Gospel Story Finder

“Brady and I didn’t have a bad relationship. The problem was, we didn’t have a relationship at all. Involvement in school and my friends meant everything. I never took the time. When I heard about the experiment, I immediately thought of Brady, and after praying about it I was sure he was the one. At first it was a chore; then it became a little easier; then I realized he is fun! I just had to make the first move. Now he comes to invite me to do things with him.”—Brittany Brammer

Third, we can recount meaningful moments. Here is a brief story written by my father about a moment in his childhood. When he retired, instead of sitting on a rocking chair and watching TV, he learned to type, took college writing classes, and read his stories over the radio. He is now working on a series of novels. Notice how he tenderly picks up the voice of himself as a child in this story, and how the child, in his own tender way, comes to feel the concerns of his parents.
Mama told me not to go upstairs in that bedroom—the one across from mine. She told me that, but I was only three, and she didn’t tell me why. I wanted to see. I knew baby Carter was in that room, so why couldn’t I go see?
Dee and Beth were on the living room floor [looking] at toys in the Christmas catalog. They kept the book all for them because they were older and bigger. They made it so I couldn’t see, and I didn’t like them. I went to the end of the room to get away, and I sat where the stairs turn to go up, and I watched them. Cleo couldn’t see the pictures good either. She was bigger than me, but she cried more, and she went for Mama to hold her. Mama always had something to sew, but this time she was on a rocker chair, by the barrel stove, just to be warm and look at the wall across the room. Cleo wanted Mama to hold her and squeak the rocking chair, so that she could stop crying and suck her thumb. Papa got a chunk of coal and put it in the barrel stove to keep the fire going.
When no one looked, I sneaked up to the room. It was cold in the room. There was nothing there but a dresser at the side of the door, with a wood box that Papa made sitting on top of it. I pulled the drawers out to make steps to go up like a ladder, and I climbed my way up. I reached up and held on the edge of the box so I could stand on a drawer and be tall enough to reach in.
I put my hand way down in. And my fingers touched something like skin, but it was cold and I jerked back. I knew it was baby Carter. I was sure it was. There was no other place in the room for him to be. But he was cold. Why was he so cold? And why wasn’t he crying?
I climbed down fast. I almost fell over the drawers. I ran out the door and down the stairs, but I hung onto the rail so I wouldn’t fall. Then I went slow so they wouldn’t know I was gone. I sat on a step to look through the spindles at Papa and Mama, so I could think.
Why isn’t Carter crying? Carter didn’t cry all day. Why isn’t Papa playing with Carter? Papa always plays with Carter in the evening. Why doesn’t Mama get Carter and nurse him like before? Why doesn’t Mama get Carter and bring him down here where it’s warm, and hold him and kiss him?
Do they know he’s cold?

Amanda had been watching through the window for what seemed like hours. Finally the car pulled into the driveway. “Daddy’s home!” she shouted as she ran out the door. Before Daddy was even out of the car, Amanda was showing him her letter.
“Look, Daddy, I got a letter from Grandma! It came in the mail today. Mommy read it to me already, but I want you to read it again.”
Letters from Amanda’s grandma are especially fun to get because Amanda’s grandma and grandpa are missionaries far, far away in Paraguay (pah-rah-gwi). Almost everyone in Paraguay speaks Spanish, so Grandma and Grandpa have learned to speak Spanish too. They teach the people there about the Church. They also teach them how to sew and how to plant gardens, and they help them to build chicken coops and other things. Grandpa is even helping to build a meetinghouse there.
As soon as Daddy had a chance to get in the house and sit down, Amanda crawled up onto his lap. “Here, Daddy. Read my letter,” she said.
Daddy gave Amanda a big hug, then read this letter:
Dear Amanda,
We had so many interesting visitors at church last Sunday that I thought you would like to hear about them. Grandpa and I went to church in a little town called Itakyrú (ee-tahk-ee-roo). We are building a nice new meetinghouse there, but for now the members come to the home of the Ugarte (oo-gar-teh) family for church. There are two rooms in the house: a bedroom, where the whole family sleeps, and a kitchen, where Sister Ugarte cooks over an open fire. Between the two rooms is a covered area for the animals. There is a big box of corn there, and the dogs and pigs and chickens and ducks go in and out whenever they wish. The Ugarte family also has a little brown burro, a calf, and a pretty gray cat.
On Sunday, however, all the animals have to go out into the yard, and Brother Ugarte sets up benches for our meetings in the area between the two rooms. It is a very cool and pretty place to have a meeting.
Sacrament meeting last Sunday started out as usual. Then, after the announcements and opening song, we heard a strange munching noise. It was the little black calf. He had come in to listen and to eat some of his corn!
A little later, during the first talk, Grandpa leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Grandma, there is a little pig between my feet!”
“I know,” I whispered back, “and there is a little spotted dog under me.”
Just at that moment the little dog under me playfully nipped the little pig under Grandpa.
“Ooee! Ooee! Ooee!” squealed the pig, and it ran into the yard.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” barked the dog, following the pig into the yard.
“Amen,” said the speaker as he finished his talk.
Everyone stood up to sing a rest song. The little brown burro, which had been very reverent in the yard the whole time, decided he would like to sing. Have you ever heard a burro sing? They don’t stay with the music very well, and they always forget the words!
The second half of the meeting was much quieter. The pretty gray cat fell asleep outside near the burro, and the only new visitors to church were some ducks and a mother hen that came to eat the corn that the calf had spilled on the floor.
Soon the new meetinghouse in Itakyru will be finished. Then the animals won’t be able to come to church anymore, which is really too bad, because they seemed to enjoy being there with us.
Grandpa and I are very glad that we can be missionaries in Paraguay. Maybe someday you can be a missionary too. Don’t forget to be a good girl for your mommy and daddy.
Love,
Grandma

Clara loved her family’s Christmas Eve traditions. First they ate baked fish for dinner and Christmas cookies for dessert. Then they visited the Christmas market. When they got home, they read the Christmas story from the Bible together. And before bed they lit the Christmas tree for the first time and got to open one present each. It was Clara’s favorite night of the year. She could hardly wait!

Until Mom made an announcement.

“We’re having a special Christmas Eve guest this year. Remember Ms. Rainer?”

Clara groaned. “The neighbor Dad invited to church last week?”

“That’s right. Dad’s picking her up now.”

Clara plopped into a chair. How could she relax and have fun with a stranger around? Christmas Eve was ruined! Well, Ms. Rainer hadn’t come to church when Dad invited her. Maybe she wouldn’t come this time either.

But when Dad came through the door, the “special guest” was with him. Ms. Rainer looked tired and kind of sad. Clara said hello. But she didn’t want to say anything else. At dinner she just focused on her food while Mom and Dad chatted with Ms. Rainer.

“Have you ever taken dance lessons?” asked a soft voice. Clara saw that Ms. Rainer was waiting for her to answer. She nodded and looked back down at her plate.

“Me too,” said Ms. Rainer, her voice still quiet. “What’s your favorite dance style?”

Clara shrugged and pushed her vegetables around her plate.

“I love ballet,” Ms. Rainer said. “I was on a dance team at university. One year we traveled all over Europe. It was amazing.”

Clara looked up. That did sound amazing.

“What else do you like?” asked Clara.

Ms. Rainer gave a small smile. “Playing the piano. And math.”

Clara’s eyes got big. “Really? Math is my favorite subject!”

Clara talked to Ms. Rainer for the rest of dinner. She found out that Ms. Rainer had a college degree in math and was studying to become a math professor when she met her husband. He had made some bad choices and was now in prison.

After dinner Clara stayed by Ms. Rainer while they walked around the Christmas market. And when they read the Christmas story, she shared her scriptures with Ms. Rainer so she could follow along.

Soon it was time to open presents. Clara got some cozy purple pajamas. She couldn’t wait to put them on! But she felt a little bad that Ms. Rainer didn’t have a present.

Just then Mom handed a gift to Ms. Rainer. Ms. Rainer smiled shyly and unwrapped a pair of dark blue socks. She looked up at Mom with watery eyes. “Thank you. You really didn’t need to get me anything.”

Clara went to her bedroom and put on her new pajamas. She couldn’t stop thinking about Ms. Rainer. She seemed so grateful to get socks for Christmas!

As Clara slipped her own fuzzy socks on, she heard beautiful music begin to play. She ran downstairs to find Mom and Dad singing carols while Ms. Rainer played the piano. Clara joined in. As she sang, a warm feeling grew in her heart. “I guess it’s not so bad to have a guest on Christmas Eve,” she thought.

On Sunday, Ms. Rainer came to church and sat with Clara’s family during sacrament meeting. She looked really happy. Clara smiled as she shared her hymnbook with Ms. Rainer. Maybe it was time to add a new Christmas Eve tradition.

In stressing the need for mature men and women to be about the work of the Lord, President Benson related the experience of his two widowed sisters. One was the mother of ten children and the other the mother of eight. After they had sent their children on missions, they approached their bishops about going on missions themselves. President Benson relates that he remembers well the day a number of years ago when they called him and said, “Guess what? We have received our missionary calls.” President Benson said, “What missionary calls?” And they replied, “We’re both going to your old field of labor in England.” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1984, p. 66; or Ensign, May 1984, p. 45.)

They did go to England and served as companions for twenty months.

Meet Kennedy Basatiweln Ntanan, a member of the Accra Ghana Madina Stake, who spoke at a recent relaunch of the Gathering Place. During the event, he shared how attending classes there transformed his professional life. Initially disengaged, he found a renewed purpose when a work opportunity emerged that required a detailed data summary. Thanks to the Microsoft tools he learned at the Gathering Place, he skillfully led his team in creating clear and effective graphs for a client.
This experience impressed his client and bolstered Kennedy’s reputation as a valuable employee. He credits his success to the skills and confidence gained at the Gathering Place, proving that education can unlock new opportunities and enhance careers. Kennedy is now an enthusiastic advocate for attending classes at the Gathering Place.

A month ago, a personal friend of mine from the People's Republic of China sent me an email regarding his only daughter. Mr. Wang Fei, the former head coach of the Chinese Men's National Basketball Team, and I spend a great deal of time in China together training and instructing young Chinese athletes. Coach Wang Fei currently coaches a professional team in the Chinese Basketball Association and hopes to represent his country as the Head Coach for the Men's National Basketball Team in the 2008 Olympics in Beijing, China. I met Coach Wang Fei several years ago when he brought his National Team to train in Dallas, Texas. Through my conduct he learned at the onset of our relationship that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You see, Coach Wang Fei is not a member of the church and prior to our meeting had no previous knowledge of our religious beliefs. Coach Wang Fei once asked me why I didn't smoke or drink as it is customary for his coaching staff to smoke and drink during meals. At that time a brief discussion of the word of wisdom ensued and interestingly enough, he now shelters me from inappropriate offers by other individuals and immediately steps in to introduce me to others as a "mormon" and explains to them our beliefs in the word of wisdom. He also out of the utmost respect for me and my beliefs no longer personally smokes and drinks.
For the purpose of this presentation, I would now like to share parts of Coach Wang Fei's email to me with you:
"My daughter graduates from high school this spring. My wife and I are looking at different universities in Europe and America for her to attend. Many of these universities are very well-known and interested in her attending. Being that she is my only child, I really want the best situation for her. I know BYU-Hawaii is a special university in a special place. I respect BYU-Hawaii, the people, your religion, and university rules and guidelines. BYU-Hawaii is a great environment for students from all over the world who wish to learn and be educated. My wife and I want her to be surrounded by good people. I feel that BYU-Hawaii will be the perfect fit for my daughter."
Isn't it interesting brothers and sisters, that through our conduct a person like Wang Fei, who has never stepped foot onto our campus and knows very little about the gospel, has a desire to send his only daughter to be apart of our special university?
Brothers and sisters, "go out and teach the gospel, when necessary use words."
The third example that I would like to share with all of you about teaching the gospel involves the conversion of my lovely wife, Joselyn. I met Joselyn in the summer of 1997. She had just graduated from the University of Hawaii at Manoa and was beginning to make plans for the future.
When I met her, she was, as missionaries like to call it, "Golden." I say "Golden" because during our first encounter one of the first things she said to me was, "When are you going to take me to church?" Can you imagine, what was going through my mind at that very moment? Let's just say missionary work doesn't always come that easy. Little did I know that Joselyn was at a point in her life where she was searching for direction and guidance. Thus, after a few more encounters and the same question, I felt obliged to comply with her request and take her to church.
I invited Joselyn to attend the University of Hawaii Branch with me one Sunday morning. We sat in Sunday school while Joselyn anxiously awaited the lesson. And could you believe that the first lesson she heard was "Why not to date non-members?" Fortunately for me, she gave it another chance. That following Sunday we tried the family ward at the Makiki Tabernacle instead, and it was there that she found what she was looking for. Joselyn was later baptized in May of 1998 and one year later we were sealed for Time and All eternity. Till this day Joselyn is a constant reminder to me about the importance of teaching the gospel by example.

I grew up in a little town called Raymond, in the Western Canadian province of Alberta. As a boy, I always enjoyed it when my father invited me to ride with him in the car. It didn't really matter where we went, it was just fun to go someplace with my Dad. Dad was the town doctor, so sometimes he took me to his office or the hospital with him. Occasionally he would take me with him when he traveled to the neighboring towns of Magrath or Lethbridge. I especially liked it when we went to the town of Magrath because it usually meant we would get to stop at Denny's Ice Cream Parlor.

One Saturday, I was very excited when my father invited me to accompany him as he drove to visit a farmer friend who lived several hours away near the town of Rosemary. It was a beautiful spring day and I thought life was pretty wonderful as we drove across the countryside, passing the many farms and ranches. Dad would always point out important and interesting things to me as we drove along. We had a new white and green 1955 Plymouth that I thought was just the best looking car around. I thought, "How can life get any better than this?" just Dad and me in the new Plymouth.

When we arrived at the farm, we were greeted by the farmer and his children. Several of the children were about my age and they were happy to have a playmate for a couple of hours. As the fathers went one direction and the kids went the other, my father turned to me and said: "Bill, Have fun, but don't take your shoes off."

A spring thunderstorm had passed through the area earlier in the day leaving puddles of water in the pastures. It was warm and the prairie grass smell that comes after a rain storm was energizing. Soon we were playing tag in the horse pasture and having lots of fun. Running and splashing in the puddles got my running shoes and socks all wet so I decided I would just take them off and try to dry them out. I leaned them up against a fence post and pointed the inside so the sun would dry them out. Besides, running through the wet grass felt good on my feet. From my 10th year to my 11th year, I had grown taller and stronger and I remember being impressed with myself and how fast I could run. I was having a great time running around that pasture barefoot.

Suddenly I headed off in a different direction, running as hard as I could go. In a split second my delight turned to panic as I looked down and realized I was entering a prairie cactus patch. I tried to slow down, but it was too late. Barefoot, I ran right into the middle of that cactus patch. Prairie cactus grows low to the ground, and you can't really see it until you're on top of it.

Well, I was on top of it. So there I stood. In the middle of a cactus patch. Barefoot. In real pain. Embarrassed. Wondering why I had taken my shoes off. I also wondered why my Dad hadn't told me about the cactus. You see, we didn't have prairie cactus around my town, but my Dad knew it was different around Rosemary. Why hadn't he told me about the cactus? Why did he just tell me "Don't take your shoes off?"

Dad carried me to the car and laid me down in the back seat of the Plymouth. He told me we'd be home in a couple of hours when he would work on my feet. I had cactus thorns all over the bottom of both feet. The ride home was different than the ride to the farm.

I had plenty of time to think about why I hadn't followed the counsel my father had given.

When we got home, Dad didn't need to take me to the doctor, because he was the doctor. He just carried me into the house and laid me on the kitchen table. He got out his brown leather doctor bag and went to work on the bottom of my feet. I recall that he spent several hours with his tweezers, needle, razor blade and antiseptic as his slowly extracted every thorn from the bottom of my tender feet.

I know Dad thought I was pretty stupid for not heeding his warning. I'm kind of embarrassed to tell you this story, because you probably think I was pretty stupid, too.

However, the experience was a real blessing for me, because it helped me to focus on advise my father gave me from that time on.

In later years, I don't remember my father ever saying: "Remember the cactus patch."

However, I said it to myself many times. Especially when I got advice that didn't seem all that important, or when I could see no harm in ignoring the advice.

Quite often, I would say to myself: "Maybe my Dad knows something I haven't thought of." or "You're a stupid kid if you don't 'Remember the Cactus patch.'"

It’s hard to imagine how Alexis Thompson’s life could be much busier. She juggles a demanding academic load with frequent duty babysitting her two-year-old sister. And she is a dedicated musician who belongs to her high school orchestra, jazz band, chamber orchestra, and barbershop chorus, as well as a local youth symphony. So where does she find time for Personal Progress? Alexis uses time every Sunday to plan out what goals she will work on for the week. She also takes advantage of summer vacation to focus on Personal Progress.

For one of her value projects, Alexis used a talent she already knew she had, singing in her ward choir. For another, she branched out, volunteering to help in a special-needs seminary class. “This has been an incredible experience,” says Alexis. “It’s amazing to see the love and the testimony of the kids in the class.” It’s an experience she might not have made time for without Personal Progress.

“Josh, what’s the matter? You’ve been muttering to yourself ever since you sat down for breakfast. It’s the first day of summer vacation. You should be jumping for joy.”
I sighed. “Money, Mom. I need a job to earn money.”
She laughed. “How much? Fifty cents?”
“No. Lots. Fifty dollars would be nice.”
“That’s a lot. I can’t give you that much.”
“That’s OK—I want to earn it. It’s really important.”
“But why, honey? What for?”
“Mrs. Emery said that if the class can earn enough money, we can help Jenny Wong. She has to go to Boston for eye tests and a special pair of glasses. They cost a lot, and Jenny really needs them.”
“That’s a super idea, Josh. But what do you think you might do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to think of something all week. The whole project’s a secret. We want to surprise Jenny and her mother. Mrs. Wong’s been saving money for a year, Mrs. Emery told us, but still needs a lot more.”
“Is Jenny the girl you read aloud to sometimes?”
“Yes. We take turns. Her mother told the school nurse about these special glasses, and the nurse told Mrs. Emery. The class voted to make it our summer project.”
I went out and sat on the front steps to think. Across the street, Mr. Zelinsky was cutting his lawn. Back and forth he went, changing his lawn from a sea of dandelions to a smooth green carpet.
“These pesky weeds look like gold pieces from there, don’t they, Josh?” he called across to me. “My wife loves them. I hate them, but I’m teaching this bunch a lesson. The only trouble is that they’ll be right back up.”
Gold pieces, I thought idly. Up and down the street every lawn but ours shown brightly with “gold pieces.” My dad digs them out with a forked tool. “It’s the only way to beat a dandelion,” he tells my mother. “It’s tough on my back—but worth it.”
POW! The idea hit me. I scrambled to my feet and raced to my room, fished a big piece of cardboard from under my bed, grabbed a black marker, and began lettering like mad. In minutes it was done:
LION HUNTER WANTS WORK!
No lawn too big or too small
2¢ per lion dug
Call DIGGER JOSH, 555-3996
Now for a test. I carried my poster across the street and showed it to Mr. Zelinsky. “Will people hire me?” I asked. “I can do a good job.”
“Will they!” he snorted. “And I’m first. Josh, you’re hired right now. I want every pesky dandelion in this front lawn dug. Just tell me how many when you’re done.”
That was my start. Later that afternoon I finished—score: 187 dandelions, $3.74, an aching back, and joy in my heart! Zillions of dandelions to dig! All summer to work! I’d get all the other kids to go into business in their neighborhoods.
After a bit of R&R—rest and refreshments—I started out with my sign. By suppertime I’d helped seven classmates make their own signs and begin getting people lined up. Tomorrow I’ll tackle the biggest lawn on our street. It’s good for at least six dollars—if my back holds out.
Bed sure felt good when I tumbled in tonight. I know I’ll dream about dandelions, dollars, and eye glasses. Jenny’ll get her glasses for sure. How can a classful of lion hunters miss?

The home teachers had scarcely sat down and exchanged greetings with the family when their teenage son blurted out, “How can you say we’re the only true church when some of the best kids in school aren’t Mormons and they believe in their church just as much as we do?”
A quick glance at the young man’s father was met with a tired shrug, as much as if to say, “We’ve tried; now see what you can do with him.”
The older of the home teachers paused a moment, then said, “Well, Chris, that’s a fair question. It reminds me of something that happened when I was just a couple of years older than you are. When I first went away to college back east, I took certain notions along with me—prejudices, I guess. I thought I would be going from the shelter of simple farm life to a decadent city where my principles would be challenged every minute. But that didn’t really happen. I was surprised to find that most of my classmates were fine people. Some of them belonged to other churches, and some didn’t belong to any church at all. And as I observed their behavior, I sometimes wondered if I would have been as honest as many of them were if I hadn’t been raised in a Latter-day Saint family. Have you ever thought about that?”
Chris nodded, and the home teacher continued: “So when we say that ours is the only true church, we’re not saying that we’re superior to other people or that we’re the only people on earth who are concerned about doing good, but that this is the one church that the Lord has authorized through priesthood power to preach his gospel and perform the ordinances necessary for salvation. We want all people to have these good things. …”
The discussion continued calmly. After looking up “One Lord, one faith, one baptism” (Eph. 4:5) and a few other scriptures, Chris soon had a satisfactory answer to his question.
The response of this home teacher to Chris’s troubled question illustrates a number of principles that can be helpful in dealing with criticism positively and effectively:
1. Don’t be shocked; be prepared. Questions or statements that seem critical of the Church, of gospel principles, or of other members and leaders do confront home teachers from time to time. How they respond to such criticism can have a lasting effect upon the families they are called to assist. But if home teachers are prepared to respond in a reasonable way, and to exercise their influence “only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned; by kindness, and pure knowledge” (D&C 121:41–42), there will seldom be an occasion for surprise, embarrassment, or a collision of opinions.
Argument and contention have no place in home teaching. By responding with a sure gentleness, this home teacher was careful to leave Chris an easy way to agree with him when he eventually chose to.
2. Focus on the positive. When a troublesome statement is made, a thoughtful home teacher might begin by assuming that the person is trying to express an honest question. Then divide the statement into positive and negative elements, he can focus on the positive.
In this instance the home teacher saw that Chris’s statement had two parts: (1) the question of ours being the only true church, and (2) his feeling that there are many admirable people who are nonmembers. Therefore, the home teacher first focused on Chris’s positive feelings about his friends—something that both of them could agree on completely. Then, when everyone was comfortable in the discussion, he went on to deal with the doctrinal question that the young man had raised. Because of his approach, the home teacher was able to avoid an argument; and when there’s no argument to win, agreement is always easier.
3. Don’t be in a hurry to correct the error. It isn’t easy to change the direction of a person’s thinking when he is filled with emotion—and criticism is generally an emotional experience. Give the critic time and opportunity to correct himself.
In the days of the great cattle drives there were sometimes stampedes. A stampede was not only destructive to everything in its path, but it was also very harmful to the cattle themselves. The cowboys learned from experience that it was unwise to try to stop a stampede by meeting it head-on. Instead, they would ride alongside until they could reach the front of the herd and redirect the lead cattle into paths which would avoid harm until they could get the head cow in control, slowed down, and moving toward the desired destination.
Criticism that home teachers encounter often has many parallels with a cattle stampede. It is usually a result of fear, pain, hurt feelings, or misunderstanding. It is destructive not only to the criticized, but even more to the critic. And as with a stampede, it is generally not wise to try to stop criticism by direct confrontation. The most helpful way to begin is often to run alongside until you can redirect runaway emotions into calmer paths, just as Chris’s home teacher did.
Sometimes this requires that the home teacher simply be a listener, for listening often detects criticism that is voiced to cover up other problems. For example, “I just don’t like to go to meetings” may really mean, “I don’t have good hearing” or “I can’t quit smoking.” And the statement, “Relief Society is just a place for gossip” may mean, “My daughter and her husband are separating and I worry about what people will say.” By listening with patience and encouragement, the home teacher allows the person to overcome the hurt or weakness that is keeping him from enjoying the spirit of the gospel.
The Savior said, “Agree with thine adversary quickly, whiles thou art in the way with him” (Matt. 5:25). This does not mean that we should add our voices to the chorus of criticism. We should try to find a common, positive ground and establish a level of confidence before we try to correct or redirect. This was the home teacher’s approach with Chris: agree where you can, and don’t deal with divisive issues until you have created an atmosphere where calm discussion can take place.
Bear testimony. In a way that will be encouraging and uplifting, bear testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel and the power of revelation in directing the Church. Be careful not to convey a message of condemnation or antagonism toward the person you are trying to help.
Chris had other disturbing questions that had come up in talks with his friends—questions that were also of concern to his parents. Though inactive, they wanted their son to be positive about the Church but they didn’t have all the answers he needed. Therefore, when the home teachers left, it was agreed that they would return once a week for some time to teach the family gospel principles selected from a list of topics they prepared. After each lesson the family members were invited to ask any questions they desired.
This arrangement worked very well. In a later visit, Chris asked another question that was troubling him: “Why does the Church build so many expensive buildings while there are so many people starving in the world?”
The home teachers approached this question much the same as they did the previous one. Analyzing his statement, they saw that it too was composed of two parts: (1) a feeling of concern for the needy people of the earth, and (2) an assertion about the amount of money spent on Church buildings.
Having divided the question into its positive and negative elements, they focused on the positive—for, as long as the focus was on concern for the needy, they could be in complete agreement. One of the home teachers said:
“Chris, when you mention the poor, you’ve hit on one of the most important areas of concern in the Church. I suppose there have been very few times when the Lord was really pleased with the people of the earth and the way they lived. But one good example is Enoch’s city of Zion.” He thumbed through his scriptures and handed the book to Chris. “Read verse 18 there,” he said.
Chris read, “‘And the Lord called his people ZION, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them.’” (Moses 7:18.)
“In Zion there should be no poor,” said the home teacher, “and that’s a problem the Church is trying to do something about.” He mentioned the Church’s personal and family preparedness program, in which families are taught and encouraged to become literate and productive, to improve their employment, to be prepared through storage of necessary commodities, to look after their health, both physical and emotional. Then he added, “You mentioned Church buildings, Chris. Our meetinghouses are the places where we go to worship and to learn these important things.”
“That’s true,” said his companion. “I remember when I lived in the Northwest. It was a little town, and there weren’t many members there when we joined the Church. We were anxious to learn, and I can’t tell you how important it was to us to have a place to meet together and be taught. We built a chapel there. It was a real sacrifice, but we had no doubt that it was necessary and practical one. All building construction is expensive. We put into our chapel as much excellence and beauty as our limited funds would allow.”
“Where does the money come from?” asked Chris.
“From you and me,” the companion chuckled. “That’s why we watch the dollars carefully. Meetinghouses and temples are all well built but not extravagant. But I want to say that it’s hard to express the change that comes in the life of a new convert, even people as poor as we were. The Church has improved everything about us, I think—and I guess our standard of living too. That’s why I believe that ultimately the gospel is the solution to poverty and suffering of all kinds, spiritual and physical.”
In this instance again, these home teachers succeeded with Chris because they were able to move in the direction of his thoughts without contributing to the problem. Ignoring for a moment the hint of bitterness in his question, they reinforced his positive inclinations and thus turned a potentially negative experience into a fine teaching moment.
These same steps might well apply even in situations where there is criticism of individual Church leaders or other members. Regardless of what the criticism is, we should begin with whatever might be positive in the communication. It might simply be the implied wish that every leader-every member of the Church, for that matter—could be perfect. The initial discussion should lead away from the specific person to the principle that the objective of the gospel is to lead us to perfection. Above all, the home teacher should avoid giving the impression of joining in the criticism.
The discussion should eventually lead to the idea that leaders in the Church are called through the process of inspiration, and that sustaining means helping a person fulfill his responsibilities no matter what we think his shortcomings may be. It means upholding someone whom God has called. If you have served as a leader, you might tell of the difficulty of making certain decisions you were faced with, and how important that sustaining influence was to you.
Going further, the home teacher might find a gentle way to remind the critic that another person’s imperfections have little to do with his own salvation.
Regardless of the procedure we might use in responding to criticism, there is one principle which overshadows all others. That, of course, is love. Criticism may be one of the greatest obstacles to love, but love is also the greatest tool for overcoming criticism. The message of the gospel is that we should not only have love but that we should create love in the hearts of others. We create love by showing it. In home teaching we show love by recognizing the accomplishments, by visiting, by helping, teaching, supporting, and caring. That’s home teaching. It is the process by which we create love for the gospel, and for one another.

When I was in an elders quorum presidency, we worked with several less-active families. In a personal interview with one couple, I asked, “Isn’t it about time you went to the temple with your family?”
I couldn’t believe their answer: they said yes.
We cried.
They were asked to speak about their “conversion” in a Saturday evening session of stake conference, and as they expressed their love, I cried. I thought I had used up all my tears by the time we went to the temple—until I saw them and their beautiful daughters kneel at the altar and be sealed for time and eternity.

I have a pair of bed socks in the drawer next to my bed. They are pale green with a white band around the top, and they’re beginning to stretch now, because I wear them so often. They even have little balls of fluff all over, because they’re made of wool, and—well, that’s what happens to wool when you wash it. Just the same, I plan to keep using my bed socks for a long time, because of what they help me remember.
There was a girl in our branch (I’ll call her Susan). I could not get along with her. Whatever she did, I didn’t like. Not once did my antagonism find vocal expression, but it was always there, smoldering under the surface.
I knew my feelings were wrong and I made a real effort to be “nice,” but my attempts at friendliness were always a little strained. We seemed to get on best when I saw her least.
Our seminary teacher was a man concerned with love. He loved each member of his class and wanted us to do the same. Every week each of us received a letter from him with comments on our work and brief quotations that he felt were applicable to each of us individually. Often his letters to me would contain quiet little suggestions about needing people and the value of friendship. But being young and fiercely independent, I shrugged off his advice, saying, “Oh, there he is, going on about love again.” The incident I would like to relate took place in March, soon after the beginning of my second year in the same class as Susan. My birthday was early in March, and a day or two later was our weekly class. (We have home-study seminary and attend class once a week.)
The lesson went off much as usual, and after the closing prayer people began to leave. I was packing my books away when Susan, who was sitting in front of me, turned around and wished me happy birthday. As I smiled and thanked her, she shyly, and a little awkwardly, handed me a gift, saying, “This is for you. It’s just something small.”
I unwrapped the package. Inside was a bottle of bath oil and a pair of bed socks which Susan herself had knitted. I was touched. She had given me a gift, not just something hastily purchased during a rushed hour but something she had spent time making for me. I felt grateful and humbled.
I had never worn bed socks before, but I wear those green bed socks every winter. And each time I put them on my feet I remember Susan and her generosity and forgiving heart. Her knitting and the willingness to love that went with it have taught me a lesson that will last many years longer than the gift itself.

Our family has a dear friend, Mary, who passed away several years ago. She spent the last fifteen years of her life bedridden in a nursing home due to the effects of a stroke. When she was a young mother with three little children, her life was very busy! One day she went to visit a friend, and as they talked, her friend asked, “Mary, are you going to have any more children?” Mary answered with an emphatic, “No! I am done having children!” She told me that later that night when she was back in her home, she stewed over what she said to her friend. She regretted her words. In her prayers that night, she apologized to the Lord for what she said to her friend and told the Lord that if He wanted her to have more children, she would do it. A short time later, she found out that she was pregnant with her fourth and what would be her last child—a little boy. Then Mary told me, “That boy has been so good to me!” I love this story! It is the beautiful story of a humble woman who let God prevail in her life. I am confident that the Lord was grateful for Mary’s devotion, and He blessed her with this son. Of all her loving children, this son lived closest to the nursing home, and he spent many hours taking good care of his mother when she needed it the most.

What about giving a talk in sacrament meeting or presenting at an academic conference in your area of study? The first time I gave a talk at a major Alzheimer’s disease conference, I was in the first year of graduate school. It was the American Society of Human Genetics meetings, attended by over 10,000 scientists. My talk didn't have that many attendees. But I was terrified. I managed my fear with preparation. I prayed for guidance on how to prepare, and for the ability to do my very best work. I carefully made slides, wrote a word-for-word script for each slide, shared it with my Ph.D. advisor, and made edits. Then, I practiced it over and over. In the mirror. To the people in my research lab. And to Monica. Poor, kind Monica. I vividly remember plugging the computer into the TV in our little apartment in Saint Louis and giving my talk…over and over. Monica must have listen to it at least 10 times, and maybe even 20 times. When the moment to speak came, I was still nervous but not scared. I knew I had prepared and trusted the preparation. It went soooo well!

Jan banged the hot iron down on the pillowcase and grudgingly slid it back and forth until the fabric was smooth. I’m tired of ironing pillowcases! I’m tired of ironing everything! she thought as she looked at the pile of clean but wrinkled clothes. There’s too much to do!
The relentless howling of the fierce wind outside was interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of Jan’s iron thumping the ironing board. She glanced out the window at the raging blizzard and shivered. I wish I weren’t the oldest daughter. Then I wouldn’t have to do all the work while Mom’s sick.
Just an hour ago her mother had said, “When you’re finished with the ironing, dear, come to my room and we’ll decide what to prepare for dinner.”
Jan groaned to herself just thinking about dinner and dirty dishes. Why does it have to be me? It isn’t fair! Tears filled her eyes, and her long brown hair brushed her pale cheeks as she smoothed the pillowcase with her hand, folded it neatly, and added it to the growing pile of finished ironing. She thought of her mother resting in bed and the other four children playing quietly elsewhere in the house. The storm seemed to put a hush over everyone, as if they were just silently passing time until it was over.
Later, with a sigh of relief, Jan picked up the last item to iron—one of Dad’s handkerchiefs. I know Mom can’t help having to stay in bed so she won’t lose the baby, she reasoned as she ironed. I can tell she’s trying to act cheerful, but I know she’s pretty worried. And when Dad looks at her, he seems worried too.
Looking outside, Jan could see that the storm was getting worse. The wind shrieked louder and tore at the house, adding more gloom to her mood. Suddenly the laundry room light flickered and went out. It was still early enough so that, despite the storm, the snow reflected plenty of light through the window.
Jan became aware of a faint, musical sound. Where’s that coming from? she wondered. It can’t be the radio, because the power’s off. She moved to the doorway and listened.
“It’s really beautiful!” she whispered, still listening. She began to walk from room to room, following the flutelike sound and trying to discover where it was coming from. She wondered who could be playing it. No one in the family played the flute. The haunting sound was peaceful, smooth. It stopped, then started again, faded, then rose again.
Still following the sound, Jan came to the door of her own room! What’s going on? she wondered. The door was slightly open. Her ear tuned to the clear, gentle sound; she quietly entered. The reflection of the white snow swirling and drifting outside her window brightened the pinks and whites of her room. She followed the sound—louder now—to the window. Afraid of disturbing whatever was making the unusual music, she very cautiously reached up and moved the white, frothy curtain aside.
“Well, what do you know!” Jan exclaimed. The music she heard was being made naturally, and simply, by the raging wind! The wind was blowing so hard against her window that the air being forced through the cracks was making a delightful tune.
Jan stood there in awe, gazing at the window and the bright, drifting snow. Then, interrupting her reverie, she turned and ran to her mother’s room. Delighted to find her mother awake, Jan excitedly told her of her discovery.
Mother’s dark eyes sparkled, and her tired mouth widened into a smile. She lifted her hand for Jan to take. “Show me!” she said with excitement.
Jan supported her mother as they went to Jan’s room and quietly lay side by side on her bed. The only sound was the music of the wind.
“It’s lovely!” her mother whispered.
After listening in silence for a few more minutes, Jan said, “I’d really be scared to be out there in that blizzard all alone!”
“Yes, so would I,” agreed her mother. “But isn’t it wonderful how that wild storm can whistle through a tiny crack and provide us with such an unusual musical treat?”
“Yes.” Forgetting her fear, Jan snuggled closer and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Her thoughts drifted back to earlier in the afternoon. It had seemed like the end of the world then. But maybe things weren’t so bad after all. A feeling of peace and well-being swelled within her.
“Jan?” Her mother’s voice broke the silence. “With the power off, what shall we do for dinner?”
Jan giggled. “Well, I think we have enough stew left over from last night. I’ll put it in the pan and warm it up in the fireplace. Then we can sit around the fire and eat like the pioneers did!”
“Like the pioneers!” her mother echoed.
Jan remembered the peace and contentment she’d felt when she’d heard the music in the wind. She knew her life was a lot easier than that of the pioneers. She smiled and went to get the dinner ready.

Another example was with the young women. When each young woman reached her sixteenth birthday, together we reviewed her thoughts and concerns about dating. Then we looked at her eternal goals and encouraged her to discuss them with her parents and to remember them on her dates. As the years have gone by, a number of young women have told me how much it helped to remember their “sweet sixteen bishop’s interview” and the commitments they made to themselves and the Lord for achieving eternal goals.

Joel Herd of Rock Springs, Wyoming, responded quickly and correctly when a fellow student began choking on something he swallowed while in the school cafeteria. Joel applied the Heimlich maneuver he learned in his Boy Scouts first aid classes. The obstruction was cleared, and the student resumed breathing. Teachers nearby were called over, but by the time they arrived, Joel had taken care of the situation.

When you are 12 years old, life is hard enough. Caught between being a child and being a teenager, you struggle to really know who you are. I was in the middle of that struggle when my parents announced we were moving to the small town over the hill. The move was only a few miles away, but to me it was a world away.
I grew up in a suburban town of 30,000. I walked to school. The playground and the youth center were a block from home. And I went to the movies every Saturday.
Our new home was different. It was a rural town of 6,000—and planned to stay that way. I was a mile and a half (2.4 km) from school and had to ride the bus. My playground would become the woods and hills nearby. Saturday matinees would become only an occasional treat.
The move itself wasn’t so bad. I was adventurous and loved exploring. But I had a hard time fitting in at school. The other students had all grown up together, and I was the outsider. To make matters worse, I didn’t hide my emotions and was an easy target for bullies.
One of the biggest bullies I had to deal with was Tracy. That wouldn’t have been so bad, except Tracy is a girl.
I had dealt with boy bullies before. You either faced them or learned to avoid them. But Tracy seemed to be everywhere: in the hall, at lunch, in my classes. She had a way with insults that just chopped you to pieces. I dreaded seeing her anywhere.
Since it seemed I couldn’t avoid her, I had to face her, but I didn’t know how. A talk I heard at church changed all that. I don’t remember who was speaking, but I remember what was said. The speaker was talking about dealing with difficult people. He said, “If you can’t beat them, try loving them to death.” He got a laugh out of the congregation, but I thought about it for some time. I finally decided what to do with Tracy. I would “smother her with kindness.”
I started looking for Tracy the next day. When I saw her, I said, “Tracy, you look nice.” She looked shocked and stammered a thank you as we passed in the hall. I kept it up. Every time I saw her, I would pay her a compliment before she had a chance to say anything. The insults stopped, and my life gained a little peace.
A few months later, the school year was coming to a close. One of the closing activities was a dance in the gym during school hours. I went to it but didn’t feel like asking any girls to dance. Frankly, I had never asked a girl before. But then a girl came up to me and asked me to dance.
I was shocked to see that it was Tracy. I said yes, and we went out onto the floor. When the song was over, I said, “Thank you,” and Tracy went on her way.
I never did see her again. She moved away that summer. I hope she fit in at her new school more easily than I had. But I learned that day that my plan had worked. Where I had an enemy, I found a friend.

But her children had not forgotten her, either. Susan, only seven at the time of the separation, ran away when she was eleven and sought refuge with a Mormon family, hoping to find a trace of her Mormon mother. The baby was already dead; another daughter would die a few years later. But about 1870, a missionary met Susie Williams and mentioned her to the Yates family in Scipio. With so fragile a clue, mother and daughter were reunited in Utah.