed our side of the hedge, then went around and trimmed his too. Then he did say, “Thanks,” but nervously.
I sighed, because after he said “Thanks” he hurried into his house, and I noticed that the way I happened to be holding the hedge clippers looked a lot more threatening than lovable.
I decided I’d have to change tactics if I was ever going to make myself adoptable, so I began to wait for Mr. Boyd’s car to limp into his driveway. Then I’d dash over to carry his grocery bags, or what ever, into his kitchen. I’d try to make conversation with remarks like, “Awesome day, right? Sort of majestically inspirational,” and he’d look at me like I’d just stepped out of a UFO.
Dad was pleased with me because I was trying to be nice to Mr. Boyd, although of course he didn’t know about my plan. Dad said, “Your neighborly acts are very commendable, David, and don’t get discouraged if Mr. Boyd doesn’t warm up to you right away.” He’d remind me that adolescents take so much getting used to that by the time an adult gets used to them, they aren’t adolescents anymore. That didn’t cheer me up a whole lot.
Still, I went on playing it cool with one ear cocked for the sound of opportunity knocking, which I heard from half a block away one afternoon—a knock from Mr. Boyd’s car, which was then taken with a severe coughing spell at the corner, where it gave up the ghost.
My trigger-quick mind sent me rushing to his aid. While Mr. Boyd steered, I pushed his deceased automobile into his driveway. When the old man got out he said mournfully, “Guess the old crate’s done for.”
I almost asked, “Why not buy a new one?” but I was afraid that would let him know I knew he was secretly loaded. Instead, using my bright and most lovable tone of voice I said, “Let me work on your car, sir. I’m sure I can revive it.”
Actually, motorized objects and I have no special rapport, but Dad thinks an education should be well rounded. His notion had me taking a class in auto mechanics, so I was able to get Mr. Boyd’s car running again.
I had my head under the hood one afternoon, whistling loudly while I gave the spark plugs a final check, when Mr. Boyd went “Harrumph!” just behind my right ear. The sound startled me so much I gave a leap and banged my head smartly on the hood. I was still seeing afternoon stars when Mr. Boyd demanded, “Is that Rossini you’re whistling?”
Rubbing my dented head I said, “Yes, sir. The Thieving Magpie Overture.”
“Good gracious!” Mr. Boyd stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra nose. “You mean you know opera?”
A bit miffed I said, “Why not? Dad’s a music professor at the university. Opera and classical music got piped into my bassinet.”
Then, for the first time, I saw Mr. Boyd smile. He said, “I thought kids nowadays never listened to anything but that loud noise you call stone.”
“Rock, sir. Anyway, some of that music is very good, Mr. Boyd. There are quite a few groups who really know about music, and I like them, but I prefer Beethoven, Vivaldi, Wagner …”
“Have you ever heard of Enrico Caruso?” Mr. Boyd interrupted, his blue eyes fixed anxiously on my face.
“Sure. Dad says Caruso was about the greatest tenor opera ever had.”
“Come inside.”
Mr. Boyd trotted toward his house. I followed, wondering what had gotten into him.
The living room of the house was cool, quiet, high ceilinged. Heavy furniture rested on a carpet with roses woven into a soft pattern. Mr. Boyd walked briskly to a corner and put his hand on a tall, boxy object.
“This,” he told me, “is a Victrola which still works.” After he explained that a Victrola is a sort of old-time stereo, he told me he had records for it that were priceless, and the most valuable of the old recordings were those done by Caruso.
Carefully he removed a brittle, black record from a paper envelope, cranked the machine with a handle, and then for the first time I heard the voice of Enrico Caruso. Was he something! Mr. Boyd said that since he could tell I appreciated good music I was welcome anytime he was home to come over and listen to his records.
I grinned. At last! Mr. Boyd was going to get to know me.
One evening I was sitting in front of his Victrola, enjoying the fringe benefits of Caruso, when Mr. Boyd came out of his bedroom carrying a photograph album. He looked edgy, old, and there was a loneliness in his eyes deeper than usual when he asked, like he expected me to back off, if I’d like to see his family pictures.
The truth is I wanted to back off. I had to remind myself sternly about the hard work I’d already put in to make myself lovingly adoptable before I could put the proper enthusiasm in my voice when I cried, “I’d enjoy that!” I jumped right up to sit beside the old man on what he called the “davenport.”
I don’t know where the evening went. Who would have dreamed that a peaceful-appearing man like Mr. Boyd could have lived a life of such high adventure?
He’d been raised in southeastern Utah. By the time he was my age he was already running the Colorado River in a canoe, and that was before they dammed those violent waters. He’d been sheriff of a county bigger than some states. He’d been member of a rescue posse that patrolled the wild Canyonlands, and he’d served as a stake missionary on the Navajo reservation.
He told me about so many exciting adventures that I had goosebumps all over. That evening he showed me only a few of his family pictures, but he did tell me that his wife had died ten years earlier, and that their only child, a son, had been pilot of a B-17 bomber during World War II, and that he had been shot down over Italy.
“Missing in action,” Mr. Boyd said. An old sorrow dimmed his eyes. “Thirty-three years have gone by, and never a word about what happened to our Dan.”
I don’t know if he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but I knew the lump in my own throat was still there when I went to bed that night.
From then on I hardly bothered to knock before I walked into Mr. Boyd’s house. A special feeling had developed between us. It was like, when we were together, he forgot he was 76, and I forgot I was 16. Each of us was so much aware of what thoughts and emotions were going on inside the other that what was outside didn’t matter.
I can’t remember when it finally began to dawn on me that Mr. Boyd not only didn’t have funds hidden in any banks, nor musty bills in his mattress, but that while his monthly pension check stretched far enough to cover his utilities and groceries, the covering was often skimpy.
The knowledge that my friend was anything but rich penetrated my skull for good the day I asked why he didn’t have a telephone. Smiling, Mr. Boyd said, “For one thing, son, all the people I’m interested in live no further than a brisk walk away. For another, if you let that company install a telephone they begin to expect you to pay for the use of it.”
Then one day, when Mr. Boyd and I were walking home from sacrament meeting, he cleared his throat in a way that warned me he’d been working to get up enough nerve to say whatever he was trying to get out. After another self-conscious “Harrumph!” he blurted, “Son, you got any plans to get married?”
That stopped me cold in my tracks. I squeaked, “Good grief, Mr. Boyd, I haven’t even been on a mission yet!”
He laughed in the hearty way he has that always makes me grin from the inside out. He said, “I planned to come at you slantways with that, not scare you to death, but what I’m trying to find out is if your future plans include a wife?”
I said, “Sure. But please,” I pleaded dramatically, “can I wait to get married until I find a girl?”
As we walked beside lilac bushes in bloom Mr. Boyd put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Even nice girls can be picky. Maybe the one who waits for you won’t want a lot of old relics, but,” his steps slowed, “I have a few belongings of mostly sentimental value, like my records and Victrola, a copper kettle my great-grandmother brought across the plains in a handcart, similar things I wouldn’t want just anybody to have.”
I stopped to pick a lilac because I didn’t know how I could look at Mr. Boyd when he said what I expected him to say next, which he did.
“I’m making a will, David. I’ll leave my home to Cousin Bertha, but what I own that is really important to me I want you to have.”
I studied that lilac like it was going to help me pass a botany exam, which I’d have flunked because the lavender blossoms kept going blurry on me. I was remembering how I’d schemed to become Mr. Boyd’s adopted son so I would be his heir. Now I could hardly believe I’d ever been greedy and dumb enough to think that money could have as much value as a very special friend.
Pretending a ladybug on my sleeve needed loving care I lifted the orange insect off and placed it on the sidewalk, which gave me time to get hold of myself. But I guess Mr. Boyd thought I was trying to think of how I could tell him I wasn’t interested in his keepsakes, because when he spoke again it was in a slow, explaining sort of way.
He said, “I’ve never worried a great deal about working for material goods, David. I’ve tried to live by what Jesus told us in Matthew, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’” (Matt. 6:19–20). Mr. Boyd smiled. “So I haven’t laid up many earthly treasures. I’ve felt the most important work I could do here is to learn how to get back where I came from, and to send ahead what I could.”
I looked with affection at Mr. Boyd’s face, which was lined with age but beautiful with dignified peace. How much he had taught me about what’s important in life and about what doesn’t matter very much, like money.
As his officially unadopted son, Mr. Boyd had already given me many valuable gifts, like the way I was able to understand what he meant when he spoke of treasures, and when his face took on a look of quiet happiness I knew he was thinking about his wife and his son, Danny.
I stopped to pick a few more lilacs, then caught up with Mr. Boyd.
I said, “Sir, I want you to know I’ll be proud to take care of the material things you treasured on earth. And I promise I won’t marry a girl until I know for sure she’ll appreciate them as much as I do.”
Then, with what I hoped was a courtly flourish, I held out the lilacs to Mr. Boyd. There were many tender and loving phrases tumbling around in my head that I wanted to use, but all that came out was a humble, “Thank you.”