Gospel Story Finder

My friend Donna grew up desiring to marry and raise a large family. But that blessing never came. Instead, she spent her adult years serving the people in her ward with unmeasured compassion and counseling disturbed children in a large school district. She had crippling arthritis and many long, blue days. Yet she always lifted and was always lifted by her friends and family. Once when teaching about Lehi’s dream, she said with gentle humor, “I’d put myself in that picture on the strait and narrow path, still holding to the iron rod but collapsed from fatigue right on the path.” In an inspired blessing given just before her death, Donna’s home teacher said the Lord “accepted” her. Donna cried. She had never felt her single life was acceptable. But the Lord said those who “observe their covenants by sacrifice … are accepted of me.” I can envision Him walking the path from the tree of life to lift Donna up with gladness and carry her home.

As soon as I had finished my education, June resumed hers, and the completion of her bachelor’s degree was an important family project during most of our years in Chicago. She had supported me magnificently during my education, and I felt I an obligation and privilege to give support and cooperation in the completion of hers. I firmly believed that an education is just as important for a woman, married or single, as it is for a man. (I urge you to give careful consideration to a statement I will publish on that subject in the Universe later this week.)

During our first years in Chicago, June attended Roosevelt University, Wheaton College, and Elmhurst College. She also came out to BYU several summers to take courses in Summer School while I stayed in Chicago, though I joined the family briefly for the weeks permitted by my vacation. During these summers in Provo, June and the children lived in rented student apartments, including one summer in an apartment in Heritage Halls, where I also lived for a week during my vacation. She also took the maximum number of hours permitted through BYU Home Study, and the sight of her studying or at the typewriter in our home was a familiar one to all of us. A favorite experience that characterized this period was the time that our oldest son, then five or six years old, came up to his mother and showed her a shirt that was missing a button. “Mother,” he asked sweetly, “will you sew on this button after you have graduated?” Finally, in 1965, fourteen years and five children after she had enrolled at BYU, June received her bachelor’s degree from Brigham Young University. All of us consider that one of our family’s finest achievements. In the meantime, the boy learned how to sew on his own buttons, which will help him on his mission.

Ellie D., 13, stands in the ashes of her former home. “I was surprised at how little I missed the things that were gone,” she says. “They’re just things, and you get over missing them.”
Ellie also learned that it’s important to have a quiet place to think. She found one in a small attic loft of the rental house where her family lived after the fire. She hung photos of Church leaders, friends, and family on the wall, and played a guitar donated to her school after the fire. “I learned that quiet places help you think about what’s really important, especially after a tragedy,” she says. “The scripture says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God’ (Psalm 46:10).”
In the ashes, her family found a figurine that belonged to Ellie’s grandmother. “It reminds me that angels are watching over us,” Ellie says.

The city lay in darkness. The blank windows of the mercantile store glinted now and then with a hint of the treasures inside. The white stars at the roof of the bandstand stood out against their red, white, and blue bunting.
When the Heritage Arts Committee began selecting displays from Heritage Arts festivals to be exhibited at June Conference, they soon realized that the work was just too good to be housed in little square booths. They called a special “atmosphere committee” that decided to create a turn-of-the-century village to house the displays in the Salt Palace convention center. They drew up plans and assigned a ward, stake, or group of stakes to put up each of the buildings.
Local stake presidents were asked to provide 40 journeymen carpenters and 40 helpers. The 80 built a whole frame city out of two-by-fours one Saturday morning, using enough lumber to have built four four-bedroom houses.
But before even one two-by-four had felt a hard-hit nail, thousands of Church members had spent months planning, researching and collecting relics of the past, not to mention learning, developing, or brushing up on age-old skills.
The red-brick grammar school seemed to slumber in the shadows. Next to the co-op, the balconied Deseret Hotel was shadowy and silent. The social hall looked awkward and lonely without its crowds of happy people.
Members of the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women of the Holladay 22nd Ward, Salt Lake City, began when the bishop’s youth committee discussed activities stressing the past that might interest young ward members. They chose as their theme “Born of Goodly Parents” in appreciation for the legacy of other generations. Class presidents met together with class members and selected projects. Together the young people worked under the supervision of their presidencies, calling on the ward service and activities committee to suggest specialists and to help coordinate. The kids sponsored a potluck banquet and invited all ward members to see their projects. They set up the displays in the ward meetinghouse and were later invited to do the same for the stake festival. The Salt Palace display was their third. This time they were to display their skills in an old-time mercantile store.
The Church steeple was gray against the blackness. The barber pole was merely a shimmer of pale white stripes.
When the frames were up, the wards and stakes assigned moved in and started fleshing out the skeletons. Although each group was given a suggested plan for the facade of its building, everyone was encouraged to make improvements, and some groups even called on architects in their stake to help create authentic and beautiful designs.
The spirit of cooperation and achievement was infectious. One man and his teenage helper started driving their pickup down the street toward their building, glancing at the work on both sides as they went. Before long they stopped the pickup and started backing out. When someone asked them what was wrong, the man replied, “Ours isn’t good enough. We’ll be back.” He went home and got a crew and more materials and came back and built a whole new storefront.
The newspaper presses were silent. There were no car sounds, no people sounds, not even dog sounds. The town was suspended in a stillness unknown to modern cities. The clocks all said 4:00P.M.
In the Sweet Shop a retired carpenter worked alongside an Aaronic Priesthood youth. They did not work swiftly, but every small detail was finished perfectly.
At the post office a deacon, a teacher, and their nine-year-old sister painted real-looking rocks on the whole building, putting in more than 14 hours each.
An 81-year-old lady working on the grammar school climbed up and down a ladder, pasting each red cardboard brick on individually.
Soon, a gleam came from the east, and the city lights flickered on. Men and women came. Doors began to open. There was talk and laughter. Dresses and dolls and rugs and plows and saddles were set out. The barber stood ready by his chair. The potter’s wheel began to turn.
In the meetinghouse of a Salt Lake student branch a poster titled “Jobs to Be Done” hung on the wall. There were instructions under each job listed. For two days, at all hours of the day, young people would come streaming in from work or school, pull on a pair of coveralls, do the job, scratch it off the list, and be on their way.
Students from the Utah Technical College donated the labor necessary to install 10,000 feet of electrical wiring, plus light poles and lights. The poles were supported by sandbags donated by inmates at the Utah State Prison. For five days hundreds of people worked hard and loved it. Laughter was as prevalent as the banging of hammers and the rasp of saws. Finally, when the sawdust had cleared, there were 50 buildings, a bandstand, a medicine show wagon, and a tepee—an authentic little turn-of-the-century town with a few last workers walking down its streets dressed in the clothing of an age to come.
When the clocks said 5:00 P.M., the row of doors to the east swung open and hordes of people came pouring in out of the future to look and point and wonder at the way it was. A band struck up a lively tune, and Heritage Square was open for another evening of business.
In their store, the youth of the Holladay 22nd Ward talked to visitors and embroidered, hammered, and quilted. Robed Buie, first counselor in the bishopric commented, “We took it seriously when the prophet said the youth were our first and foremost responsibility.” He was there to offer help, but he made it clear that the kids were running the show and had from the start.
The first-year Beehives made patriotic pillows for their rooms. Large and small, tufted, machine-stitched, embroidered, appliquéd, and creweled, the pillows displayed original as well as traditional designs, many taken from past American flags and Naval symbols.
The second-year Beehives discovered Pennsylvania Dutch designs. Seeing the distinctive heart, tulip, angel, and fruit patterns on bedspreads, furniture, birth certificates, and needlework, they duplicated the authentic designs on wall plaques, dish towels, pillow cases, table runners, and cutting boards.
The Mia Maids took advantage of the experience of a ward member and a blue-ribbon recipe for honey wheat bread to learn and demonstrate the art of bread making.
Thinking of their hope chests, the Laurels took up quilting, embroidery, and cross stitching. “People are really interested in taking up the older handicrafts,” said Mary Robinson. “The older women all say they’re glad the old skills aren’t dying out. We’re making a stitch quilt in activity night, and it’s really made me appreciate the time people used to take in doing a beautiful job.” The group donated three of their quilts to the Primary Children’s Medical Center.
The Holladay 22nd Ward Aaronic Priesthood wasn’t about to be outdone. The deacons earned the pioneer merit badge and worked on their Heritage Arts project at the same time. With dowels and balsa wood they built spans, trusses, monkey, suspension, and pier bridges.
Teachers quorum members chose pioneer photography. They studied early cameras and inventors and also photographed other classes at work on their projects.
The priests learned leather tooling from quorum members Richard Larson and Craig Hanson and then made sheepskin vests, belts, hats, wallets, moccasins, and even purses.
Visitors to the mercantile store were delighted as the young people stitched and pounded and demonstrated. The onlookers repeatedly asked, “How long does it take?”, “Where did you learn this?”, and “Is it hard?”
Throughout the square people learned from each other. A Laurel worked alongside an 85-year-old woman, explaining a new needlepoint stitch to her, and the sister taught the Laurel the practically lost art of tatting. Becky Cutler, 18, worked on a circular shag rug across from Ada Jensen, 79, who used 40 years of experience in making hidden-crocheted rugs.
The festival committee told participants that some 20,000 people might visit Heritage Square. No one was surprised, however, when the word got out and more than 100,000 showed up. The display was extended an extra day. Salt Palace executives tried unsuccessfully to extend it even further, but the volunteers who manned the displays were unable to give more time.
Everything on the 1900 Main Street teased memories. There were Dutch almond pastry, apple butter on wheat bread, and sour dough pancakes to taste. There were Indian dancers, flappers, brass bands, barber shop quartets, and marimba players to see and hear. There was even a lady who played the spoons and comb. The grammar school was complete with girls in pigtails, ink wells, dunce cap, pot-belly stove, and a portrait of George Washington. The Centerville Utah Co-op bragged that it was “the store that sells striped paint.” Modeled after the town’s old general store, the co-op featured lace-up ladies boots, black-boa wide-brimmed hats, the legendary cracker barrel and pickle jar, sasperilla, ginger snaps, shelves of mason jars, and yellow “bridal pajamas” trimmed with black lace. The Dressmaker, with its elegant collection of ecru vintage clothing, brought back the parasol, hats with plumes, long christening dresses, and the top hat. Everyone overlooked the frayed hems, worn velvet, and clumped feathers and marveled at the Japanese silk, delicate lace edgings, and tiny shoes. At the Missionary Church, a black-coated preacher exhorted, “There are places still on the front row,” and a young girl answered knowingly, “Aren’t there always?”
There were young people churning butter, dipping candles, throwing pots, pulling taffy, and spinning wool. Across from them their friends were weaving cloth, caning ladder-back chairs, stringing snowshoes, splitting stones, tying trout flies, and making rope.
This was a time-spanning occasion for all as evidenced by the equal numbers of “What’s that, Dad?” and “Hey, look over there. That’s what we used to chop ice.” Or “… warm the bed … reap wheat … pump water … and … harness the team.”
The grandmothers left feeling their quilting skills were not lost, and fathers left knowing that the five-foot saw with one-and-a-half-inch teeth was as big as they’d remembered. Mothers decided that making wheat bread must not be as hard as they remembered, while their daughters learned there’s more to embroider than jeans. For those who had spent months preparing, it was a time to excite and explain. But for most it was a motive to go home and search the attic, library, and family tree for old skills and heirlooms in an attempt to “remember the past, to better the future.”

One young man wrote us a letter concerning this issue. He was in the unique situation of being able to see both sides, as giver and receiver. His family had received help from their ward in food and clothing, for which they were very grateful. One day he and his mother passed a man on the street holding a sign asking for food. His letter said, “The instant I read the sign, my eyes fixed on the man’s, for I knew so well what he was probably feeling. I wanted very much to give whatever I could to him. I even felt exquisite pain and suffering with him as we drove past. I asked my mom if we could give him something. Since we were receiving help, my mother reminded me of the scripture, ‘All you who deny the beggar, because ye have not; I would that ye say in your hearts that: I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give’ (Mosiah 4:24). My point is, if you can spare even a little bit, the homeless and hungry will be grateful if they are meek in heart.”

I am a returned missionary. I am also a soldier in the United States Army serving a second tour of duty in Iraq. Between my mission and my military service, I have seen people both at their best and at their worst. I’m grateful for all the experiences I’ve had, but I’m grateful I could serve a mission first. It prepared me for military service in some surprising ways.
One of the first things I learned on my mission was how to talk with other people. When I attended high school, I was shy and unsure of myself. I felt uncomfortable around strangers and uneasy in crowds. I found it hard to strike up conversations with people and often wouldn’t try. Serving in the México Mérida Mission helped get me out of my comfort zone. I slowly realized that people are easy to talk to if I put forth the effort. I soon found it easy to speak with strangers, and I had my heart touched by many people with whom I met and talked. When I joined the army, I took with me what I had gained on my mission—the ability to communicate.
Communication is imperative in the army. I am a flight crew chief on Black Hawk helicopters, in charge of the defense and security of aircraft and aiding pilots in their side vision. The lives of the pilots, passengers, and my own life often rely on my communication skills. It was on my mission that I learned to be open and to communicate effectively.
Another thing I learned on my mission was humility. When I was growing up, I had everything I needed. I never had to worry about food, shelter, or the clothes on my back. In contrast, my mission area was on the Yucatán Peninsula, and life was very simple there. Not having the luxuries I had grown accustomed to all my life was extremely humbling.
As anyone who has served in the military knows, a soldier must place himself second to the safety of his fellow soldiers and the preservation of his country. I look back on my mission now and thank my Heavenly Father for allowing me to be humbled in preparation for serving my country.
As a soldier at war, you give up every luxury of home. The men and women I served with gave up their warm beds, dry socks, and daily showers. When I am deployed, not a day goes by that I don’t appreciate all the blessings I have waiting for me at home.
Perhaps the greatest way my mission prepared me for military service was what it taught me about the power of example. While serving with the 101st Airborne Division, I have come to realize how powerful a good example can be to those with whom I serve. People say they never hear me use profanity or see me drink alcohol or view pornography. A lot of the guys in my unit have asked me why I won’t participate in those activities and have questioned me about the Church and what it teaches. I always explain my values, telling them my religion teaches me that certain things are bad for me and to abstain from them. Knowing that others are noticing my actions helps me strive to be a good example of what a Latter-day Saint should be.
Finally, on my mission I learned to have faith in Heavenly Father. I learned to pray to Him for strength. There were days during my mission when I felt frustrated and wanted to give up. I would pray for strength to get through the day. Learning to deal with my frustrations by relying on the Lord has helped me get through many tough situations in Iraq.
There is a saying in the army: “Drink water, and drive on.” To me that means, no matter what happens, one must persevere. In the scriptures, this is called enduring to the end. I have learned that I need to continually have faith, read my scriptures, and pray for guidance to get me through tough times. I have learned that the Lord is in control and is looking out for me, so I try to focus on my job. Living with Heavenly Father’s guidance has helped me realize how true the gospel is. My faith is a great source of strength in helping me cope with being deployed in a war zone.
In these and other ways my mission experiences in Mexico help me survive and thrive in the army. I always remember my Book of Mormon hero, Moroni. He served in wars and saw death and destruction, yet he remained a true and faithful servant of the Lord. I find great comfort in knowing that even during the darkest of times you can be at your best.

The Holy Ghost will also help you to do what is right, even when that seems very difficult. I hope you children will never be afraid to stand up for what is right. I still remember an experience I had in primary school. Our primary school included first through seventh grades. When I was about 12 and in my final year of primary school, the head boy, who was supposed to be the school leader, was actually the school’s biggest bully. He and three or four of his pals would go around teasing other kids.
I was new at the school, so one day he tried to intimidate me. When he discovered I would not respond to his intimidation, he gave up and bullied other kids, especially the weaker ones. One day when I saw this happening, I walked over and told him to stop. I said that if he did not stop I would defend the smaller boy. There stood the bully with his three or four friends, surrounding this small, timid boy and myself. It was very scary. I thought they were going to beat me up. To my surprise, the bully withered under my words. He and his friends made some smart remarks and left.
Throughout the rest of the year I continued to defend other boys from these bullies. Others started to do so, too, until the bullies gradually lost all their power and influence. Children, the lesson I learned from this experience is that when we do things for the right reason, even when it is very difficult, the Lord will bless us and help us. He needs courageous people to stand up and defend what is right and reduce the influence of evil. You are never too young to begin doing so. When you stand for what is right, you will discover that good triumphs.

Two years before, when Jeanette and I were at girls’ camp, a testimony meeting was planned for the last night. When we were leaving our cabin for the bonfire, I told Jeanette, “When this night is over, I think I’ll know for sure the Church is true.” But even after testimony meeting I didn’t, not for sure. Not for sure—that was the problem.

That night after the meeting we told ghost stories. One of the older girls told about a story this German guy wrote. It was all about Christ coming back at the end of the world, but instead of saving everybody and taking them to heaven, he tells everyone the resurrection is called off—just a fake. Then everything starts falling apart and flying every which way. The whole universe comes apart at the seams. I had nightmares about that story. It still makes me shudder.

Even though the pioneers came to the Salt Lake Valley in 1847, it wasn’t until nearly 50 years later that Utah became a state. Recently, youth in wards and stakes all over Utah gave their state the anniversary gift of their time and hard work.
The youth in the Pleasant View Utah Stake were no exception. They spent a hot summer Saturday cleaning up the 21st Street Pond in Ogden. After a big breakfast, the youth went to work building a railroad-tie barrier, painting a storage building, cleaning the grounds, landscaping and painting an office, constructing and installing park benches, pouring concrete pads, painting and installing picnic tables, removing an old fence, constructing two wheelchair ramps, and doing general cleanup around the pond.
It took most of the day, but the youth say they felt good giving something back to the place they call home. After all, how often do you turn 100?

Some 12 years ago, there was a tennis match with two LDS physicians and a nonmember medical student from Brazil. With no intervening communication, last month in Curitiba, Brazil, Valentim Goncalves stood by me again, not on a tennis court but instead in a regional conference to translate for me. Thanks to his innate goodness and the good work of others, ophthalmologist Valentim is not only a member but is a stake president in Curitiba. Valentim and his special wife, sealed in the temple, have been blessed with three lovely children. This remarkable rendezvous added to my already appreciative wonder over the workings of the hand of the Lord (see D&C 59:21).

Let me conclude with a parable: Once there was an army. It was strong, handsome, and fairly well trained. The soldiers knew their duty. They were assigned to be watchmen on the towers. They were to sound the alarm to warn the people when the enemy approached. In times of relative peace, however, it isn’t always easy to remain alert in such an assignment. To help spend the time, the soldiers often invented games to amuse themselves; some of these games required great skill. One game was particularly engrossing, and many soldiers became quite proficient at it. Someone suggested that they start a tournament to determine who in all of the army was the best player. The tournament became the talk of the whole village and even beyond. In fact, game players from all over the land actually began to join the army simply so they could compete in the tournament. Each year great honors were given to the champions, parades were held in tribute to their achievements, and children dreamed of the day when they, too, could join the army to participate in the tournament. Of course the enemy was not disappointed by the tournament’s acquired popularity; it was one of the enemy, in fact, who proposed the competition in the first place.

My brothers and sisters, we are the army of Zion. We can make a difference, but we must stay alert as watchmen on the tower and not be distracted by the games or purposes of the world.

Here is someone who makes me very happy. This is my grandson Keenan. A few days before Easter, my husband and I talked to Keenan and his parents through Zoom. In his four-year-old excited way, Keenan urgently said, “Gramma, Gramma, Grampa, Grampa, I need to tell you something.” He had just participated in a stake Primary activity and was frustrated he hadn’t been able to share an important comment that was on the forefront of his mind. Bursting with the importance of his message, he said, “Jesus hanged up so we can be together forever.” In his beautiful, childlike way, Keenan had shared his testimony that Christ suffered on the cross so we can be happy. Then, Keenan continued, “Nobody runs away.”

Keenan’s statement makes me incredibly happy because he knows about Heavenly Father’s plan of happiness for us. We know “men are, that they might have joy,” [1] yet sometimes we might not be feeling the joy.

Family prayer is a powerful and sustaining influence [a long-lasting power to help us change for good]. During the dark days of World War II, a 500-pound [225-kg] bomb fell outside the little home of Brother Patey, a young father in Liverpool, England, but the bomb did not go off. His wife had died, so he was rearing his five children alone. He gathered them together at this very anxious time for family prayer. They “all prayed … earnestly and when they had finished praying, the children said: ‘Daddy, we will be all right. We will be all right in our home tonight.’
“And so they went to bed, imagine, with that terrific bomb lying just outside the door half submerged in the ground. If it had gone off it would have destroyed probably forty or fifty houses and killed two or three hundred people. …
“The next morning the … whole neighborhood was removed for forty-eight hours and the bomb was finally taken away. …
“On the way back Brother Patey asked the foreman of the [bomb disposal] squad: ‘Well, what did you find?’
“‘Mr. Patey, we got at the bomb outside of your door and found it ready to explode at any moment. There was nothing wrong with it. We are puzzled why it did not go off’” (Andre K. Anastasiou, in Conference Report, Oct. 1946, 26). Miraculous things happen when families pray together.

I think now and then of one of our classmates—very bright, good looking, faithful in the Church, and drenched with talent and ability. He married well and rose quickly to prominence. He began to compromise to please the world and please those around him. They flattered him into following after their ways, which were the ways of the world.

Sometimes it is so simple a thing as how you groom yourself or what you wear, such as a young woman teasing her hair endlessly to give the impression that it has not been combed or a young man dressing in slouchy clothes, wanting to be in style.

Somewhere in little things, my classmate’s grasp on the iron rod loosened a bit. His wife held on to the rod with one hand and on to him with the other. Finally, he slipped away from her and let go of the rod. Just as Lehi’s dream or vision predicted, he fell away into forbidden paths and was lost.

A pang of the same old fear shot through me as I realized the old woman trudging up 400 South about a half block ahead of me was Miss Bickersheim, my old typing teacher. The shopping cart she was dragging behind her was the giveaway. Miss Bickersheim had dragged that cart to school every day with her materials in it, year after year after year.
It was her all right. I tried to smile at the return of my old terror. How silly. She couldn’t hurt me now. But then I had to admit Miss Bickersheim had really never hurt me or anyone. She had taught me, my classmates, and hundreds of students before us to type and type well.
My mind raced back to my first day in her classroom. Miss Bickersheim and I had gotten off to a terrible start. “My dear young lady,” she had said, her eyes glaring, “I’m afraid you and I are not going to do business well together.” I could still remember her exact words and how precisely she had said each one. She was not amused that I had mustered the courage to defend my fingernails which tapered to beautiful ovals: I had stopped biting them just the summer before, and at last they looked exactly the way fingernails should look, gorgeously, perfectly, uniformly oval. Miss Bickersheim had held up my hands to show the class how fingernails should not be for typing.
“But, but … they don’t show over the tips of my fingers … much.” I had said the words with a trembling, hopeful voice, shocked at my courage. That’s when Miss Bickersheim had glared at me and uttered those frightful words.
That night I begged my mother to let me check out of Type I. “Oh mom, she’s just awful. Awful! She never smiles. I mean never. She just glares. And she hates me now. I can’t go back. I can’t.”
My mother smiled sympathetically at my plight. “I’m afraid you’d be sorry later if you checked out,” she said. “I know how badly you want to learn to type. Miss Bickersheim may be frightening, but she is also the best. Sometimes we have to do things in life that are hard, but we’re glad later. Of course, you’re the one who has to decide.” Slowly I walked to my room where I would ultimately look for an emery board.
During the next few months, typing became a 24-hour part of my existence. At movies my fingers typed the words the actors said on the screen. While I studied for other classes, my fingers typed the words I read. One night I woke up to find that my fingers were typing on my invisible typewriter. I was typing in my sleep. And each morning before Type I, I shuddered and got a stomachache, but each morning I went.
Because Miss Bickersheim took typing very seriously, her students did too. Miss Bickersheim stressed steady, rhythmic, accurate typing. Ten points were deducted for each error. She taught blind copy typing. No lower form of typing would do. A whack on the desk with her ruler revealed the guilty student who was sneaking a peek at the cylinder or keys. And Miss Bickersheim’s five-minute timed writings were precisely that: five minutes. When she shouted her terrible “STOP!”—a stop that made the stomach jump and the hair stand on end—we stopped typing and stopped immediately.
Although we hoped for a substitute, Miss Bickersheim never missed a day. Never once did she relax long enough to lose her sternness. Never once did she joke or laugh with the students like the other teachers. And never once, no not once, did she smile. Using her own unique methods, she taught us to type. I hadn’t liked those methods, but because she had taught me to type, I had been able to land the excellent summer job I had at the Wilcox Insurance Company. Even though I was one of the younger applicants, the company had been impressed by my performance on the timed typing test, a standard part of the application. I had made only one error. But then, timed writings were “a piece of cake” without the anticipation of Miss Bickersheim’s terrible “STOP” at the end.
The Wilcox company had said I would be able to continue working part-time during the school year, again, because of my accurate typing ability. My job would help me get through college and someday I hoped typing would help me achieve my dream of being a writer. No, Miss Bickersheim hadn’t hurt me—that was certain. In fact, I knew I really needed to thank her. But I didn’t want to.
Ahead of me, she had stopped to adjust the wheel of her shopping cart and had turned slightly. Her body was slumped awkwardly over her cart and her profile looked just as frightening as ever. I wondered if her eyes were glaring. I also wondered if I would speak to her when I caught up with her in just a few yards.
My throat felt dry, and my heart was beginning to pump more vigorously. But what was she doing now? Miss Bickersheim had reached the corner, and instead of stopping at the curb of the same street I planned to cross, she had turned to face the other crosswalk. If I didn’t speed up, she would be gone. I had an excuse now. Maybe I wouldn’t have to face her after all. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to face those glaring dark eyes again anyway.
The light changed, and I knew that in just a few seconds she would be out of my life again and perhaps I would never have another opportunity to thank her. Opportunities cannot be resurrected with each dawn. Maybe that was all right with me. She was so mean and, well, I was scared. But then I thought again of what that one typing course, the only one I’d ever taken, had done for me, and I knew I would thank her, not only because I had to, but because a warmth was encompassing me. The feeling of obligation had been replaced by an urgent, happy desire. I suddenly wanted, really wanted, to thank the old woman just a few feet ahead of me.
“Miss Bickersheim!” All those years of hearing close to 30 typewriters going at once had apparently made her a little deaf. “Miss Bickersheim!” I was almost out of breath from running the last few yards. “Stop, Miss Bickersheim!” She stopped just before she stepped off the curb. I was close enough to touch her arm, and she turned and looked at me with unglaring eyes, eyes that—was it possible that there was a flicker of good humor in them?
“You were one of my students,” she said.
“Yes, I was.” I smiled and wondered what I would say next. I took a deep breath and talked fast. “I just wanted to thank you and tell you how much I enjoyed—appreciated—your class. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I was in your class about five years ago and I was the one with the too-long nails.” What a dumb thing to say, I thought, as I realized she had probably taught hundreds of girls with nails that had initially needed trimming. “Anyway,” I continued, “I have an excellent summer job now because you taught me to type so well, and it’s helping me through college. So thanks!”
Miss Bickersheim didn’t speak for a moment, and her thick wrinkled face contorted slightly. “I wish I could say I remember you, but I had so many students.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” I assured her that I understood. After all, I had changed, and it had been a long time.
“I wish I could remember you because you’re a lovely girl—I can tell that.” Her bottom lip was beginning to tremble slightly. Was this the same Miss Bickersheim I had known? Where was the sternness? Why, this old woman was nice. And my short speech seemed to have touched her. Again there was a silence for a few moments. “I taught for many, many years, you know, 32 to be exact.” Her eyes had a glazed look. “And I taught thousands of students. But when I retired, no one said anything, not one student, and I thought, well …”
“Oh, but we all appreciate you now. Now that we realize how well you taught us, we’re all so glad we took type from you. I’m sure all your former students feel the same way I feel.”
“You think so?”
“Of course.”
She patted my arm with a wrinkled, slightly shaking hand, and it was then that I saw the miracle. Miss Bickersheim’s thick lips parted, revealing aged, slightly protruding teeth. She was smiling! It wasn’t a pretty smile. No, it wasn’t that. But it was nevertheless a genuine, from-the-heart smile. And although it only lasted a few seconds, I had seen it.
“I did my best. I did my very best,” she said with a raspy voice.
“You were the best,” I said.
The light had changed again, and after we said good-bye, I watched Miss Bickersheim until she stepped up to the opposite curb, her old shopping cart thumping up behind her. The sun’s reflection on the silver metal made the old cart appear to be an object of beauty. She raised her hand to me before she continued her trek. And it was gratifying to see that her step was much livelier than it had been before. As for me, I felt like skipping. I felt like skipping and laughing and hugging the world because Miss Bickersheim had smiled at me.

The first time I saw the Saturn V vehicle, it seemed unimpressive. It looked exactly like all the other boosters. All boosters look exactly three-quarters the height of your TV screen, don’t they? It was out on the beach all by itself. There was no way to judge its height. We had spent all day on Missile Row at Cape Canaveral, Florida, becoming aware of some of the other booster systems. The second day, on our tour of the cape, we went out on pad 39A where the Saturn V test vehicle was sitting. It was 3.7 miles away when we started from the firing room, and the closer we got the more impressed I became. When we got there it was like trying to view the Empire State Building from the sidewalk. It was just a great curved mass of aluminum above me. The best way to see it was to get into the umbilical tower, press the button for the 23rd floor, which is the boarding platform, go up and look down on that vehicle, and then contemplate that someday you might be able to go into that white room and lie on that couch while someone back in the firing room pushes the famous button. It’s a very impressive sight. It gave me gooseflesh. Everybody likes to drive a souped-up car and have some real power in his hands. When you’re in control of the Saturn V, you’re burning fuel at the rate of 14.8 tons a second. The first stage holds 4.8 million pounds of propellant. You run out of that amount of fuel in two minutes and 31 seconds. The ten first-stage fuel lines going into those engines are the size of sewer pipes. With your hands on those controls, you have a certain sense of power.

I am reminded of two young men who came in to see me some months ago. They had been recommended by their priesthood leaders. From the moment they stepped into the office, they began in a very sincere way questioning certain doctrines and teachings and procedures of the Church. Their attitude, however, was not antagonistic, as they were sincerely looking for answers.
I asked them finally if their questions perhaps represented the symptoms of their problem and not the cause. Wasn’t their real question whether or not this church is true? Whether or not it is actually the Church of Jesus Christ? And whether or not it is led by divine revelation? The young men agreed that perhaps if they were sure of the answers to these questions, they could take care of the other questions that seemed to arise in their hearts.
I asked them if they were willing to participate in an experiment. One of them appeared to be athletically inclined, and so I turned to him and asked, “If you wanted to learn about the chemical properties of water, would you go to the local sports stadium and run four laps around the track?”
He said, “Of course not.”
I asked, “Why not?”
He said, “The two are not related.”
We then turned to John, chapter seven, and read: “If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.” (John 7:17.)
If we are going to experiment with the things of Christ, then we are going to have to put these things to a spiritual test—a test that the Savior himself has outlined for all those who wish to know, a test of doing.
I asked them if they read the scriptures.
They said, “No.”
I asked them if they prayed.
They said, “Not often.”
I asked them if they kept the Word of Wisdom.
They said, “Occasionally.”
I asked them if they went to church.
They said they’d stopped.
I asked them if they would be interested in a three-month experiment. They said they would try but were not anxious to commit themselves until they found out what I had in mind.
“During the next three months will you attend all your church meetings and listen carefully to what is being said, even taking notes of the principal points being made by the teachers and how these points might apply to your lives?”
They thought for a moment and said they would.
“During the next three months will you reinstitute in your personal life prayer, night and morning, thanking God for the blessings you enjoy and asking him to help you know if the Church is true and if the things you are doing are meaningful to your lives?”
One of these young men, who considered himself an agnostic, balked at this, but then he finally agreed to do it on the basis that for the sake of the experiment he would accept the premise that there is a God and would appeal to this God for the light and knowledge which he was seeking.
I asked them if in the next three months they would refrain from drinking, smoking, and drugs. Although this created some anxiety, they resolved to do it.
I asked them if in the next three months they would resolve to keep themselves morally clean and in harmony with the principles of virtue which the Savior taught. They said they would. And then I suggested they establish a schedule, on their own, during the next three months to read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover—a few pages each day, with a prayer at each reading that the Lord would bless them to know if the book is true and actually from him. They agreed.
Anticipating what might happen, I said, “Now, if you feel disposed to tell your friends about this, probably their first comment will be ‘Boy, has Brother Dunn snowed you.’ You may even feel that way a time or two during this experiment, but don’t let it keep you from doing what you have agreed to do. If you think that might be a problem, then keep it in the back of your mind, and go ahead and honestly experiment, and let this three-month experience speak for itself.” I added, “If things go properly, you’ll notice some by-products, such as a growing awareness and concern for your fellowman and greater appreciation and consideration for other people.” They accepted the challenge and left.
Of course, what was really hoped for was the experience that every member has a right to enjoy and everyone else has the right to receive, and that is the knowledge of a personal testimony. I think Brigham Young described it best when he said:
“There is no other experience known to mortal man that can be compared with the testimony or witness of the Holy Ghost. It is as powerful as a two-edged sword and burns in the breast of man like a consuming fire. It destroys fear and doubt, leaving in their stead absolute unqualified, and incontrovertible knowledge that a principle or thing is true. …
“This same testimony has sustained faithful saints to the present day and will be a lamp to their path forever. The effect of this testimony reaches above and beyond all physical or earthly things and makes relationship with God the Father a literal, pulsing fact. Every fiber of both body and spirit respond to the witness of that testimony and the soul knows and lives the truth.”
And so to those who have tasted the water at many wells only to find that the unquenching thirst of the soul drives them on in search of that which will bring peace and nourishment to the heart—to you, whoever you are, member or nonmember—will you come and drink from this well, and taste and experiment and see if you have not found the waters of life where you can drink to your soul and thirst no more but be full with the joy of the true knowledge of Jesus Christ and his teachings and the purpose of your own life?
And to this invitation I bear you my witness that I know God lives. I know he lives and that Jesus Christ is our Redeemer and his Son. Joseph Smith saw what he said he saw, and we have a prophet of God sitting with us, presiding today. I bear you that witness in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

My friend Jorge reached across the table, offering me a sip from his glass of champagne. I was surprised by his offer. He knew I was a Latter-day Saint and drinking alcohol was against my beliefs. I politely shook my head, indicating that this time, like all previous times, I would pass.
He brought his hand to his forehead and exclaimed, “¡Pero es nuestra graduación!” (But it’s graduation night!)
Yes, it was graduation night. And in Ecuador, this was our night to celebrate. The evening had begun with a formal dinner for our entire families. A bottle of champagne had been placed in the center of each table, and well-mannered waiters had served an excellent meal. After dinner, those of us who had just graduated danced a waltz with our father or mother.
Eventually all the parents left, and only the graduates and our friends remained. It was around midnight when Jorge approached me and offered me some of his drink. Jorge felt that just this once wouldn’t do me any harm, especially considering the event was a once-in-a-lifetime occasion and everyone was expected to have a drink.
I simply replied, “I know it’s graduation night. That doesn’t matter.”
All through high school, I had been invited to drink and smoke, but I had always refused, explaining that my religion taught me drinking and smoking were harmful. My friends usually did not persist after the explanation, but I never knew how they really felt about my turning them down.
To my surprise, Jorge smiled, extended his right hand, and shook mine. All he said was “I really admire this about you,” and he walked away.
Later, while reflecting on what happened that night, I remembered the counsel President Gordon B. Hinckley has given us to “stand for something” (see “True to the Faith,” Liahona, Sept. 1996, 4). To Jorge and my other friends, I had stood for something. I realized that often we may think our efforts to do the right thing make us unpopular. While that may be true in some instances, for the most part, people take note and see Latter-day Saints as people who stand for something worthy of admiration.

One evening I argued with my mom and felt pretty bad. So I decided I would pray. Although I was in a bad mood and didn’t want to be “spiritual,” I knew praying would help me feel happier and less argumentative. After my mom left the room, I started my prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father, I’ve come to Thee tonight because …” No. I opened my eyes and unfolded my arms; that sounded awkward. I tried again. “Heavenly Father, I need …” That also sounded strange. I felt Satan urging me to give up my prayer of asking Heavenly Father for help.
Suddenly I had a prompting to say thank you! So I did, and thoughts started spilling from my mind of all the many things I could thank my Father in Heaven for. When I was done thanking Him, I discussed the problem at hand.
Afterward I felt a wonderful peace inside me, the warm spiritual feeling that I know our Heavenly Father and my parents love me and that I am a child of God. I was able to apologize to my mother and accept her apology.

The Smith family and others in their area were given opportunities to heft the ancient record and feel its individual plates at the Smith family home in Manchester Township, New York. Joseph’s younger brother William, age 16 in 1827, had a vivid memory of witnessing the plates, which he later shared in a sermon: “When the plates were brought in they were wrapped up in a tow frock. My father then put them into a pillow case. Father said, ‘What, Joseph, can we not see them?’ [Joseph responded,] ‘No. … I was forbidden to show them until they are translated, but you can feel them.’ We handled them and could tell what they were. … Could tell whether they were round or square. Could raise the leaves this way (raising a few leaves of the Bible before him). One could easily tell that they were not a stone, hewn out to deceive, or even a block of wood.”1

On another occasion, William provided further information: “I could tell they were plates of some kind and that they were fastened together by rings running through the back.”2 He also wrote that in addition to feeling the individual plates and rings, he had hefted the entire artifact: “I was permitted to lift them. … They weighed about 60 pounds according to the best of my judgment.”3 Joseph’s younger sister Katherine, age 14, also got to hold the plates the day Joseph brought them home. She “rippled her fingers up the edge of the plates and felt that they were separate metal plates and heard the tinkle of sound that they made.”4