Gospel Story Finder

The activities of June Conference meant the end of a year’s work on the Mia Maid youth ad hoc committee for Margaret Anderson of the Salt Lake Foothill Stake. She and other committee members served as a sounding board by filling out questionnaires on activities and lessons and then passing surveys out to friends. “I’ve really learned about the needs of others this past year, especially the needs of other Mia Maids. June Conference gave me the opportunity to present a skit about really getting involved in the Young Women program. It’s also been a lot of fun meeting new people from all over.”

When I was baptized in 1977 at the age of 10, my mother, with 8 children, was separated from my father, and we had many needs, both temporal and spiritual. The sisters of that small branch in the city of Oaxaca, Mexico, were faithful in visiting my mother to minister to her. These sisters lightened the burdens of my mother and the entire family in many ways; they were a great blessing in our lives.

Seth is running a dairy farm for his grandfather, who is in the hospital. When Grandpa’s best cow has trouble calving, Seth doesn’t know where to turn. His father is busy with the roundup, and Seth is too small to deliver the calf himself. Mrs. Bowers, the telephone switchboard operator, tells him to pray, but he doesn’t even know how to do that. Then two LDS missionaries come calling. One of them, a rancher, delivers the calf and teaches Seth how to pray.
The next two weeks seemed to fly by with the help of Elder Wood, the tall young man from the city, and Elder James, the rancher. Elder Wood kept the house spic and span, and Elder James helped Seth in the barn. As the missionary and the boy worked side by side, Elder James taught him more about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“Elder James,” Seth said one morning as they milked, “I like to pray, and it makes me feel good. But how do I know if I get an answer?”
Elder James continued to milk Sweetie with strong but gentle hands. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there are several ways. Mostly you start with faith that you’re really talking to your Heavenly Father. Then you learn to know when you get an answer. Some people just feel good, some feel peaceful, and some get ideas. Every person is different, and different problems sometimes require different kinds of answers.”
Seth thought about it. He did feel peaceful when he prayed, and sometimes new thoughts did seem to come into his mind.
Elder James continued. “When I was young, I liked to listen to the testimonies of prophets. I felt that if they could get direct answers to prayer, then I could too.” He carried his bucket of milk to the barn door, covered the bucket, and picked up a clean one. Then he leaned over the stall and looked at the boy for a minute. “Just keep praying and listening for answers,” he said. “It’s kind of like milking. At first it’s hard. You just have to keep trying and gaining strength. Soon, real soon, you get good at it.”
Seth finished milking his cow and stood up. He stretched and turned to the man. “Who were those prophets you were talking about—the ones who got answers to prayer?”
Elder James moved his milking stool next to Seth’s. “Sit down, boy,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about Joseph Smith.”
Seth listened intently. The story he heard filled him with amazement. A boy not much older than he was had actually talked to God and had seen His face! “Do you really believe that?” Seth asked.
“I really believe it.”
“This is important! Why doesn’t everyone know?”
Elder James shook his head sadly. “Not everyone believes that God would talk to a young boy. But He did, and great things have happened as a result.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, Joseph Smith received a record of people who lived on this continent hundreds of years ago. He translated the record and had it published in a book.”
“I’d like to see that book,” Seth said eagerly. “Do you have a copy?”
“Yes I do, and I’ll give it to you.”
Seth couldn’t even speak for a moment. Books were very expensive in Wyoming in the 1920s. “Th-Thank you,” he stammered. “Will you tell me more about it, please?”
They moved over to the last two cows, and as they milked, Elder James told him story after story from the Book of Mormon. Seth couldn’t seem to hear enough. “What happened to all those people?” Seth asked as they strained the milk.
“Well, the Nephites were all killed in battle. Some of the Indians in North and South America are what’s left of the Lamanites.”
Seth stared at him. “Really? Do they know that they’re the Lamanites?”
Elder James laughed. “Some—those who have read the book—do. It touches something inside of them. It’s very close to the traditions of their fathers.”
After the Elders left, Seth had so much to think about that he forgot to call his family. When the telephone rang, he jumped.
“Are you all right, Seth?” his mother’s worried voice asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just forgot to call.”
“Is everything ready for Grandpa?”
“Everything’s ready.”
Grandpa was coming home from the hospital the next day. Seth and the Elders had made sure that everything was clean and shiny. Elder Wood had even baked a cake, and it sat on the pantry shelf, covered with a clean cloth.
“We’ll be over after supper tomorrow,” Mom promised. “It’ll be good to see you, son. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Mom,” he said, and his voice got husky. Up till now, he’d been too busy to be homesick.
“I love you, Seth,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
When Grandma’s Model T came up the dusty road, Seth was waiting on the porch. It was wonderful to see them! Grandma bustled around and helped Grandpa out of the car. Seth got hugs from both of them before he carried in their bags and parcels.
“My, it’s good to be home!” Grandma said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep or a good meal since we left.”
“Me either!” Grandpa whispered weakly and chuckled.
Seth saw the twinkle in Grandpa’s eye and felt comforted. Grandpa was still Grandpa, even if his body seemed different. Seth helped get Grandpa settled in bed, then pulled a chair up to the bed and began his report on the farm.
“Sweetie’s giving more milk than ever!” he announced proudly. “And her calf is going to be as good as she is.” Then he told Grandpa about the missionaries helping with the farm.
“Who are these missionaries?” Grandpa asked with a scowl. “I don’t like strangers messing around with my animals.”
“They’ll be here this afternoon, and you can meet them. You’ll like them,” Seth promised. He ran out of the room and returned with his Book of Mormon. “While you’re waiting, you can read this book they left me. It’s about Jesus Christ.”
Grandpa continued to scowl. “It’s not the Bible! I don’t want to read it!”
“It’s really interesting,” Seth said, ignoring the scowl. “There’s a story about a good king named Benjamin. He worked as a farmer so the people wouldn’t have to support him.”
Grandpa’s gray brows came together, and Seth could tell that he was thinking. “Well, that does sound interesting. It just might be a good book—but it’s not the Bible!”
“They believe and use the Bible, too,” Seth explained. Then he left the bedroom so that Grandpa could rest. As he shut the door, he saw Grandpa opening the cover of the book.
The next morning Grandpa was still in bed, and Seth went in to see him before breakfast. Grandpa had the Book of Mormon open on his lap.
“I’ve been reading,” he said gruffly. “It’s a good book.”
Seth grinned. “I told you so.”
Grandpa looked at him. “I’ll say this for your missionaries. They’ve sure helped with the farm, and they can preach, too.”
He closed the book and looked thoughtful. “Maybe I ought to listen to them sometime.”
That afternoon when the missionaries came, Grandpa was ready. He listened as Elder James talked about Jesus Christ and the Restoration, and he asked questions. By the time the Elders left, Grandpa had invited them to come again.
Seth felt as if the whole farm had changed. The chores were still hard, and there was still a lot to do, but now he knew he could pray and get help. And Grandpa was reading the Book of Mormon.
He looked at the clear Wyoming sky and felt peaceful inside.

The influence of your mother will bless you throughout life, especially when you serve as a missionary. Long years ago, Elder Frank Croft was serving in the state of Alabama. While preaching to the people, he was forcefully abducted by a vicious gang, to be whipped and lashed across his bare back. Elder Croft was ordered to remove his coat and shirt before he was tied to a tree. As he did so, a letter he had recently received from his mother fell to the ground. The vile leader of the gang picked up the letter. Elder Croft closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer. The attacker read the letter from Elder Croft’s mother. From a copy of that letter, I quote:
“My beloved son, … remember the words of the Savior when He said, … ‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for my name’s sake. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad for you will have your reward in Heaven for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.’ Also remember the Savior upon the cross suffering from the sins of the world when He had uttered these immortal words, ‘Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Surely, my boy, they who are mistreating you … know not what they do or they would not do it. Sometime, somewhere, they will understand and then they will regret their action, and they will honor you for the glorious work you are doing. So be patient, my son; love those who mistreat you and say all manner of evil against you and the Lord will bless you and magnify you. … Remember also, my son, that day and night, your mother is praying for you.”
Elder Croft watched the hateful man as he studied the letter. He would read a line or two, then sit and ponder. He arose to approach his captive. The man said: “Feller, you must have a wonderful mother. You see, I once had one, too.” Then, addressing the mob, he said: “Men, after reading this Mormon’s mother’s letter, I just can’t go ahead with the job. Maybe we had better let him go.” Elder Croft was released without harm.3

While serving as a mission president in New York City, I was with some of our missionaries in a restaurant in the Bronx. A young family came in and sat near us. They appeared golden for the gospel. I watched our missionaries as they continued to visit with me, then noticed as the family concluded their meal and slipped out the door. Then I said, “Elders, there’s a lesson here today. You saw a lovely family come into this restaurant. What should we have done?”

One of the elders spoke up quickly: “I thought about getting up and going over to talk to them. I felt the nudge, but I didn’t respond.”

“Elders,” I said, “we must always act on our first prompting. That nudge you felt was the Holy Ghost!”

And my final example is of Karen Baker of the Aliso Creek Ward, Santa Margarita, California; she saw a need to teach her own and other neighborhood children the joy of service, so she started an organization to help. Her organization, Kids Who Care, offers children 13 and under—generally too young to volunteer on their own in community agencies—the opportunity to learn about service early. Founder Karen Baker enlisted her own younger children and invited other mothers and their children as well. Several embraced the idea, and now the regular service projects carried out by Kids Who Care involve 20 to 30 children.

Their monthly projects can range from recycling plastic trash and planting trees for an Earth Day activity to pooling their money to help provide dinners for the homeless at Thanksgiving. One of the most meaningful and enjoyable activities for the children, Sister Baker says, was taking valentines they had made to senior citizens at a retirement home.

When Kids Who Care came to the attention of syndicated columnist Elaine St. James, her comments appeared in the Los Angeles Times. The organization changed children’s focus, she wrote, from “What am I going to get?” to “What can I do for someone else?” Not only have the children become less materialistic, but “when kids are involved in service activities with their peers, it becomes a socially acceptable way to spend time and to have fun.” The parents have learned, she reported, that a monthly activity “has a much more long-lasting impact on the child than a once-a-year happening, such as serving a holiday meal at a homeless shelter. It inculcates the ‘helping others’ mentality at an early age, so it becomes a habit in a child’s life” (“These Children Help Raise Their Village,” Los Angeles Times, county edition, 13 Apr. 1998).

Photograph posed by model
I grew up in an unstable environment. My biological parents abused and neglected me, and I experienced a lot of difficult challenges. I battled with anxiety, body-image issues, anorexia, and situational depression that held me prisoner for years.
My biological parents had been sealed in the temple, but soon after I got baptized at eight, they started drifting away from the Church. And the further they drifted away from their covenants, the worse our situation became.
At 14, I was the caregiver to my autistic brother and my mother. I was lost and out of control. I hated myself and my situation and believed my life would never change.
But then a miracle happened. My biological mother realized she couldn’t take care of me and called her brother in Singapore to ask if he would adopt me. With packed bags and teary eyes, I boarded a plane to begin a new life—one free from abuse. But adjusting to my adopted family and a new culture was difficult, and I struggled to move forward.
My adoptive parents did everything they could to help me. I saw therapists and doctors. I also started going to church again, but learning about a Heavenly Father who loves me and has a purpose for me was hard, because I didn’t believe it after all I had endured.
I wasn’t happy. I didn’t know how to heal from the past and still felt hopeless about the future.
One day, I was pondering about how short mortality is. I didn’t want to spend my life unhappily. I needed to learn from my trials, apply the gospel principles I had been taught, and invite Christ into my life.
I took a leap of faith and started kneeling and asking Heavenly Father every day for the power to forgive my biological parents, to change my fear into faith, to find healing and happiness, and to recognize love in my life. I went to institute and began studying scriptures and applying gospel truths in my life.
I truly sought the healing power of Jesus Christ and His Atonement. And over time, my life started to change. As I was patient, received therapeutic and medicinal treatment, and filled my life with the Spirit each day, I began to heal: I felt less withdrawn and more like myself. I felt safe. I served others. I loved, forgave, and accepted myself. I built healthy, loving relationships. I began to feel Heavenly Father’s love for me. And for the first time in my life, I felt true joy.
I can’t change my past, but as Doctrine and Covenants 122:7 says, “All these things shall give [me] experience, and shall be for [my] good.” I know now that the Savior sustained me through my struggles. Despite them, I have grown so much because of my desire to change and because I continue to turn to Him.
If you are in a difficult family situation, know that you have a Father in Heaven who knows you and loves you and will open the doors to a bright future. Before being adopted, I told myself that my circumstances would never change, and that I would never get married or have children because I was afraid they would suffer as I did. But I’ve learned that no matter what struggles we have experienced in our families, as we seek Christ, we can build our future homes and eternal families with hope, gospel truths, and love.
As Elder Clark G. Gilbert of the Seventy taught: “We all … start in different places with different life endowments. Some are born with high intercepts, full of opportunity. Others face … circumstances that are challenging. … We then progress along a slope of personal progress. Our future will be determined far less by our starting point and much more by our slope. Jesus Christ sees divine potential no matter where we start. … He will do everything He can to help us turn our slopes toward heaven.”1
Whatever your circumstances, there is hope and healing found in Jesus Christ! He is with you, and He will guide you to peace and joy as you seek Him—always.

Over the years the New Era has brought answers to my problems and prayers. I am often amazed at how many times I have received a personal answer from the New Era’s pages. I would particularly like to thank you for the article “One on One” (Feb. 1995). Ever since I started junior high, my little brother and I have experienced a falling out. As my interests started changing, we spent less and less time with each other. After reading your article, I realized that what we needed to do was simply take a few minutes to get away from school, church, and family responsibilities long enough for us to just goof off and relax. I started by helping him with his favorite video game, and within a few days I noticed a change in our friendship. Our relationship still isn’t as strong as it was, but the isolation barrier is coming down quickly. I am eternally grateful to the New Era.
Ted CoxSacramento, California

While playing basketball at BYU back in the days of those really short shorts before you were born, one night before a game at the Marriott center, President Ezra Taft Benson, the living Prophet, came to visit us in a reception room. It was a very special 15 minutes. Just before we were headed out to play our coach asked the Prophet if he had any words of wisdom for us. In response, President Benson took about 60 seconds and, for me, taught one of the most important lessons in my life at that time when I was 23, and today in my fifties. Among other things about the Holy Ghost, he said, “The Spirit will be your greatest asset in life. If He is with you, you will achieve all your righteous desires. If He is not, you won’t!” To my best recollection, he went on to say that we can fool a lot of people, but not ourselves. We know if we have the Holy Ghost in our lives, and we know if we do not. He then invited us to do whatever was needed to have the Spirit in our lives.

The principles we have discussed I know are true. They have blessed my life many times. One vivid example is when I was called to be a mission president. At the time I was working as a civilian for an admiral in charge of a program essential to the national defense of our country. When I told the admiral of the call, he was most upset because he did not understand how it had come and what it meant. He concluded a tense conversation with these words: “You are a traitor to your country. I’ll see that you never have success in this industry. I will not speak to you again. You are finished here. If that’s the way Mormons are, I’m going to get rid of all that work for me.”

I said, “Admiral, I will carefully turn my assignment over to a replacement unless you prevent me from continuing in this office.”

I knew what was right for me to do, but I was very concerned that my decision could cause a loss of work for innocent people who were honorably supporting their families in the program. As I struggled with that thought, there came into my mind the words of the song “Do what is right; let the consequence follow” (“Do What Is Right,” Hymns, 1985, no. 237). I could not see how that challenge could possibly be worked out, but I felt a peace and a calmness as I proceeded to do my best to instruct a replacement.

I can see now that the Lord guided me each step of the way in what to do and what to say. My replacement was a very capable, experienced individual who learned rapidly. I was impressed to identify those things that needed to be done and even was able to outline some suggestions for important future improvements in the program.

On my last day at work I met with the admiral again. The experience was totally different. That conversation ended with a much deeper appreciation for each other and for my beliefs. No other Church member was adversely affected because of my decision.

As we close this experience together, think of what the words of the song “Do What Is Right” mean in your life. May the doctrinal message it contains be as helpful to you as it has been to me.

Life is full of mountains to conquer, fears to overcome, service to give and happiness to enjoy.For a day, I stood nervously watching the summit of the Grant Teton as my teenage son climbed under the watchful care of a friend.

The three-some had planned for this excursion for many months. It had started out as a priest quorum activity, but when it came down to the climb, only two boys and their leader were ready for the challenge. Brent called me the night before to explain the procedures they would be using to make the attempt of the summit the next morning. "There are only a couple of places where we will have to repel more than a few hundred feet," he casually mentioned. "One place we will have to repel backwards, but it will be okay," he assured me. At that point I merely said, "Don't tell me anymore. Just assure me that you will bring my son back in the same condition I give him to you in the morning." That was a foolish statement on my part. My son did return, but in many ways he would never be the same, for he had been to the top, he had reached the summit. He had been stretched.

We, too, will never be the same after going through our trials and challenges in this life, and that is the whole purpose. We skin our knees and bloody our hands as we struggle against the sharp rocks. But in the process, we are transformed into stronger, more loving, more compassionate, more sensitive individuals. Trials when viewed from an eternal perspective bring wisdom and gratitude.

A good example of this kind of misrepresentation took place when the subject of the Latter-day Saint pioneers came up in my daughter Sarah’s school classroom a few years ago. One of her classmates said, “My daddy says Mormons are people who live in Utah and worship idols.” Sarah quickly answered back, “Well, I’m a Mormon, and we don’t worship idols.” But many of her classmates never did believe her, largely because they had already accepted the misrepresentation.

To illustrate this further, I share the true account of a family with five sons who moved from Los Angeles, California, USA, to a small community some years ago. The two oldest sons began playing high school sports and associating with friends, leaders, and coaches—many of whom were faithful members of the Church. These relationships helped lead to the baptism of Fernando, the oldest, and his next younger brother.
Fernando later moved away from home, where he continued his education and played college football. He married his high school sweetheart, Bayley, in the temple. As Fernando and Bayley finished their schooling, they eagerly anticipated the birth of their first child—a baby girl. But during the process of their families helping to move Fernando and Bayley back home, Bayley and her sister were driving on the freeway and were in a tragic accident involving many vehicles. Bayley and her unborn daughter lost their lives.
Yet as deep as was Fernando’s pain, as well as that of Bayley’s parents and siblings, so too was the depth of contrasting peace and comfort that distilled upon them almost immediately. The Holy Ghost in His role as Comforter truly sustained Fernando through this incomprehensible affliction. The Spirit communicated an abiding peace that led Fernando to an attitude of forgiveness and love toward everyone involved in the tragic crash.
Bayley’s parents called her brother who was serving as a missionary at the time of the accident. He described in a letter his feelings upon hearing the difficult news of his beloved sister: “It was amazing to hear your voices so calm in the midst of a tempest. I did not know what to say. … All I could think of is my sister may not be there when I come home. … I was comforted by your infallible testimonies of the Savior and His plan. The same sweet spirit that brings me to the verge of tears as I study and teach filled my heart. I was then comforted and reminded of the things that I know.”

I love the following example, taken from an article entitled “A Day at the Beach” by Arthur Gordon. Said he:
“When I was around thirteen and my brother ten, Father had promised to take us to the circus. But at lunchtime there was a phone call; some urgent business required his attention downtown. We braced ourselves for disappointment. Then we heard him say, ‘No, I won’t be down. It’ll have to wait.’
“When he came back to the table, Mother smiled [and said,] ‘The circus keeps coming back, you know.’
“‘I know,’ said Father. ‘But childhood doesn’t.’”

There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.

When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.

“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.

They stopped talking and considered.

“We just got here,” one said.

“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.

“Good,” said Frank.

One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.

I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”

They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.

He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.

I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.

Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.

He raised his hands above the keyboard.

“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.

He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.

That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.

“So, how was it?”

“What?” I played dumb, stalling.

“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”

“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.

He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.

“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.

“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”

I looked over at him.

“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”

I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.

We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”

I waited for more.

“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.

I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.

“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.

“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”

I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”

“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”

Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.

“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”

I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.

“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

Mike is now 20. Last summer, he was home from his freshman year at BYU. His family, which had moved to Germantown, Tennessee, was planning a trip back to Virginia and North Carolina to visit friends.
One night the phone rang. It was Ira Spencer.
“We hear ya’ll are headed this way,” he told Mike. “Me and the boys are going to take the boat out as a family. Would you like to tag along and make a little money for your mission? Bring your dad, too, and we’ll show him what life’s like out on the water.”
And that’s how Mike and his father ended up on the War Cry, this time sailing out of Newport, Rhode Island. “The fishing’s better up north right now,” Duke explained. Dave Spencer, 18, (Ira’s son and Duke’s brother) and Duke’s nine-year-old son, Sam (nicknamed “Hambone”), rounded out the crew.
After walking along the same Newport streets that George Washington traveled, past clapboard cottages and governor’s mansions as old as the American colonies, and stopping for five grocery carts full of food, the crew made its way to the wharf, climbed over a neighboring ship’s deck, and finally set foot on the War Cry.
Mike started remembering. “First I noticed the smells—the salt water, the fish. Then I saw the hooks on all the doors, even on the refrigerator, to keep them closed when the ship rocks, then the iron rods you use to clamp pots and pans in place. Then I looked in the sleeping quarters and remembered the narrow, hard bunks that seemed like heaven when you got a chance to use them. Then Ira and my dad fired up the engines and I remembered the noise. You have to run the engines to run the generators, and you have to run the generators to operate the rest of the equipment, the radios, the fridge. After a while you get numb to it. But at first it seems like everyone’s deaf. You have to shout to be heard.”
Noise or no noise, everyone slept aboard ship that night. And they were up early the next morning, winding miles of iron cable onto the winches, inspecting and mending nets, pouring oil by the drum into oil tanks. Seventy-five dollar filters were removed and replaced. Weather reports and market prices were checked. Eighteen tons of ice, used to keep the fish fresh, were pumped into the hold.
By late afternoon, the War Cry was underway. Sam sat on the bow and waved at a lighthouse. With David and Mike he read names of other boats as the trawler passed them on its way to harvest the sea. The Captain Ralph, the Iron Horse, the Mikentodd, the Harry Glen. The Ramona, the Skylight, the Venus, and the Chief Wanchese. Soon the city was far behind, then the shore; then there was nothing but a flat horizon. The three young men were called inside for dinner, followed by stories, jokes, and laughter, followed by sleep.
The first “haulback” came in the dark of the night. A haulback means the net is full and it’s being pulled out of the water to be dumped on deck. When the captain calls, you’ve got about five minutes until the fish come in. Like zombies from some old horror movie, fathers and sons together rose from sleep, pulled on heavy boots and overalls, pulled on yellow sea bonnets, and stumbled outside into the mist.
“Sometimes the salt air revives you,” Dave said. “Sometimes all it does is give you a chill.” This time it did a little of both. Yawns were universal. But the work went on. With Ira in the wheelhouse keeping the War Cry on course, David, Mike, and Sam positioned 16-foot, two-by-ten deck boards to hold the catch in place. Duke pulled hydraulic levers to raise the dripping bundle out of the depths and position it over the deck. Brother Lee tugged a rope that opened the bottom of the net, spilling the squirming contents out into a flat, flapping pile.
Instantly the sorting began. It takes quite an eye to be able to pick out and size the different types of flounder, and the talent of a Dr. J. to consistently flip them into the right basket. For Mike and Dave, it was an old routine. Like a power forward, Dave worked with both hands, flinging fish over his shoulders without looking up, shoveling trash fish between his legs. Like a center fighting for rebounds, Mike preferred to work close to the basket, loading it with one type of fish, then pulling up another basket to start all over again. For Sam, the sorting time was an adventure. He would waddle nearly knee-deep in fish, mud, and seaweed, picking out lobsters, crabs, and scallops, isolating them in special pails of their own. He was the guard on the team, carefully selecting his shots, working from the outside, calling for help when he needed it like an open man calls for a pass.
Brother Lee was amazed at the entire operation. “I felt totally outclassed. These guys were real pros, and I felt like a rookie in his first training camp.” But like any eager player would, he made up for inexperience with hustle.
To make the analogy complete, Duke would have been a player-coach, offering advice and assistance, jumping in to do some sorting himself as necessary. And Ira would, of course, have been the team owner, reassuring others with his presence, keeping the entire operation in order. (It was his boat, after all.)
Soon another net had been hauled back and sorted. Then another, then another, then another, then another. At what point today blurred into tomorrow blurred into the next day and the next, nobody was quite sure. The sun went down; the sun came up. Meals, at first looked forward to as a break in the monotony, finally became part of the routine.
“We ate snacks instead of lunch and took cat naps instead of sleeping,” Mike said. “You know, I really loved this when I was 16, but I’d forgotten how dead-bone tired you get. My back is starting to kill me.”
Then he looked over at his father. “We don’t get to spend a lot of time together,” Mike said. “I’m sure this is difficult work for him. He’s more the type who would rather teach or be in an office. But it’s helped him understand what I went through. He’s already told me that.”
And Brother Lee, an oral pathologist and dental educator, agreed. “I’ve never worked so hard in all of my life. Even the two-a-day workouts when I played college football are pale by comparison. But if it helps me understand my son, it’s worth it. This time on the boat is something we’ll always share.”
Later that day, Mike and his father were seated on an old plank next to each other, opening scallops, tossing the shells overboard. The shells would skip as they hit the water, then sink, spinning shiny white loops as they drifted out of sight. The conversation was pleasant, intimate. They talked of school. They talked of the other Lees back home. They talked about Mike becoming an elder soon, about his going on a mission. They talked about another fisherman, from Galilee, of how he called Peter, Andrew, James, and John to leave their nets and cast for the souls of men.
All around Mike and his father were the sounds, the smells, and the ocean. In this realm of rust and motion, of motors and commotion, they had found a moment of peace.
The first fistful of ice hit Sam softly on the shoulder.
“Hey,” he shouted, but he could see Dave coming. Soon Sam had a handful of his own, and the great ice fight was on, with both uncle and nephew flinging pieces of frozen water at each other. It was a short-lived battle. Sam ended up with ice down his chest, but he got a hug from Dave in return.

So Granny told it. “Once upon a time there was a very good little boy. His daddy took him in the car to see his granny. When they got to Granny’s house. Daddy stopped the car in the driveway. He smoothed Jeff’s hair and tucked Jeff’s shirttail in. ‘Be a good boy,’ Daddy said.
“Jeff climbed out of the car and waved good-bye to Daddy. Then Jeff rang Granny’s doorbell.
“When Granny opened the door, she pretended that she didn’t know him. ‘Good morning,’ Granny said. ‘Are you selling something? I don’t think I need anything today.’
“Jeff began to giggle. ‘Don’t you need a good little boy?’
“Granny made her face look surprised. ‘How did you know? That’s the only thing that I need.’
“Jeff laughed out loud. ‘I’m just what you need!’ he said.”

One day, shortly before I was baptized, I was at my grandmother’s house when she went to the basement to get something. She tripped and fell and couldn’t get up. She called to me, but I was watching TV and didn’t hear her. After about 10 minutes, I heard my name quietly, “Tom!” I went to look for her and found her lying on the floor. I was not strong enough to help her up, so I ran to a neighbor’s house. She came and helped Grandmother up.
Grandmother told me, “Tom, that was the Holy Ghost that you heard. I was too far away for you to hear me.”
I know it was the Holy Ghost who whispered to me. Now I am baptized, and I am glad to have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Tom R., age 8, Germany

The greatest immediate need, especially for the elderly, was for help in getting their homes back in order. For 79-year-old Veda Cooper, who was crippled from a bone disease, the experience was traumatic, and the love and service offered by ward and stake members were badly needed.
“I was standing in the kitchen doorway when everything started falling down,” she explained. “I couldn’t get backward and I couldn’t get forward. It felt like the house was going to come tumbling down. But I couldn’t get out and run. I’m crippled. Everything that could fall fell. Jams and jellies, pickles, clothes, suitcases, goblets and glasses, a whole set of china for 12—everything was all mixed together. Water was squirting all over the bathroom.
“Later when I thought about all the mess I started feeling sorry for myself. I thought, now look, I’m not afraid to work. And it’s all right for the Lord to take my husband, and it’s all right to have my three sons so far away. But I felt like it was just adding insult to injury to be crippled and alone and then to have a mess like this. The tears were running down, and I thought, I’ll be all summer getting this mess picked up.
“Then here came somebody knocking on the door, somebody from Hanford to help me clean up, and I didn’t feel sorry anymore. But for a little while I thought this is too much—just too much—until help came. Then in no time they had the water turned off, and the plumbing fixed, and the mess cleaned up, and I was just doing fine.”

Jimmy and his mom were shopping in an outdoor mall during the Christmas season. It was very cold, and they saw some high school students playing holiday songs. They played a few for Jimmy. As Jimmy and his mom walked away, he said they needed to give the students something. They went to their car and Jimmy got all the candy he had just received at his school Christmas party. He went back to the students and gave them all of his candy.