Gospel Story Finder

Romero had been looking forward to this day for a very long time. This was the day his mother and he had planned on going to the park. But that morning his mother had been called away to help a neighbor who was very ill. When she left, she promised Romero that they would still go to the park when she returned if he would do some of the household chores while she was gone. Romero told her that he would.
After his mother left, Romero started to do the things she had asked him to do. Then his friend José came by and wanted to play. Romero remembered what his mother had asked him to do and her promise that they would go to the park if he was obedient. He told José that he couldn’t play just then because he had work to do. José went home, and Romero hurried to finish the chores. When his mother came home, she was happy to see that he had done what she had asked. Because he had, she kept her promise and together they spent the afternoon at the park.

When I think about obtaining confidence in the presence of God, I think of an experience that occurred in the summer of 2006. I was called to serve as a mission president. As I anticipated this demanding role, I began to make a list of questions I could not answer. This list represented my anxieties.

We flew to Provo to attend the MTC for mission presidents. The last speaker was Elder Eyring. He was assigned a topic; "Teaching by the Spirit."  He was instructed not to prepare a written talk. He began by telling of his extended and agonizing preparation. He then told us of experiences with the love of God. I felt power fill the room. By the end, many of the people were weeping. Afterwards, I remained in my chair. I knew that we had just spent time in the presence of God. It was then that I noticed something astounding.

I glanced at my list of questions. The words were still on the page but my problems no longer mattered. I felt no anxiety whatsoever. How could this be? Elder Eyring never talked about my specific issues.
How could they be gone?

In the presence of God, I was taught directly by the Holy Ghost. He ministered to my specific needs. I suddenly had confidence that I had previously lacked.

One day at school we were having a limbo contest. To do the limbo, you have to walk under a pole without touching it while bending over backwards.
If you touch the pole or the ground, you’re out of the game. When I went under the pole, my knee touched the ground. My teacher didn’t see what happened, so she asked me if I touched the ground. I knew that if I told the truth I would be out, but I told her that my knee touched the ground anyway. I was out of the game, but at the end I got the honesty award. My mom said that was better than first place any day.

Layna Cahone ran lightly up the front steps of the house and into the living room. “Dad,” she called, “are you home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She went to the kitchen doorway. Her father stood by the stove, stirring something in a small pan. “I knew that you’d be too busy again to fix supper,” he said, “so I opened a can of soup.”
Layna felt a quick stab of guilt. She had thought having just herself and her father home would be rather enjoyable. Charles was in the service, and Mother had gone to help Anne with her first baby. Layna had promised that she’d see to it that her father had adequate meals and clean clothes, but she realized now that she’d been pretty lax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Dad,” she told him, “but I was talking to Debbie and forgot the time. You want toast with your soup?”
“Never mind, dear, but it would be nice if you would—”
“Oh, good grief,” she cried, “just look how late it is! I’m supposed to be at a meeting—decorating committee for the dance. May I take the car?”
He inclined his head slightly toward the hook behind the door where the car keys hung. Hurrying out, Layna thought briefly that her father must have had an especially tiring day. The lines around his mouth appeared deeper than usual, and his skin looked gray.
For a moment Layna paused with her hand on the car door. She really should go back and at least fix him dessert; but then, remembering the confusion in the school auditorium—decorations half finished, no decision made on the music—she climbed into the car and drove away.
Darkness had fallen before she reached home again. All the windows were dark. Wondering where her father could have gone, Layna turned on the kitchen lights. His soup, uneaten, was on the kitchen table. A cold chill went through her.
“Dad?” She flipped on a lamp in the living room. Her father lay on the couch. His hands, clenched into fists, were on his chest and his eyes were closed. Layna ran to him and bent down, realizing at once that he was fighting desperately to breathe.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes opened. “Heart,” he gasped hoarsely. “Doctor—”
Layna rushed to the phone, grateful that emergency numbers were written down, because her fingers shook so badly she had trouble dialing the doctor’s home number. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when Dr. Shannon, answering, said, “An ambulance will be there in just a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
But even though she knew that little more than fifteen minutes had passed before she and her father were speeding toward the hospital, Layna hadn’t known a stretch of time could be so agonizingly long. She looked at her father, lying half conscious on a stretcher, telling herself over and over, “I wouldn’t know what to do if my father died.” What would life be like without the good, quiet man whose gentle strength had supported her every day of her life? She knew that a world without him would be not only empty but frightening.
At the hospital her father was wheeled down a long, busy corridor. After she could no longer see him, Layna stood, not knowing what to do, until a nurse came to ask if she could register for her father at the front desk.
In the office a woman asked, “Does your father carry insurance?” and Layna remembered the card he carried in his wallet.
“I’ll have the orderly get it and bring it to you,” the lady said.
The sight of the wallet, handed to her a few moments later by a young man in a white coat, made Layna intensely aware of the seriousness of her father’s condition. She took the wallet, feeling the soft leather, worn smooth, and after giving the woman the necessary information, she went to call her mother, who assured her that she’d be there by morning. Then she sat in the waiting room, holding the wallet tightly, as though she could gain comfort from something that was his.
Thinking of how many important things the wallet held, Layna remembered a picture that she knew her father had carried for a while—a snapshot of herself and Charles and Anne taken in the mountains one summer. Wondering whether the picture was still there, she opened the wallet. As she did so, a tightly folded piece of paper fell out.
Absently she unfolded it. As she read the brief paragraph, she knew with a stabbing sense of her own failure that a letter she had seen in a newspaper the week before, one that had touched her, had also been seen and saved by her father.
She read the clipping again: “I have lived nearly fifty-five years and have worked hard to care for my family. My children have all they need. Why can’t they see me as a person who loves them and needs their affection? I’d gladly give every cent I have if my son or one of my daughters would only take my hand and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’”
Layna folded the clipping carefully as tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, Daddy, she thought, don’t die. I want a chance to say what I’ve been too thoughtless to say to you all these years.
Slowly the hours passed. Layna rested, eyes closed, remembering many little things about her father, such as the day when she was in her early years at school and had complained because he absentmindedly took steps that were too long, and then how, smiling, he had shortened his stride to fit hers. She thought about one of her birthdays; he had come home from work looking a little sheepish because the stuffed tiger he’d bought for her was too big to wrap.
She remembered big things, too, like the time she’d had her appendix out and had awakened to see her father sitting beside her bed. She had known immediately that she’d be all right. She thought of the nights when she’d gone on dates and he had told her, “I know we can trust you.”
Just then Dr. Shannon came into the room. Jumping up, Layna ran to him. He put his hand on her arm.
“Everything’s fine, Layna,” he assured her gently. “Your father’s resting.”
After drawing a shaky breath, Layna asked, “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, but just for a minute.”
Slowly, feeling almost shy, Layna entered the room where her father lay on a high, narrow bed. How strange, she thought, to see him so quiet, this big man who was always busy and interested. His face was white, but the worry lines on his forehead seemed eased, his eyes composed.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, Layna sat down. She looked at her father and smiled, then covered his strong, work-worn hand with hers.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “I love you.”

Now, I left my last example for the end of my talk because it is very difficult for me to tell.

About two and a half years ago, our middle son became very ill. He couldn't climb up the stairs in our home without being completely winded. He would pass out when he would try to physically exert himself. By the time we got him to specialists in San Diego, who were among only a few doctors in the world who could perform a specialized operation on lungs, our son Burke was in heart failure. My husband was with him for a week of tests while I was here teaching classes. I kept hoping that the doctors would be able to just give him some kind of pill or breathing therapy that would heal his condition but my husband called me and told me that I should come quickly because they would be operating the next day. Burke had blood clots that hit his lungs and caused so much scar tissue to build up in his lungs that he only had 10 percent lung capacity. Because he couldn't breath, his heart was working so hard that it had enlarged and he was in heart failure. The procedure the doctors would perform on him was more invasive than open-heart surgery because the doctor would have to cool Burke's body to the lowest point a human body can go and still be revived, move his heart to get to his lungs, then slowly remove the scar tissue from his lungs. After his body is cooled, the doctor only has 20 minutes to clear the scar tissue before they would have to revive Burke, stabilize his vitals and then start over again. The doctor did this three times over the course of ten hours.

Here was one of our precious sons looking literally at the chance of death. I was having a difficult time grappling with the idea that such a great young man who had faithfully and fully served a mission, fulfilled his church callings, and obeyed the word of wisdom would have these health problems. Why would Heavenly Father allow this to happen?

When I arrived at the hospital, the attendants were prepping Burke for surgery. There was a short lull in the flurry of activity and my husband suggested we pull the curtains closed around Burke and he would give him a blessing. I can tell you that never before in my life have I so appreciated that my husband was worthy enough to give our son a priesthood blessing. Never before have I been so grateful that my husband's faith had grown because of all of his past callings and experiences in the Church. Never before was I in such need to have a priesthood holder lay his hands upon my son and call upon the powers of heaven to bless him and give him comfort. I know Burke was the benefactor of many healing gifts because of the faith of his father.

I previously have shared how I first met Barbara and how that experience taught me to use the skill of “following up” that I had learned on my mission. I had to follow up quickly with her after we first met because she was beautiful, popular, and had a very busy social calendar. I was smitten early because she was approachable and friendly. I admired her goodness. I felt that she and I belonged together. It seemed that simple in my mind.

Barbara and I dated, and our relationship began to grow, but she was uncertain that marriage to me was right for her.

It wasn’t enough for me to know; Barbara needed to know for herself. I knew if we spent time fasting and praying about the matter, Barbara could receive a confirmation from heaven.

We spent a weekend without dating so we could fast and pray individually to know for ourselves. Fortunately for me, she received the same confirmation that I did. The rest, as they say, is history.

Flora first saw “T,” as she affectionately calls her husband, when she was attending Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) in Logan. He was standing on the corner with his cousin, one of her friends, as she drove by in her car and waved pleasantly. “T” was visiting the campus, taking college courses by home study until he could afford to attend school full-time.
“Who is that girl?” he asked.
“Why, that’s Flora Amussen,” his cousin replied.
“When I come here to school, I’m going to date her.”
“You’ll never make it; she’s too popular for you.” “That makes it all the more interesting,” the future prophet answered. He already knew she was the girl he was going to marry.
But the farm boy from Idaho found rigorous competition for Miss Amussen’s time. During her college years, she was vice-president of the Utah State Agricultural College student body and president of the girls’ athletic club. She also won the girls’ singles tennis championship, was elected to the honorary dramatic fraternity for Shakespearean acting, and was in constant demand for her natural ability to play almost every musical instrument—without having to read music.
President Benson recalls arriving for his first date with the “most popular girl in town.” Through the graciousness of Flora and her “queenly mother,” the farm boy was soon at ease in the large home of culture and refinement.
“As we left the house and she kissed her mother tenderly, I knew I was the escort of a choice girl, and I determined to make the best of it,” he remarks.
“Nothing in Flora’s life impressed me more deeply than her reverent kindness to and deep love for her mother,” continues President Benson. “Their companionship was an inspiration—the sweetest relationship I have ever known between a parent and child.”
Likewise was Flora impressed with this courteous, good-looking, deeply spiritual young man. “I wanted to marry a farmer and learn how to work and cook and sew,” she says, adding emphatically, “and I learned!”

I returned home early from the Philippines Cebu East Mission. The “what ifs” and not fitting the “returned-missionary mold” made adjusting hard. Since I served in my home country, I struggled with thinking that I had let my branch down and knowing that I did not meet their expectations. Comparing myself to “legit” returned missionaries made me see myself as less worthy or as an outcast.
Eventually, the Lord taught me that a mission is just one of the many ways to serve Him. It is not where or how long but how you serve that counts. He taught me to be humble and to stay on the gospel path even if things get rough and do not go my way.
Jasper Gapuz, Philippines

I have addressed a serious topic. I want to end with a very happy story.
Kathy Williams has been my valentine for 43 years. Next month we will celebrate our 42nd wedding anniversary. President Gilbert said we have 4 children, 16 grandchildren. At your age, we became grounded, rooted, and settled. Whatever came, we would face it together. Our life has not been without challenges that sometimes seemed as big as mountains. But through these many years, we have loved our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, and we have loved one another. She has been a perfect angel. I have been far less.
The thought of having Kathy by my side forever stirs and illuminates my soul. I love her more than words can say. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways." There are too many to count. She is my valentine today, tomorrow, and always.

When I was 12, my mother died of cancer. After her death, I thought I was dying of cancer too. I didn’t really have cancer, but my thoughts were very real to me. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. I carried the burden alone and was quite troubled.
I knew that when we have a problem we should go to the Lord in prayer. I always said my individual prayers at night and would think my prayers in my head as I knelt by my bed. But this particular time, I felt I needed to pray out loud.
Now, it was not easy to find a time to be alone in our house. I had five brothers and sisters and shared a bedroom with a sister. One afternoon I remember coming home from school to an empty house. I went into the living room and poured out my heart aloud to my Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to suffer as my mom had suffered. I pleaded with the Lord.
Immediately after I had closed my prayer, a peaceful, strong feeling surrounded me. It was as if loving arms were around my shoulders and as if a voice said to me, “You are fine. You are fine.”
My prayer had been answered. I felt very loved, and I knew I was OK. A huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. My thoughts of dying left me. Since that time, I have prayed to my Heavenly Father for answers. The answers never have come as quickly as they did that day, but I know prayers are answered—even if it is in the Lord’s timing and not mine.

1. Anna sat with her CTR 6 class in the Primary room. Sister Howe told the class,
Today we are going to talk about Christmas gifts. I would like you to think about what you can give to Jesus.
What gift could I give to Jesus? I don’t have very much money.
These gifts don’t cost money. They come from the heart. Who can name a gift you could give to Jesus?
2. Christina and Mason said,
I can be reverent in church.
I can be nice to my little brother.
3. Sister Howe handed a paper angel to each child.
You can write a gift you want to give to Jesus on your paper angel. Then the Primary president will put the angels on a tree.
4. Anna wrote, “I will say my prayers every day.”
5. The next Sunday, Anna saw the angel tree at church. She looked for her angel and saw it on a branch in the middle.
I love Christmas, Mom. And this year will be the best Christmas of all.
Why is that?
Because I’m giving a gift to Jesus.

One such family was left by the father when the youngest child was four months old. It was a traumatic time with a difficult divorce, but the courageous mother was full of faith and determined that she would do everything she could to succeed as a single parent.
She found, as many do, that the gospel, when translated into action, not only provides a key to solving many welfare problems but it can also prevent them. Difficulties that could lead to dependency can be resolved and bring, instead, strength and happiness.
This mother gathered her children about her and explained their situation. There were back payments due on the house, current bills of every sort, and no income. They could turn to others for help; but if they were willing to work together as a family, she thought they could keep their house and make it, once more, a happy home. They were willing. Every child who was old enough found a way to help earn some money. They cut lawns, delivered papers, tended babies, collected aluminum cans, did housework. One of the older children took the responsibility for the gas bill, another for the lights; the mother put her earnings toward the house payments. They limited other spending to bare necessities.
In time, the house payments were caught up. They were able to meet their other obligations and actually invest in some small, inexpensive properties they could fix up to generate income. This enabled the mother to be at home. With these ends achieved, the children no longer needed to contribute all their earnings to the family’s physical requirements. With freedom from financial threat, the mother now suggested to her children that if they wanted to continue to work they could attend college, go on missions, and even travel and see the world together. The children did continue to earn and save their money. They learned the value of work and of family, and they have accompanied their mother to places others only dream of.
All this has been done while fulfilling their Church obligations. They are quick to testify that the greatest reward they have received from the experiences of the past few years has been their spiritual growth. Putting such principles as love, work, service, self-reliance, and consecration into practice has brought to this family the dignity of accomplishment, a unity of purpose, and a closeness to one another and to the Lord that is immediately apparent when one is in their company.

When they made me their quorum project again, I figured it wouldn’t do any good. It hadn’t worked before, and I could see no reason why it would work this time either. Of course, that was before I knew J. J.
At first they tried an old trick, but I saw them coming. I was no ordinary inactive member; I hadn’t been to church since I was baptized, and I’d seen all the activation tricks in the book. All of them.
See, I figured that sports and religion didn’t mix. How can you bang heads with animals on the football field and hang out with religious wimps at church? Besides, my coach said I had a shot at big-time football if I stayed focused. And focused I was—sharper than an electron microscope. You don’t bench press 325 pounds without focusing.
That Sunday was kind of comical, really. Eight or nine guys my age, priests, I think they call them, came up to the front door. It was the old “If he won’t come to priesthood class, we’ll take the class to him” trick. They figured they just had to show up and I’d swing open the door and say, “Gee whiz, guys, thanks for coming over. Is it too late for me to go to church with you?”
No way. With Mom at work, I cranked up the baseball game on TV and ignored the doorbell. The ringing soon stopped, and I heard a couple of taps on the door. Then it stopped. I waited a second and opened the front door a crack to watch them head back to church when I saw this skinny bald-headed kid.
“Hey, Wayne,” he grinned. “Guess you didn’t hear us knocking, huh?”
I had to say something, but this guy just freaked me out. I mean, the guy had no hair. Finally, I said, “Uh, guess not. I’m just looking for the, um, to see if the newspaper is out here.”
He smiled. “Didn’t see it. By the way, I’m Jonathan Johnson, but you can call me J. J.” He stuck out his hand.
I couldn’t slam the door, so I shook his hand and said, “I’m Wayne Salow.” He stood there waiting for me to say something more, so I said, “Uh, you want to come in or something?”
He followed me into the living room. After a moment of awkward silence, J. J. explained he was new in our ward and the bishop had just called him to be the priests quorum first assistant. I wondered how somebody so scrawny could assist anybody. That bishop must be desperate, I decided.
J. J. looked like grade-school bully bait. His body was pathetic. I mean, he made Ghandi look like a sumo wrestler. His round wire-rim glasses perched low on his nose like oversize goggles. But the head, man, that was the weirdest. J. J. didn’t have any hair. Zilch, zippo, nada. Not even eyebrows.
“Some of the guys in the quorum and I came over to say hello.” He looked me in the eye when he talked, and you know what? He had laser eyes. A trash body and a gaze that could slice granite.
“Well,” he said, “we just wanted to let you know we care about you, and we’d like you to come out to Mutual some night, you know, if you feel like it. We have some pretty exciting activities.”
I saw the Scouting tactic coming, so I cut it off quick. “Sorry, man, but I’m not into Scouting and hiking and that kind of junk.”
“No sweat. We do all kinds of things. Want me to come by Wednesday and pick you up?”
Slick, I thought. J. J., you ought to sell used cars. “Sorry, man, but I’ll be busy Wednesday night.” I looked at the TV to let him know our conversation was finished.
He shook my hand again. “Okay, I’ll let you get back to your game. But really, Wayne, if you ever feel like coming you let me know. Anytime.”
What a piece of work, I thought, as I closed the front door behind him.
I was in the garage Wednesday night working on my biceps when J. J. showed up. I had a pretty good pump on my arms as the veins were bulging something fierce and the sweat was glistening in the glare of the garage light. It made them look polished. I pulled a few extra repetitions when I saw him. My chest was bulging out of my black tank top as I dropped the weights at my feet.
J. J. jumped a little at the sound, smiled, and toed the barbell carefully with his foot. “You lift weights, huh?”
“I bench press 325. Squat 400.”
“Really?” He glanced around at my weight-lifting equipment. “I guess that’s pretty good. What’s a bench press?”
I pointed to the bench, and the next thing I knew he’s lying flat on it and I’m helping him do a few shaky repetitions with just the bar—no weights. He managed to lower the bar to his chest and push it back up five times before he racked it and sat up, sweat glistening on his bald scalp.
“Bench press,” he said a little breathlessly. “Interesting. And how much did you say you can do?”
“Three-twenty-five.”
“Pounds?”
I nodded and he whistled softly.
“And how much did I just do?”
“Forty-five.”
He whistled again. “I guess I’m out of shape.” He walked over to a barbell and tried to pick it up. It didn’t move.
“You know, Wayne, I could probably benefit from a little weight training—not for football or anything like that, but just for physical fitness. How would you feel if I worked out with you for a while?”
I didn’t think he was serious, so I agreed. But first I spelled out my basic training rule. “No pain, no gain.”
“Huh?” he asked.
“In weight lifting, if you don’t push yourself, especially when you’re tired and feel like quitting, you’ll never gain strength. So the rule is no pain, no gain. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I didn’t think he’d do it, but for two months, J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday night to work out. The little dude was intense. He wasn’t pushing any serious weight, but he was making gains. When he lay on the bench with the bar in his hands, his eyes lit up. He never gave up, and he always strained for that extra rep, the one to grow on.
“No pain, no gain,” I yelled one night when he struggled for an extra repetition.
His arms quivered, the veins in his skull bulged, but he got that look and the bar went up.
“No pain,” he panted, “no gain.”
“You got it, my man,” I said, squeezing his upper arm. You’re definitely putting on some meat here.”
“You know,” said J. J., “I wonder if Lehi was talking about weight lifting when he said, ‘It must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things.’”
“Who’s Lehi?”
“A prophet in the Book of Mormon. You know, Nephi’s father.”
“He was into weights?”
“Probably not. He was talking more about life, you know, about how stuff that’s hard for us makes us stronger.”
“Sounds like he knew what he was talking about.”
“Yeah,” J. J. nodded seriously. “Yeah, kinda like no pain, no gain.”
I didn’t want him to ruin our workout by discussing the Book of Mormon, so I steered the conversation to something else. “You know, J. J., weight lifting will make a man of you, but I’m afraid it’s not going to do anything to sprout hair on your bald head.”
J. J. straightened up and patted his scalp. “Too bad. I’ve got plenty of room for growth up here. But it’ll grow back someday.”
“You mean it’s not a permanent, genetic thing?”
“Well, I was born bald,” he laughed, “but I had a pretty normal childhood—hair and everything. When I was nine I got really sick and the medicine they gave me made my hair fall out.”
“Bad stuff, huh?
He nodded slowly as his smile faded.
“Real bad.”
“Do me a favor, and keep your medicine away from me. I don’t want to turn out like that Samson dude.”
J. J. grinned and lay back on the bench for his final set.
J. J. showed up every Tuesday and Thursday for another month, but instead of gaining, he started losing strength. His arms shook more than ever, and his energy faded almost with the first repetition.
“No pain, no gain,” I shouted to help him finish a repetition. He strained for a moment, but gravity dragged the bar back down. I helped him rack the bar.
He sat at the end of the bench completely wiped out.
“Man, I’ve got plenty of pain, but it’s sure not helping me make any gains, at least not in weights.”
We ended our workout early that night, and I gave J. J. a ride home. I didn’t see J. J. for two weeks, so I called his house to see what was going on. His mom told me he had leukemia. It had been in remission for a couple of years, but recently it came back with a vengeance. He was at the local hospital getting chemotherapy, and he was pretty sick.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I asked, “Can I see him?”
Lying in the hospital bed, J. J. looked skinnier and more pale than I had remembered. A couple of bottles hung next to his bed with plastic tubes running down into his arms. I rubbed my own arms and shivered.
“Hey, J. J. Hey, how you doing?”
He didn’t move right away, but then he saw me and smiled.
“Wayne. Hey, thanks for coming.” His voice sounded hoarse and papery.
“You’ve been missing workouts, my man.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“I got 330 on the bench last week. Too bad you missed it.”
J. J. closed his eyes and his body flinched in pain. For a moment his breath stopped as his whole body tensed. I just about called a nurse, but he gradually relaxed and breathed again. When he opened his eyes, tears rimmed the bottom of his eyelids.
“You okay? Can I get something? Call a nurse?”
He shook his head. “No pain,” he whispered, “no gain. I’m kind of used to this. I guess chemotherapy is better than the alternative.”
I started visiting J. J. pretty regularly after that. He still looked like a wimp, but that laser gleam was back in his eyes. He’d tease the nurses, arm wrestle me, and talk nonstop. “Just wait until I get out of here, Wayne Muscle Brain. I’m gonna hit your weights like a maniac, and in a couple months …” He paused when he saw my doubtful grin. “Okay, in six months, maybe seven, I’ll be stronger pound for pound than you.”
One Saturday, it was J. J. and me quietly watching a baseball game on TV. It had been his roughest week yet. I’d say something once in a while, and he’d nod or blink to let me know he heard. Talking made him tired.
Then he spoke. “Wayne?”
“Yeah?”
He took a shaky and shallow breath. “I want you to come to church.”
“Me? Yeah, sure. The roof will collapse if I walk in there.”
“Please. My parents are taking me tomorrow. Please come.”
I started to tell him no, but his look. Those eyes. He was so determined. I reached over and patted his shoulder. “Okay, man. Okay.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. Soon he was asleep.
I met J. J. and his parents in front of their church the next day and helped load J. J. into a wheelchair. His whole body shook when I lifted him out of the car. “Hey, man, you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. “No pain, no gain.”
We sat in the back of the chapel. After the sacrament had been passed, people started standing up and talking. When someone stood, a boy walked over and handed them a microphone. They talked about their lives and their families, and about the church. Some of them cried. I noticed J. J. crying too.
Near the end of the meeting, J. J. leaned onto my arm and tried to stand. He struggled a moment but couldn’t make it and fell back into his chair with a crash and a sob. The kid with the microphone noticed and walked over, handing it to J. J.
For a few seconds he just sat there with the mike in his lap. His mouth was moving, but only whispers were coming out. So I picked up the mike and held it close to his lips.
Everybody had turned to watch J. J. as the chapel became silent. Finally his voice came over the speaker. “I’m thankful to … to be alive.” He tried to say more, but nothing came. He just sat there with tears running down his face. Everybody, including me, was crying. Something got into me then; it was J. J., I guess. With the microphone still in my hand, I stood up and started talking.
“Uh, I’m Wayne Salow, a friend of J. J.’s. You know, before I met him, I had no interest in church. Football was everything. Then J. J. started coming over, not to preach or act like a missionary, but to work out, to be my friend. And we started talking, started being friends. And I got to where I really liked him.
“When I first met J. J., I figured I had it made because I was big and strong and he was so skinny and weak. But as I got to know him, I started to see that he had lots more than I did: a strong family, a strong will, and more courage than I’ll ever know.”
My voice started to shake, so I hurried to finish. “Anyway, I love him for being my friend, and I love what makes him the kind of person he is, and whatever it is, I want it. I want to be like him. Uh, that’s it … Amen, I guess.”
Not exactly a typical testimony, but for a guy who hadn’t been to church forever, it was okay.
J. J. didn’t live much longer. As he got sicker, I could only see him on his rare good days. The last time I saw Jonathan Johnson was four days before he died. By then, his body had had about all it could take. We didn’t even talk; I’m not even sure if he was awake all the time I was there. I just stood at his side and held his hand. I told him I thought that with all the pain he’d been through, he’d gained an awful lot. More than most people gain in a lifetime.
“And, J. J.,” I said, “I wanna gain it too. I’m working on it—going to church and everything. The bishop said that if I keep it up, he can’t see any reason why I can’t go on a mission the year after I graduate. A mission. Man, can you believe it?”
I think I felt him squeeze my hand right then. Or maybe I imagined it. But I like to think that he heard and understood. And that he was glad.

May I share a brief but painful moment from my own inadequate efforts as a father?
Early in our married life my young family and I were laboring through graduate school at a university in New England. Pat was the Relief Society president in our ward, and I was serving in our stake presidency. I was going to school full-time and teaching half-time. We had two small children then, with little money and lots of pressures. In fact, our life was about like yours.
One evening I came home from long hours at school, feeling the proverbial weight of the world on my shoulders. Everything seemed to be especially demanding and discouraging and dark. I wondered if the dawn would ever come. Then, as I walked into our small student apartment, there was an unusual silence in the room.
“What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“Matthew has something he wants to tell you,” Pat said.
“Matt, what do you have to tell me?” He was quietly playing with his toys in the corner of the room, trying very hard not to hear me. “Matt,” I said a little louder, “do you have something to tell me?”
He stopped playing, but for a moment didn’t look up. Then these two enormous, tear-filled brown eyes turned toward me, and with the pain only a five-year-old can know, he said, “I didn’t mind Mommy tonight, and I spoke back to her.” With that he burst into tears, and his entire little body shook with grief. A childish indiscretion had been noted, a painful confession had been offered, the growth of a five-year-old was continuing, and loving reconciliation could have been wonderfully underway.
Everything might have been just terrific—except for me. If you can imagine such an idiotic thing, I lost my temper. It wasn’t that I lost it with Matt—it was with a hundred and one other things on my mind; but he didn’t know that, and I wasn’t disciplined enough to admit it. He got the whole load of bricks.
I told him how disappointed I was and how much more I thought I could have expected from him. I sounded like the parental pygmy I was. Then I did what I had never done before in his life—I told him that he was to go straight to bed and that I would not be in to say his prayers with him or to tell him a bedtime story. Muffling his sobs, he obediently went to his bedside, where he knelt—alone—to say his prayers. Then he stained his little pillow with tears his father should have been wiping away.
If you think the silence upon my arrival was heavy, you should have felt it now. Pat did not say a word. She didn’t have to. I felt terrible!
Later, as we knelt by our own bed, my feeble prayer for blessings upon my family fell back on my ears with a horrible, hollow ring. I wanted to get up off my knees right then and go to Matt and ask his forgiveness, but he was long since peacefully asleep.
My relief was not so soon coming; but finally I fell asleep and began to dream, which I seldom do. I dreamed Matt and I were packing two cars for a move. For some reason his mother and baby sister were not present. As we finished I turned to him and said, “Okay, Matt, you drive one car and I’ll drive the other.”
This five-year-old very obediently crawled up on the seat and tried to grasp the massive steering wheel. I walked over to the other car and started the motor. As I began to pull away, I looked to see how my son was doing. He was trying—oh, how he was trying. He tried to reach the pedals, but he couldn’t. He was also turning knobs and pushing buttons, trying to start the motor. He could scarcely be seen over the dashboard, but there staring out at me again were those same immense, tear-filled, beautiful brown eyes. As I pulled away, he cried out, “Daddy, don’t leave me. I don’t know how to do it. I am too little.” And I drove away.
A short time later, driving down that desert road in my dream, I suddenly realized in one stark, horrifying moment what I had done. I slammed my car to a stop, threw open the door, and started to run as fast as I could. I left car, keys, belongings, and all—and I ran. The pavement was so hot it burned my feet, and tears blinded my straining effort to see this child somewhere on the horizon. I kept running, praying, pleading to be forgiven and to find my boy safe and secure.
As I rounded a curve nearly ready to drop from physical and emotional exhaustion, I saw the unfamiliar car I had left Matt to drive. It was pulled carefully off to the side of the road, and he was laughing and playing nearby. An older man was with him, playing and responding to his games. Matt saw me and cried out something like, “Hi, Dad. We’re having fun.” Obviously he had already forgiven and forgotten my terrible transgression against him.
But I dreaded the older man’s gaze, which followed my every move. I tried to say “Thank you,” but his eyes were filled with sorrow and disappointment. I muttered an awkward apology and the stranger said simply, “You should not have left him alone to do this difficult thing. It would not have been asked of you.”
With that, the dream ended, and I shot upright in bed. My pillow was now stained, whether with perspiration or tears I do not know. I threw off the covers and ran to the little metal camp cot that was my son’s bed. There on my knees and through my tears I cradled him in my arms and spoke to him while he slept. I told him that every dad makes mistakes but that they don’t mean to. I told him it wasn’t his fault I had had a bad day. I told him that when boys are five or fifteen, dads sometimes forget and think they are fifty. I told him that I wanted him to be a small boy for a long, long time, because all too soon he would grow up and be a man and wouldn’t be playing on the floor with his toys when I came home. I told him that I loved him and his mother and his sister more than anything in the world and that whatever challenges we had in life we would face them together. I told him that never again would I withhold my affection or my forgiveness from him, and never, I prayed, would he withhold them from me. I told him I was honored to be his father and that I would try with all my heart to be worthy of such a great responsibility.

When I was just two years old, my older brother and I were walking near a large irrigation ditch on our farm. My father was keeping an eye on us as he fed the cattle. The next thing he knew, my brother was running up to him, crying out, “Rolfe’s in!”
Dad raced to the irrigation ditch. From my footprints, he could see that I had gone as close to the edge as I possibly could, and then my feet had slipped and I had fallen in. He ran along the ditch until he glimpsed my red sweater in the water. He was able to pull me out, apply first aid, and save my life. I had gotten as close to danger as I possibly could, and the results were almost tragic.

In the early days of the Church there was a good and faithful woman, Mary Smith, widow of the martyred patriarch Hyrum Smith. She firmly believed in the promises of the Lord. Her son, Joseph F., and her grandson, Joseph Fielding, lived to become presidents of the Church. President Joseph F. Smith related an incident that occurred when he was a 10-year-old boy:
“I recollect most vividly,” he said, “a circumstance that occurred in the days of my childhood. My mother was a widow with a large family to provide for. One spring when we opened our potato pits she had her boys get a load of the best potatoes, and she took them to the tithing office; potatoes were scarce that season. I was a little boy at the time, and drove the team. When we drove up to the steps of the tithing office, ready to unload the potatoes, one of the clerks came out and said to my mother, ‘Widow Smith, it’s a shame that you should have to pay tithing’. … he chided my mother for paying her tithing, called her anything but wise or prudent; and said there were others who were strong and able to work that were supported from the tithing office. My mother turned upon him and said: ‘… you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Would you deny me a blessing? If I did not pay my tithing, I should expect the Lord to withhold His blessings from me. I pay my tithing, not only because it is a law of God, but because I expect a blessing by doing it. By keeping this and other laws, I expect to prosper and to be able to provide for my family.’” (CR, April 1900, p. 48.)

Olá! My name is Alice, and I try to SHINE MY LIGHT by SHOWING GRATITUDE!
I live in Brazil with my parents and sister and brother. My sister Julia and I play the piano for sacrament meeting in our ward.
One Sunday, a man named Brother Stahlke gave us a present. He said it was a gift to thank us for the music we played on Sundays. When we opened the box, we found a special kind of flute inside! I put the flute together and started playing. I was enchanted by the sound.
Soon I started playing hymns on the flute. I wanted to do something to thank Brother Stahlke for the gift. So I practiced the hymn “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195). I asked my dad to take me to Brother Stahlke’s house so I could show him that his gift helped me discover a new talent.
When I played for Brother Stahlke, he was very happy and emotional. He told me that he had a dream about this hymn the night before! I felt the love of God for him and for me.
When we show gratitude, the Lord blesses us with happy feelings from the Holy Ghost.

Another false philosophy that appeals to the Mr. Hyde side of our natures is that peeking into pornography is harmless. This is a terrible deception. Pornography is as addictive as cocaine or any illegal drug. I recently received a heartbreaking letter from an excommunicated man whose soul is filled with sorrow and regret. With his permission, I quote the following from his letter: “I hope that this letter will confirm to any who have doubt that the path of destruction only reaps sorrow and grief and no sin is worth this price.”
He goes on to state: “I have brought grief and sorrow upon myself. Only now do I fully realize the great destruction that I have brought upon myself. No selfish or lustful desire is worth losing your Church membership for. I have brought terrible grief to my wife and two wonderful children. I am grateful for my wife’s great efforts to help me overcome my sins. My wife has been a victim of my sins and had to endure great sorrow and suffering. I long for the day that I can again be a member of the Lord’s Church and for our family to be an eternal family.”
The letter goes on to admit: “My sins are a direct result of my early childhood addiction to pornography. Without a doubt, pornography is addictive and is poison. Had I learned early in my life to apply the power of self-mastery, I would be a member of the Church today.”

I’m an 18-year-old girl living in Germany. Last year we had an American girl who stayed with us for some time, and she was a Mormon. I was impressed by that girl and the way she managed her life. Then she told me about the Mormons. Even though I had never heard about that religion, I immediately understood her. From that time on I have been very interested in Mormonism, and what I have found out about it is fantastic! I’m still not a member, but that is because of my mother. She doesn’t want me to join the Church. I thought about being just nothing—an atheist—but I soon found out that I became very superficial and that I needed something to believe in. I’m convinced that being a Mormon would be the best for me. I have received this fantastic magazine for half a year now as a gift from the American girl, and it has helped convince me. It’s the best magazine I have ever read. I want to thank you because it has helped me find my way and understand other people better. It has made me a better girl, a girl who thinks about life and faces problems and is not superficial. Since there are no Mormons in my town, my only information comes from you.
Tina StrickWeeze, Germany

It was a cold December day in 1988 in San Luis Obispo, California. Stricken with a rare disorder, I struggled with rigid muscles in my abdomen and legs. The cold aggravated my symptoms, making walking difficult and painful.
After our children left for school, I hobbled out to the mailbox to send some letters. In the box I found a damp, crumpled envelope. I glanced at the address.
To my surprise, scrawled across the front was “To Santa, From Sarah.” Sarah, our nine-year-old daughter, was a sensitive and loving child who cared deeply for those around her.
The thought occurred to me that this might be my chance to discover what she really wanted for Christmas. I opened her envelope and read: “Dear Santa, I am nine years old and all I want is this. My mother has been very sick and has not been able to walk, and I am hoping you can get her better for Christmas. That’s all I want. Love, Sarah.”
Icy raindrops blended with the tears on my cheeks. I thought my heart would break, for there was nothing I could do to give Sarah what she wanted for Christmas, and I regretted that her belief in a generous Santa would have to be shattered on Christmas morning.
As I prayed about what to do, I realized I had never prayed to be made well. I had let hopelessness seep into my soul, and despair had replaced my faith.
After a great deal of prayer, I composed a letter from Santa to be delivered to Sarah on Christmas morning. I explained that Heavenly Father has reasons for why things happen as they do and that if she would just believe in Him and keep on praying and doing what she could, things would work out for the best.
Sarah learned that Christmas in 1988 that Santa could not make her mother well but that Heavenly Father could one day, if it was His will. Our daughter quietly transferred her belief in Santa to faith in a loving Heavenly Father.
During the following years, Sarah never ceased praying that I would be made well. After more than six years, a breakthrough in medical technology placed me soundly back on my feet and eliminated my need for either a cane or a wheelchair. Sarah knelt in prayer to express her deep gratitude to Heavenly Father.
Years ago as I opened Sarah’s letter to Santa, I thought I was going to deepen her belief in a fun Christmas tradition. Instead, her selfless request taught me to have childlike faith in a kind Heavenly Father, and that lesson turned out to be my most precious gift of all.