Gospel Story Finder

Well, you may well understand, the second day I stood up to bat, I was not so confident as before. The same bowler stood opposite me and began that mind-bending warm-up. He threw a fast ball with a spin so wild that it hit the ground and bounced off, knocking me over to the left of the wicket with a force so hard I almost fell down.
The next thing I knew, everybody was yelling “Howzat?” to the umpire—the standard query for an umpire decision. Unless that is said, the umpire will remain silent the whole game. As far as I was concerned, he should have kept quiet, for I saw, unbelievably, the letters “L.B.W.” come to his lips. I was next to him in a minute to argue the decision.
It was then that I learned another important lesson about the game and the British character. It was Trevor who rushed to my side to inform me, “No player ever disputes an umpire’s decision once it’s been made.”
“You mean you can’t beef about a lousy decision?” I complained.
“Of course not,” Trevor said in a matter-of-fact voice. “That just wouldn’t be cricket.”
I had to admit he had me there. As I hobbled off the field (suspecting that the name of the game came from that grasshopperlike animal, the cricket, which is the only creature physically equipped with the muscles necessary to avoid getting hit with a L.B.W.), I vowed that never again would I make fun of something I knew nothing about.
The next day I was as cheerful as ever and persuaded the boys to play a game of rounders—from which, of course, I arose the hero. However, I was quiet about my laurels. After all, no sense in becoming a sticky wicket about it.

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.

Many of you have filled missions. Many of you are thinking about it. One of our nephews wrote a letter home from the mission field. He and his companion were in one of these situations where two young Mormon elders had come up against a very professional scholar of the Bible, one who really knew how to spell Haggai, for example, or who knew where to find Lamentations sandwiched in there in the Old Testament.

They finally had the man convinced that he ought to read the Book of Mormon. He read the Book of Mormon, and they came back to talk to him about it. He didn’t know what to do. He really understood the Bible, but there was this other book that he didn’t know what to do with. As he began to give way to that feeling, confusion took over; darkness and depression enveloped him. The missionaries decided to give him a blessing, and the feeling lifted.

As they were marveling about this, there came a knock at the door, and two other missionaries from another church (that some of you may have tangled with) were there. They were invited in, and the man excitedly told them what happened to him. Immediately there was rancor. The two other missionaries began to protest: “There is no revelation and there is no other word but the Bible.” Well, the whole tone of the gathering had changed. The missionaries kept very quiet. They knew when they were being intimidated. Then, as this nephew wrote home, he said, “Suddenly, as I sat there, I found myself praying to Heavenly Father. We had a golden prospect, someone that we really had in the palm of our hand for the kingdom. Why should I be sitting there intimidated?”

A little warm feeling began to creep in him: “We have the truth; they don’t.” So then he turned his thinking around and prayed, “Heavenly Father, help me, help me, guide me.” And the little warm feeling grew and became a big feeling, he said, and “I felt the Spirit grow within me until I took courage.” This young elder then spoke forth with power of the Spirit, ending by saying, “Why don’t we all kneel in prayer?”

They did and before he could pray one of those other missionaries prayed in a boisterous, multiplying-words manner. The Spirit didn’t change much. Then this young, comparatively inexperienced Mormon elder who felt the Spirit grow within him moved forward prepared now, took his turn. It was a gentle prayer—a prayer of thanksgiving for a prophet today, for an additional witness that Christ is the Redeemer, for a gospel that gives people answers when they need them. The prayer was over, the others quickly left, and the investigator made plans to join the Church.

I learned this lesson about small things adding up to great things when I was in athletics. In my earlier days I was a gymnast and a wrestler in high school, both of which are good sports for short (yet muscular) young men. In fact my wife enjoys looking at pictures of me from those days with my muscular physique, but I don't like her to look at them because she inevitably asks, after looking at my current physique, what happened? So I've hidden most of them, now, on with the story.

I had a new gymnastics coach who had trained with the best in the world at that time. I had already been in gymnastics for a few years and felt like I was pretty good for my age. He came to me when we started and said, I have a method which will make you unbeatable if you follow it. Someone may be able to tie you but they can never beat you. That sounded good to me, so I started going to practice with him. I was surprised and disappointed however to find that the entire practice consisted of him making me do simple, small and boring moves over and over and over. When I questioned him on it, he said that when I perfected those, we could move on. That took a while and I didn't enjoy it but I continued going until I saw what was happening. He had taken what I considered to be the big, complex and exciting moves such as flips and back handsprings and broken then down into a series of smaller moves that could be perfected with much repetition. After that he showed me how to piece them together to create a perfect front flip, back flip etc, and my performance in gymnastics dramatically improved.

My father had an idea that his boys ought to learn to work, and so he bought a five-acre farm which eventually grew to include more than 30 acres. We lived there in the summer and returned to the city when school started.
We had a large orchard, and the trees had to be pruned each spring. We learned a great truth—that you could pretty well determine the kind of fruit you would pick in September by the way you pruned in February. Further, we learned that new, young wood produces the best fruit. That has many applications in life.

For Tanner, Easter would not be the same this year. His grandpa had died, and Tanner was sad he would never share this special time with him again.
But during Primary, Tanner was reminded that the reason we celebrate Easter is because Jesus lives! When He was resurrected, His spirit was forever reunited with His body, never to experience death again. Tanner learned that because Jesus was resurrected, everyone would be resurrected someday, including his grandpa!
An Easter song filled Tanner with happiness as he sang: “Jesus has risen, Jesus, our friend. Joy fills our hearts; He lives again.”1 Tanner wanted to share this good news with everyone. He decided that before Easter, he would place on his neighbors’ doorsteps small bundles of spring flowers with scriptures about Jesus’s Resurrection. He imagined the smiles on their faces when they found his gift on Easter morning.

As Heber J. Grant matured, his faith in God also matured. When his first wife, Lucy Stringham Grant, lay critically ill, he called his children into her hospital room and told them she was going to die. His daughter Lutie pleaded with him to exercise his priesthood in her mother’s behalf and not let her die. When the children left the room, Elder Grant knelt by his wife’s bed. Of that prayer, he later said:
“I told the Lord, I acknowledged his hand in life and in death, in joy or in sorrow, in prosperity or adversity. I did not complain because my wife was dying, but that I lacked the strength to see my wife die and have her death affect the faith of my children in the ordinances of the gospel. I therefore pleaded with him to give to my daughter Lutie a testimony that it was his will that her mother should die. Within a few short hours, my wife breathed her last. Then I called the children into the bedroom and announced that their mamma was dead. My little boy Heber commenced weeping bitterly, and Lutie put her arms around him and kissed him, and told him not to cry, that the voice of the Lord had said to her, `In the death of your mamma the will of the Lord will be.’ Lutie knew nothing of my prayers, and this manifestation to her was direct answer to my supplication to the Lord, and for it I have never ceased to be grateful.”

The bell rang on Friday afternoon, and everyone quickly filed out of the school. Finally, my school week was over, and it was time to have some fun with my friends. We threw our backpacks into the trunk of my car and hopped in.
I was the first of my group of friends to have access to a car, so I was usually the driver. I was also the only Latter-day Saint in the group and, even though I had good friends, their standards were sometimes different from mine.
As we drove that day, my friends used swear words to dress up their stories. As in times past, it bothered me. So I thought about how I could cut down on the swearing and make the language of our group better. I knew my friends were aware and respectful of my values, but would they get mad if I expected them to uphold one of those values? I decided to try an idea.
“Hey, I’m trying out this new rule in my car where there’s no swearing allowed,” I said. They all gave me funny looks, but they went along with it. The result was amazing! Our conversations were hilarious because, instead of using swear words to express strong emotions, everyone found funnier ways to say things. It made our experiences in the car so much more enjoyable, and our friendships were strengthened as we kept the rule during car rides together.
I was so glad my friends were receptive to that no-swearing rule and were willing to uphold it in my car. It made me feel good to know I could stand up for my values and have my friends respect them. Best of all, it really made a difference in our friendships and helped us all to better appreciate the effects good language can have on people’s lives.

My first brush with the priesthood was when I was baptized. I was baptized in an irrigation canal in the little town of Oakley, Idaho. I was with my friends on the bank of that irrigation canal. We had on our bib swimming suits, which consisted of bib overalls with the legs cut out so you wouldn’t sink and holes cut in the pockets. We had never seen a swimming suit made out of knit or of other fabric. My father came out from the First Ward meetinghouse with his counselors. He was carrying a chair, and he put the chair on the side of the irrigation ditch. My father said, “David, come on over here; we’re going to baptize you.”

I dove in the canal and swam over to the other side, shivering. It was in September and a little cold, and young boys get the shivers, you know, when you have only bib overalls on. My father got down into the canal. As I remember, he didn’t take his shoes off or change anything but was just in his regular clothes. He showed me how to hold my hands, and then he baptized me. After I came up out of the water, we both crawled up on the bank of the canal. I sat in the chair, and they put their hands on my head and confirmed me a member of the Church. After that I dove in the canal and went over on the other side and joined my friends.

This was my first experience, really, with the priesthood.

“Hurry, Cathy,” Anne called over her shoulder to her sister as they ran along the road.
“I am hurrying!” Cathy yelled back, barely three steps behind her. Laughing, they turned into the parking lot of Mr. Parkins’s Plant Place. Breathing hard, they burst through the front door into the rich smell of potting soil and damp, growing things.
“Well, hello, girls.” Mr. Parkins smiled as he looked up. “Did you come to work?”
“Yes, please,” Anne said. “Today and tomorrow too, if you need us. We want to earn money to buy a present for Mum.”
In the early spring Mr. Parkins often paid the neighborhood children to help transplant seedlings. “Where is your cousin Emmy today?” he asked.
“She went to help Granny,” Cathy said.
“Well, come along.” Mr. Parkins led them into one of the long, low greenhouses. “We’re working on the petunias right now, and I need all the help I can get.”
In the greenhouse, long tables were covered with young petunia plants. Allen, Tom, and Lance were already working and laughing loudly.
Mr. Parkins stayed long enough to make sure the girls knew what to do and to check on the boys’ work. “I’m sure glad the five of you could come,” he said as he left.
The potting soil was crumbly and moist on Anne’s fingers as she carefully separated the plants. Cathy worked beside her, filling each of the small containers with soil and planting the seedlings. For a while no one said anything.
Then Lance elbowed Allen and whispered something in his ear. Allen laughed loudly, then whispered in Tom’s ear. Tom snorted. Then Lance stopped whispering and started saying nasty things out loud.
Anne’s fingers started to shake, and she felt slightly sick. “I wish Emmy was here,” she whispered to Cathy.
Cathy nodded. “So do I.” Emmy would know what to do. She was as brave as Nephi.
But Anne wasn’t Emmy, and she didn’t know what to do. She was afraid if she asked the boys to stop, they would just get worse. Now they were using words Anne knew were not right.
She looked over at Cathy. Cathy’s lips were pressed tightly together, and she was about to cry.
“Shall we leave?” Anne whispered.
“But I want to buy something nice for Mum,” Cathy said quietly.
“Me too,” Anne said. “Besides, Mr. Parkins said he needs all the help he can get.”
Cathy nodded and blinked as two tears slid down her cheeks. She hid her eyes so Lance, Allen, and Tom wouldn’t know she was crying.
Anne moved closer to her. She was angry now. If only Emmy was here! she thought. If only I knew what to do!
Suddenly she had an idea. Softly she started humming her favorite hymn. When Cathy heard the first few notes, she looked up at Anne in surprise. Then she smiled. By the end of the hymn, they were humming softly together.
The boys were still making ugly jokes, but Anne didn’t feel angry anymore. She and Cathy hummed “I Am a Child of God” a little louder, and by the end of that song, Lance was quieter. Anne, feeling braver, gave him a big smile as she started singing a Primary song. Cathy joined in, and their voices echoed sweetly through the greenhouse, while the boys gradually became silent.
Anne and Cathy were still singing Primary songs when Mr. Parkins poked his head in an hour later. “Sounds good, girls.” He came over to the long table. “Your work is good, too. But it’s almost dark—you’d better get home. I’m glad you’ll be coming back tomorrow—I can always use good, cheerful help.”
Rubbing the soil off their fingers, the children followed Mr. Parkins out of the greenhouse and into the early evening light. Lance, Allen, and Tom scooted past Anne and Cathy.
“Babies,” Lance hissed as he ran past. Anne just smiled at him again.
The air was cooler now, but the girls didn’t feel cold.
“I feel warm and happy,” Cathy said, looking up at the pink sky.
“Me, too,” Anne said. “Race you home!”

This story took place in the USA.
Annie rubbed the fabric of her dress. She tried to listen to the speakers. But she had a nervous, fluttery feeling in her stomach.
Today was the day Annie would start going to Young Women. She’d go to class right after sacrament meeting was over. Everyone told Annie she should be excited, but instead, she was scared.
She looked over at Tami, her older sister. Tami had been in Young Women for three years, and she loved it. She always told Annie how great it was. “You’ll make so many friends,” Tami said. “It’s different from Primary. It’s almost like you’re a grown-up.”
But Annie wasn’t like her sister. Tami liked to meet new people, and it was easy for her to make friends. Annie was quiet and would rather read or draw than talk to others.
Annie also had acne, and she felt shy about how she looked. She used special cream, which helped. But the red bumps on her skin just wouldn’t go away.
After sacrament meeting, Annie dragged her feet in the hallway. “I can’t go to Young Women today,” she told Mom and Tami.
Mom looked worried. “I thought you were excited about going to Young Women. What happened?”
“I don’t know any of the older girls.” Annie touched her face. “And they’ll probably laugh when they see me.”
Mom gave Annie a hug. “Remember that Tami will be there too.”
“I’m not like Tami,” Annie said. She looked at her sister. “You’re good at talking to people.”
“I know it’s hard to go to a new class,” Tami said. “But we’ll do this together. I felt scared when I started Young Women too.”
Annie stared at Tami with wide eyes. Tami always seemed so brave! She’d even tried out for her school musical and gotten the lead part. Annie didn’t do things like that. She just tried not to be noticed.
“But you’re never scared,” Annie said.
Tami smiled. “Of course I get scared! I was scared when I tried out for the musical. You know what I did?”
Annie shook her head.
“I prayed and did my best. And I helped other kids too. It seemed that a lot of them were scared just like me. Helping others be brave helped me be brave.”
Annie thought about that. Could she do what Tami did and help other girls in her class not be scared?
“Do you think you can go to Young Women today?” Mom asked.
Annie breathed deeply. Then she nodded. She could do it.
Annie and Tami walked to the Young Women classroom. Annie looked at the other girls. Some of them looked nervous like she was. Julie twisted a strand of hair around her finger while Erica chewed on her fingernails.
Annie thought about how she could help them. She went over to sit by Julie. “Are you nervous too?” Annie whispered. “It’ll be OK.”
Julie smiled, and Annie smiled back. Annie felt less scared now. Maybe Young Women really could be great.

Mandy dropped her book beneath the tree and excitedly ran to the fence. Next door a moving van had just pulled up at the curb.
Mandy watched closely as two men began to unload the van. Crossing her fingers, she wished very hard. The new neighbors just had to have a girl her age! All the other neighborhood kids were either older or younger than she was. It would be wonderful to have a friend her own age to talk to.
As Mandy stood watching and wishing, a car pulled up behind the moving van. A man and woman climbed out—and a girl just Mandy’s size!
“Hello!” Mandy called out.
The girl didn’t answer.
“Hello, there!” Mandy called again, waving her hand.
The parents were busy talking to the moving men, and the new girl was just staring at the house. She didn’t turn around.
Mandy choked back her disappointment as the girl followed her parents into the house. With a sigh, Mandy flopped under the tree again and tried to read her book. She couldn’t concentrate, though. She was too busy watching to see if the new girl would come back outside.
It wasn’t until the moving van was nearly empty that the neighbors reappeared. Mandy ran to the fence and tried again. “Hello!” she called out loudly.
The new girl still didn’t turn around. Her mother heard, though. She gestured to her daughter and pointed to Mandy. The girl turned and smiled.
Now that’s better. She must have been too busy thinking about something to hear me before, Mandy decided.
“My name’s Mandy. What’s yours?”
The new girl didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and wiggled her fingers at her mother. The mother nodded, and they both walked over to the fence where Mandy stood.
“Hello, Mandy. I’m Mrs. Henderson, and this is Carol.”
“Hello, Carol.”
Carol smiled shyly but still didn’t say anything.
“Please forgive Carol for not speaking to you,” continued Mrs. Henderson. “She was born deaf. Because she can’t hear, she can’t speak well enough for you to understand her. But I know she’d like to be your friend.”
Mr. Henderson called to his wife, and she hurried back to the moving van. Carol stayed by the fence and continued to smile at Mandy, but her eyes were looking all over the yard.
Mandy could feel her face turning hot with embarrassment. Now what do I do? she worried. How can I be friends with someone who can’t hear or speak? Carol and I can’t just sit and smile at each other all day.
Suddenly Carol turned and ran to her father. She made motions with her fingers and hands. Smiling fondly at her, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a little card, and gave it to her. When Carol ran back to the fence, she pointed to the gate and looked at Mandy questioningly.
“You want to come in?” asked Mandy. Then she thought, How dumb, talking to her like that. She can’t hear me.
But Carol was looking closely at Mandy and understood what Mandy had said. She nodded her head.
Mandy nodded back and watched while Carol ran to the gate and let herself in.
Carol went quickly to the tree and picked up Mandy’s book. She motioned for Mandy to join her.
Mandy wasn’t quite sure what to do, but Carol patted the ground beside her, so Mandy plopped down and leaned against the tree trunk while Carol opened the book. Then she thrust the little card into Mandy’s hand.
The card had a heading that read “Manual Alphabet.” Mandy knew that manual meant hand. A hand alphabet? she wondered. On the card were printed all the letters of the alphabet. Above each letter was a picture of a hand formed into a different shape.
Carol pointed to the word tree in Mandy’s book. Then she made her hand into a first and stuck her thumb up between the first and second fingers. She pointed to the letter T on Mandy’s card. Then she raised her first and second fingers into the air and crossed them.
Mandy looked at the card. Yes, that looked like an R.
Next Carol made another fist, only this time the thumb stretched below the tips of all four fingers.
“An E!” cried Mandy excitedly.
Carol smiled and nodded her head. In a strange-sounding voice she said something that sounded almost like “yes.”
Carol pointed to the word tree in the book again, then patted the tree they were leaning against. She raised her right arm in the air with all the fingers extended. Next she rested her right elbow on the back of her left hand.
“Tree?” asked Mandy.
Carol watched Mandy’s face carefully and nodded again.
Mandy grabbed the book and pointed to another word. When Carol spelled it with her fingers this time, Mandy imitated her. Then Carol made the sign that stood for the whole word. Every word could be spelled out, and many words had special signs of their own as well. Ideas, too, were communicated by using signs. Mandy tried to imitate the word sign.
Carol started to giggle, then Mandy giggled too. They laughed so hard that they both fell backward and bumped their heads against the tree.
O-u-c-h, spelled Mandy.
Tears of laughter rolled down Carol’s cheeks.
This is going to be fun, thought Mandy. She studied the manual alphabet card carefully. Then she pointed to Carol and spelled f-r-i-e-n-d.

The flight attendant led the way down the aisle of the airplane. “Here is your seat,” he said, smiling at Audrey. He pointed out the small window. “Look, they’re loading the baggage. Can you see your suitcase?”
Audrey pressed her nose against the window and watched workers place luggage into a big compartment in the side of the plane. “I can’t see mine. There are too many.”
“Well, I’m sure yours is there,” the flight attendant said reassuringly. “I have to go now, but I’ll be back to check on you.”
A tall man with silver-gray hair and smiling eyes sat down in the seat next to Audrey’s. “I’m Mr. Hampton. And whom do I have the pleasure of sitting by?”
Audrey shyly ducked her head and mumbled, “Audrey.”
“Did you say Audrey?”
Audrey nodded.
“What a lovely name.”
“I was named for my grandmother,” Audrey volunteered. “I have red hair like hers.” Audrey smiled, forgetting to be self-conscious about the gap in her teeth.
“Ah ha! It looks as if the tooth fairy has been busy,” Mr. Hampton teased. “Let me guess—you’re about six years old.”
“I’m seven. My teeth are just poky.”
“Maybe you were so busy growing your beautiful hair that your teeth just had to wait.”
They both laughed.
“I have a granddaughter about your age,” Mr. Hampton said wistfully.
“What’s her name?”
“Laura. I don’t get to see her very often, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because she lives too far away.”
“That’s what my grandpa and grandma said!” Audrey exclaimed. “So we planned for me to stay with them for two weeks.”
“That explains why you’re traveling alone.”
“Yes. It sounded like fun when we were planning it. I didn’t know it would be scary.”
“Is this the first time you’ve flown?”
“Yes. Can this giant airplane really fly?”
Mr. Hampton chuckled. “It really can. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“It looks like you two are getting along famously,” the flight attendant interjected. “Audrey, let me help you with your seat belt.”
As the giant engines roared to life and the plane taxied down the runway, Audrey nervously twisted her CTR ring around and around her finger, taking it off one finger and putting it on another, then repeating the process.
“That’s an interesting ring,” Mr. Hampton said, picking it up for her when she dropped it. “Where did you get it?”
“It’s a CTR ring. I got it in Primary.”
“What’s Primary, and what does CTR stand for?”
“Primary is a meeting in our church that’s for kids. I’m in the CTR class. CTR means ‘choose the right.’ When you’re a CTR, you get a ring like this to remind you to always choose the right.”
“Choose the right what?”
“Choose the right everything. Like if you’re tempted to tell a lie, you choose the right and tell the truth instead. We learn in Primary about Heavenly Father and Jesus and how They want us to live.”
Mr. Hampton gazed intently at Audrey’s upturned face for a minute. “What else do you learn?”
“Last week our lesson was about showing appreciation. Our teacher told us the story about the ten lepers and how Jesus healed them but only one came back to thank Him. Have you heard that story?”
Mr. Hampton nodded. “What church has this Primary in it?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Mr. Hampton thought for a moment. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”
“Have you ever heard of the Mormons?” Audrey asked.
“As in ‘Mormon Tabernacle Choir’?”
Audrey smiled. “Yes.”
“I’ve heard of them, but I never thought of it as a church organization, I guess. If it’s part of The Church … The Church of …”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Audrey prompted.
“Then where did the name Mormon come from?” Mr. Hampton wanted to know.
“It’s a nickname that came from our belief in the Book of Mormon. That’s a book of scriptures Heavenly Father helped Joseph Smith translate. Like the Bible, it tells about Jesus Christ, but it’s about His teachings to the Nephites and Lamanites, who lived in ancient America.”
“Very interesting. I recall having heard of a Joseph Smith and a Book of Mormon, but I never took it seriously. Did you learn all this in Primary?” Mr. Hampton asked.
“No, not everything,” Audrey explained. “I learn a lot in our family home evenings.”
“And what is family home evening?”
Time passed quickly as Mr. Hampton asked questions and Audrey answered. In what seemed like minutes, preparations were being made to land.
Twisting the CTR ring nervously around her finger, Audrey looked up expectantly at Mr. Hampton. “I’m scared. Will you help me find my grandpa and grandma please?”
“Of course,” Mr. Hampton assured her. “I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to meet them.”
Grandpa and Grandma were standing right next to the exit ramp. With a cry of joy, Audrey ran into their arms. After greetings and hugs were over, Audrey remembered Mr. Hampton. She looked around anxiously before spotting him just a few feet away watching the happy reunion. “Oh, Mr. Hampton, I was afraid you were gone,” Audrey called, running to his side. “Grandpa and Grandma, this is Mr. Hampton. He helped me not be afraid on the plane.”
“Your granddaughter is quite a young lady,” Mr. Hampton said as everyone shook hands. “She’s a wealth of information for one so young. She’s been telling me about your church. I’m very impressed with a church that teaches such important principles to children. I’d like to learn more about it.”
“Give me your address and telephone number,” Grandfather said, “and I’ll make arrangements for the missionaries to visit you.”
“I must be going,” Mr. Hampton said, handing Grandfather his business card. “Audrey, if I send you her address, will you write to my granddaughter Laura? She needs a friend like you.”
Audrey nodded.
“Good-bye. It’s been nice meeting you. And Audrey,” Mr. Hampton added, taking her small hands between his large ones, “I’ll never forget you.”
Grandpa, Grandma, and Audrey watched as Mr. Hampton walked away.
“Mr. Hampton, Mr. Hampton,” Audrey called, running after him. “I forgot to thank you. And I want to give you this,” she said, pressing her CTR ring into his hand.
He leaned down to protest. “I can’t take this—it’s your special ring.”
“It’s OK,” Audrey reassured him. “I can get another one. I thought it might help you to ‘choose the right.’” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek.
Mr. Hampton smiled. “I will, young lady, I will.”

Brother Thomson has told his children that a mission is like a university education in the school of life, and Matthew plans to enroll. His family helps him prepare for that experience as they helped him prepare for his baptism. For many weeks before he turned eight, the family home evenings were modified missionary discussions, preparing Matthew as any convert to the Church would prepare. When his baptism day came, he was thoroughly grounded in the covenants he was making and in the eternal meaning of this earthly ordinance.

In the 1960s, a professor at Stanford University began a modest experiment testing the willpower of four-year-old children. He placed before them a large marshmallow and then told them they could eat it right away or, if they waited for 15 minutes, they could have two marshmallows.
He then left the children alone and watched what happened behind a two-way mirror. Some of the children ate the marshmallow immediately; some could wait only a few minutes before giving in to temptation. Only 30 percent were able to wait.
It was a mildly interesting experiment, and the professor moved on to other areas of research, for, in his own words, “there are only so many things you can do with kids trying not to eat marshmallows.” But as time went on, he kept track of the children and began to notice an interesting correlation: the children who could not wait struggled later in life and had more behavioral problems, while those who waited tended to be more positive and better motivated, have higher grades and incomes, and have healthier relationships.
What started as a simple experiment with children and marshmallows became a landmark study suggesting that the ability to wait—to be patient—was a key character trait that might predict later success in life.1

In the Church we have many opportunities to perform charitable acts. Some of the greatest acts of charity begin with an outstretched hand of friendship. One great example was related by an elderly brother in a ward conference meeting.
This good brother was the Sunday School president and was called upon to bear his testimony. During twelve years of his life of inactivity he had been tossed to and fro with life’s problems and had become filled with deep despair. When life seemed its blackest, hands of fellowship and friendship were extended, first by home teachers, then by the bishop, then by members of the ward. As he returned to activity in the Church and felt the warm spirit of the members extended to him without judgment or reservation, he knew that the gospel of Jesus Christ was true and that there is always room for a repentant soul. The Lord forgives; his true followers also forgive. The hand of friendship is outstretched; the sinner repents; the circle of charity is complete.

Sometimes in our experience we also find people we tend to want to “chalk off.” We may consider someone a person who will never make it. In my young days, that person probably was Thorval Pattee. Thorval lived on the outskirts of town in Portland. His was a poor family; they didn’t have anything. We were part of the same Sunday School class that used to drive teacher after teacher out in despair. You remember those days, too. World War II came, and Thorval Pattee enlisted in the marines. He was in a battle in the South Pacific when a mortar shell fell into the foxhole with him and several of his buddies. Thorval lifted up the mortar shell to throw it out. It exploded at the last minute, filled him with shrapnel, and blew his hand nearly off, until it hung by a thread of skin. With his own knife he cut his hand off and then returned to get medical aid.
I saw Thorval when the war was over. There was a knock on my door at my home in Portland. I opened it up, and there he was—discharged now—with an ex-marine hat on and a T-shirt covered back and forth with wires, straps, and pullies that manipulated the hook that replaced his right hand. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and he was a bitter, cynical young man. We talked and visited, and I wondered what would happen to Thorval Pattee.
In contrast to Thorval, there was another young man in our Sunday School class who was the good boy. This was Daryl Porter. Do you have any Daryl Porters in your Sunday School class, the one who is always quiet, the one who is always good, the one whose name is always brought up when your mother says “Why can’t you be like Daryl Porter?” The years went by, and I saw neither Thorval Pattee nor Daryl Porter. Then, not long ago, after many years had gone by and I’d been at BYU for some time, I received a phone call one evening. A voice from the past said “Bill, this is Thorval Pattee.” I was delighted and I said, “Where are you?”
“I’m here in Provo.”
“Why are you here in Provo?”
“I am here to see my daughter graduate from BYU.”
“Well, come up. I’d like to have a chance to visit.” So Thorval and his wife came to spend an evening with me and my family. I found out that at some point he had decided to go back to church, and a fine young lady at church had seen something there that others had not seen. She was able to respond to that, and he to her. So they were married, later sealed in the temple. They had a very fine family. He became the early morning seminary teacher in his small community and now was at BYU to watch his daughter graduate. Truly in the case of Thorval the race was not to the swift nor the battle to the strong, but to him who endures to the end.
Now the race is not yet over for Thorval Pattee. I asked him about Daryl Porter, and he said, “As far as I know, Daryl dropped out of the Church after the service was over and has never come back again.” But hopefully Daryl Porter has not yet given up in the race.

“Dinner will be ready in a half hour,” Brad’s mother called as he left the house.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll be back.”
Walking down a sidewalk bordered with red and pink petunias, Brad looked over his shoulder at the home he had just left, still impressed by the building of white brick and by the green majesty of trees that shaded it.
Facing forward again, Brad slid his fingers into the pockets of tight denim pants, thinking about the contrast between this house on a wide street in a medium-sized California city and the home he and his parents had lived in until two months earlier.
His father, John Brannigan, had been determined to get his family out of the third-floor railroad flat on a Brooklyn street where poverty forced him to take his bride, but his son was 15 before John Brannigan, working days and going to school nights, received his degree that resulted in a job with an electronics firm and eventually earned for him the position with his company’s California office.
The three-bedroom home they bought was so different from the dreary flat Brad had grown up in, the quietness of the suburban neighborhood such a contrast to the day-and-night uproar of the Brooklyn street, that Brad had no more than begun his adjustment to the change.
“Not that I don’t enjoy the scenery and the climate,” thought Brad, “and I envy Mom her delight in our home.” He thought, too, that he understood his father’s pride in his ability to provide so well for his wife and son. Brad wondered, with a sharp twinge of guilt, whether his parents were aware of his unsettled discontent.
Mostly he missed the camaraderie of friends in Brooklyn he’d known all his life, who understood him in a way he was sure no one in this western community ever would.
Even as he brooded over his lack of companionship, he heard a cheerful, “Hi, Brad. How’s the boy?”
He hadn’t noticed Jeff Collier’s approach, so the stocky senior had greeted him and walked on before Brad could respond. Frowning, he looked after the retreating figure.
“How’s the boy?” he mimicked in a sarcastic undertone. “A lot he cares.” At the same time, he was surprised that the other boy even knew his name. Brad had been a student at Caulfield High for barely a month. In that time he had spoken to no more than half a dozen fellow seniors, but he recognized the class president. That Jeff Collier also recognized him disturbed Brad. Walking on, he decided he must have been pointed out to Jeff as “the dude with the weird accent.”
Brad entered a corner drugstore and an agony of homesickness surged through him. No place else in the California town reminded him of his own faraway city, but pausing beside the magazine rack he looked at publications that were duplicates of those on display in the drugstore in Brooklyn. An identical odor that combined the perfume of cosmetics with the antiseptic smell of medicines deepened his nostalgia.
Seated on a stool covered in shiny orange vinyl, Brad studied, with little interest, his reflection in the mirror behind the counter—a lean, tanned face, a thatch of licorice black hair worn loose over green eyes accented by arched, black brows.
The boy behind the counter asked, “What’ll it be?”
“Fresh limeade. Heavy on the fresh.”
Placing a frosted glass in front of Brad, the boy leaned his weight on folded arms.
“I know you,” he said. “You’re in my chemistry class. Have you finished the outside experiment yet?”
With slow deliberation Brad pulled the glass close, removed paper from a straw. Even though classes in his new school were hard for Brad, he was doing well in everything but chemistry. He felt sure the boy who still waited for an answer knew this, that he was taunting him. Grimly Brad drew tart liquid through the straw, thinking, “The guys in school must joke about how tough they think the students in my Brooklyn school were. Bet they think I didn’t learn a thing.”
His voice bitter with resentment, Brad said, “I suppose you breezed right through the experiment.”
The boy straightened. “Don’t even know where to start. I thought maybe we could talk it over, and also I’d like to—”
“Fat chance, man!” Brad tossed a quarter onto the counter and stalked out of the drugstore, the metallic ring of the coin echoing in his head. Fighting the ache of hurt in his throat, he strode toward his home asking himself, “How long before these dudes stop being suspicious of my background?” Brad was sure his classmates suspected him of carrying a switchblade, that they thought his clothes outlandish, and the few times he had spoken in a classroom, he’d caught glances exchanged between several fellow students who appeared to be highly amused because his speech was so different from their own.
In his preoccupation Brad nearly collided with a girl who suddenly appeared around a corner. Mumbling, “Sorry,” he would have hurried on, but she spoke his name.
“Brad Brannigan! Do you always walk right past people you know?”
Recognizing Jill Fenton he wished he could know her. Since his first day in English literature class he had been very much aware of the tall girl with the ash-blonde hair, had admired the friendliness of a smile that seemed to include everyone.
“Even me,” thought Brad. “A doll like Jill wouldn’t cut anybody.” Convinced she spoke to him only because she pitied him, resenting that pity so intensely he could barely speak, Brad muttered, “Gotta go, Jill. See you around.”
As he brushed past her, Brad’s quick sideways glimpse of the girl’s face left him with the uneasy feeling that his abruptness had marred her bright mood. Steps faltering he paused, then turned, but she was walking rapidly away, and Brad told himself, “What makes me think a snub from a guy she couldn’t really give a hang about would bother a popular girl like Jill?”
Dismissing his uneasiness, Brad was soon in an area of the town where he had been several times because a building on the corner of Vine and First streets attracted him. Rich green lawns, trimmed shrubs, and brightly grouped flowers surrounded a large structure of tan brick topped by a tapered, heaven-pointing spire. Brad thought the building was probably a church, but he couldn’t understand why there should be so much activity inside it. Every time he had walked by, people seemed to be going in or coming out.
Leaning against a tree Brad thought about his own religious background. His parents were good, honest people who had explained to him as much about God and the plan of life as they understood themselves, and although aware of the many shadings between right and wrong, Brad still felt a yearning to understand the reason for his existence, and he sensed, from the expressions of purposeful contentment on the faces of both adults and children who went in and out of the building that they knew the reason for theirs.
With a shrug, assuring himself that contentment and self-assurance were moods that could hardly be influenced by anything that took place inside a structure of brick and wood, Brad started home again, hoping he would meet no more of his classmates, not sure he could cope with another condescending greeting, but as he turned to go up the walk toward his house, four girls, walking together, called, “Hi, Brad!” not seeming to notice his surly lack of response.
After a night made restless by loneliness and a wretched sense of displacement, Brad left for school, wondering wearily whether he could ever hurdle the barrier of his strangeness, ever feel himself a part of the California community.
He was so emotionally off-balance all day that when Jeff Collier caught up with him in the hall after the last period, he walked along, unresisting, as Jeff propelled him down the hall with a hand under his elbow.
“Brad, we require another warm body on the decorating committee for the Senior Hop,” Jeff said. “You’ll be glad to know you just volunteered.”
Brad, irritated, wondered why he should help with a dance he hadn’t even considered attending, but before he could voice his refusal, Jeff spoke again.
“I’ll let you know in a couple of days where and when we’ll meet. Okay?”
To his surprise Brad heard himself answer, “Okay,” and felt the muscles in his cheeks relax in a grin, a response to the cheerful smile Jeff gave him.
Still off guard, Brad stopped to wait for Jill Fenton when she called to him outside the school.
She looked up at him with a smile that was hesitant, Brad suspected, because of his abruptness with her the evening before, but she said, “Brad, I wondered whether you’d like to come to activity night tonight.”
“To what?”
Jill laughed. “Oh, it’s an auxiliary of the church a lot of us in this high school belong to. We’re Latter-day Saints.”
“That’s one I never heard of.”
“Some people call us Mormons,” Jill continued, and before Brad could say that he had, indeed, heard of that church, but nothing he’d care to repeat, she added, “We have a chapel on the corner of Vine and First streets. If you’ll be there at 7:30 tonight, I’ll meet you at the door.”
Never could Brad remember living through such an endless evening. He couldn’t eat his dinner; then he had to spend the next hour assuring his mother that no, he wasn’t sick and yes, everything was fine at school. By 7:15 he had definitely decided he wouldn’t go anywhere near the Mormon chapel, and at 7:20 he called, “I’m going out, Mom. I won’t be late,” as he raced out of the house. What if Jill had given up on him? What if he couldn’t find her when he got to the chapel? But as he stepped onto the wide porch, Jill came through the door.
“Oh, Brad, I’m glad you came, but we’ll have to hurry. Rehearsal has already started.”
He followed Jill through a red-carpeted foyer into what was, to his surprise, an enormous high-ceilinged room that looked like a gymnasium. Near a stage on one side of the oblong area at least 30 young people, who appeared to range in age from about 12 to 17 or 18, milled around. Among them were several adults, including a big man whose broad, animated face was edged by rust-shaded sideburns. He turned as Jill, with Brad behind her, walked up to him.
Jill’s hand on his arm moved Brad forward.
“Brother Hill, this is Bradley Brannigan, the new boy in school I told you about. Won’t he be perfect for the Indian chief?”
“Hey, yeah, he sure will!” The man’s examination of Brad was candid and jovial. “Perfect. How about it, Brannigan? You ready to be in our show?”
“Your what?” Brad was confused, not only by the request, but by the bustle around him and the chatter that was suddenly drowned out by a reverberating chord on the piano which seemed to be a signal for most of the young people to run onto the stage where they lined up, arms linked.
As one of the group began to rehearse the others in what appeared to be a somewhat complex dance routine, Jill said, “Brad, our church has all kinds of interesting activities for the boys and girls our age. One of the things we’re doing in this ward right now is a musical show.”
Brad’s bewilderment must have shown in his face because Jill, smiling, explained to him that a ward was an area division of the Latter-day Saint church and that the show now in rehearsal was a dance-drama-musical production put on by the young people of the ward with token help from qualified adults.
“Paul Ensign and Jeff Collier wrote the words and music for this show,” Jill went on, “but we didn’t have anyone who seemed to be right for the part of the Indian chief. Paul said he saw you in the drugstore yesterday and thought how good you’d be, but he couldn’t get you to talk to him, so he asked me to invite you here tonight.”
Intrigued by what Jill told him, but unable even to imagine himself taking part in such a production, actually performing in front of an audience, Brad said, “Oh, I couldn’t do a thing like that, Jill, and anyway I’m not a member of your church, so—”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter at all,“ she said quickly. “You live close, and we desperately need your tall, dark, and handsome presence.”
“Flattery,” said Mr. Hill who had come up to them, “should get you everywhere, Jill. Come on, young fellow, let’s see what you can do.”
Brad, walking forward when Jill did, was amazed to find his feet carrying him onto the stage where he was thrust out in front of the grouped boys and girls. He wasn’t given a chance to say he wouldn’t be an Indian chief. Dazed, he accepted the script thrust into his hands, read lines each time Paul Ensign told him to, and when the play’s finale was reached, he was one of the performers who lined up to sing, with loud enthusiasm, “Home, Home on the Range.”
He left the chapel, part of a large group, and when they reached his house, those who were still together chorused, “Goodnight, Brad!” and “See you tomorrow.”
A glow that had been lit inside him during the evening burned around Brad’s heart and was renewed every time he remembered, during the night, how casually, yet how completely, the friendly, cheerful group had accepted him as one of them.
Entering the school building next morning, Brad was filled with anxiety and anticipation. Would the wondrous sense of belonging, which had so warmed him the night before, carry into the school day, or must he continue to keep himself apart—continue to remain different and alone?
He didn’t have long to wonder. He was barely inside his first classroom when a vivacious brunette who had played the part of an Indian princess the night before smiled at him from her seat across the room, and Jeff Collier lifted a hand in greeting when he walked in.
In his own seat Brad opened his English literature textbook to the poetry assigned for the day. A poem by Edwin Markham caught his attention. He read words that seemed to hold up a mirror reflecting his own recent actions—words about a rebel who, flaunting withdrawal from others, drew a circle around himself to shut out those who would befriend him.
Jill Fenton came in and touched Brad’s shoulder as she walked past him to her own seat. Lowering his head to hide tears, Brad read the poem’s final line that told of friends who, with their love, drew a circle around the rebel’s circle and took him in.

Jeremy didn’t like walking to school by himself. He looked down the sidewalk to see if Russell was outside. Russell was in the driveway, tinkering with his bike, so Jeremy quickly crossed the street.
Russell saw Jeremy and rode across the street on his bike. “Hey, Squirt, what’s the password?”
“Leave me alone, Russell,” said Jeremy, walking on.
Russell rode right behind him, the wheel of his bike nipping at Jeremy’s heels. When Jeremy stumbled and dropped his books, Russell rode away, laughing.
I’d like to punch him good, thought Jeremy as he picked up his books.
That afternoon when Jeremy got home from school, he saw new people moving into the house across the street. Jeremy sat on his front steps and watched. Maybe they have a big boy I can walk to school with, he thought.
But all that they had was a scrawny little girl. Her name was Olivia. Jeremy’s mother made him walk to school with her.
Olivia jumped over cracks in the sidewalk. “My Grandma Fenton says that it’s bad luck to step on cracks,” said Olivia. Then, “Did you know that a queen termite can lay a thousand eggs a day?”
“No,” said Jeremy. Why couldn’t she have been a boy? he wondered.
“I like to use my brain. See, I have big feet. That means that I’m smart. Grandma Fenton says so.”
When they reached Russell’s house, he was tinkering with his bike, as usual. He jumped onto it and rode it in front of them. “Hey, who’s the new kid?”
“Olivia Fenton,” said Olivia. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ho, ho, O Liver!” Russell mocked, blocking the sidewalk.
“Hey! You can’t do that!” yelled Olivia.
“Says who?”
“Says me, Olivia Fenton. I’m a citizen. I have rights!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
It took quite a while to get around Russell. Olivia was still screaming about her rights. Russell was laughing and calling her “O Liver.” Finally Olivia and Jeremy got away.
“Is he always like that?” Olivia asked.
“Every single day.”
“He’s a bully. I don’t like bullies,” said Olivia.
The next morning Olivia was wearing a knitted cap with a red pom-pom on top. “Grandma Fenton made this cap for me,” said Olivia.
“It looks like trouble to me,” said Jeremy.
Russell was polishing his bike. When he saw Olivia’s cap, he started laughing and pointing. He snatched the cap off her head and put it on.
“Give me that!” screamed Olivia.
She grabbed the cap.
They both pulled. Suddenly Olivia was holding the cap, and Russell was holding the pom-pom. He tied the pom-pom to his handlebars and rode away.
“You can’t do that! Come back!” Olivia screeched.
But Russell just rode away, laughing.
“That does it!” sputtered Olivia. “I’m going to figure out a way to make Russell stop bothering us.”
“The only way to stop Russell is to beat him up. A pip-squeak like you doesn’t have a chance.”
“There has to be another way. Grandma Fenton always says that there’s more than one way to catch a skunk in a pumpkin patch.”
At recess that morning Jeremy saw Olivia hanging upside down from the bars. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m letting the blood run to my head.” She hopped down. “I’ve thought of a plan. Tomorrow we are going to ride our bikes to school.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see,” Olivia replied.
“I don’t understand,” said Jeremy, “but I hope it works.”
The next morning Jeremy rode his bike across the street to meet Olivia. Olivia was walking her bike.
“Aren’t you going to ride?”
“No,” said Olivia. “My bike’s broken.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
“You’ll see,” said Olivia.
Jeremy rode slowly so that Olivia could keep up with him.
Russell was waiting for them. “Hey, O Liver, why aren’t you riding your bike?” he yelled.
“It’s broken,” said Olivia.
“Let me look at it,” said Russell.
“Well …”
“Come on. I can fix it!” Russell said eagerly.
“OK, but be careful. Don’t make it worse.” Olivia handed over her bike.
Russell took it into his garage and got out his tools. He wiggled and adjusted and tightened. He looked very happy. “There. It’s fixed!”
Olivia got on her bike and rode down the driveway. “It is fixed—and you did it, Russell!”
Russell grinned. “I’d better ride along with you just to make sure it’s all right,” he said.
When they got to school, Olivia told everyone how Russell had fixed her bicycle. After that, Russell became the official bike repairman of Cherry Street. He was always busy working on someone’s bike. And every morning he rode to school with Jeremy and Olivia.
“How did you know that he could fix it?” Jeremy asked Olivia later.
“I just loosened a few nuts,” said Olivia. “Since he was always working on his bike, I figured that he would be able to fix it.”
“Pretty clever,” said Jeremy.
Olivia grinned. “Grandma Fenton says that you can catch more files with honey than with vinegar.”

When President Wilford Woodruff was a child, he lived in Connecticut and worked in his family’s flourmill and sawmill. Both his father and grandfather worked at the mills and encouraged him to put in a full day’s work. Some days Wilford worked for 18 hours!
Father: Are you ready for another day, Son? Nothing will make you feel more satisfied than working with your hands.
When his work was done Wilford liked to relax in the peace and quiet of nature. Sometimes he and his brother Azmon would go fishing. They were known as the best fishermen in the area.
One day after work Wilford discovered an island in the middle of his fishing stream. The island was covered with wildflowers. Wilford would lie on his back among the wildflowers and gaze up at the clouds.
Wilford: I certainly love this place. It’s good to get away from the noise of life and be alone for a few minutes.
During these quiet moments Wilford often thought about Heavenly Father. He would pray earnestly to better understand the scriptures he read each day.
Wilford: There are so many different churches and religions. I just want to know God’s will.
As he grew older Wilford continued doing the things he loved as a child—fishing and praying. While traveling across the plains with Brigham Young, Wilford fished at every possible spot.
Brigham: You sure love to fish, don’t you, Brother Wilford?
Wilford: It gives me time to meditate. Sometimes it gives me dinner too!
These prayers helped Wilford become a very faithful man and a Church leader. Other people noticed his good example and gave him the nickname “Wilford the Faithful.”