Gospel Story Finder

Here’s another story.
I recently heard Brother Russell T. Osguthorpe, the general Sunday School president and a member of the McKay School of Education faculty, talk about his brother-in-law, Steve. In his teenage years Steve decided to pursue a different lifestyle than that of the rest of his active LDS family. He later married a person who wasn’t a Latter-day Saint and remained apart from the Church for fifty years.

About halfway through this fifty-year period Steve received a phone call from his newly assigned home teacher. He refused the invitation to accept home teaching visits but agreed to allow his home teacher to mail him a monthly postcard. This faithful home teacher mailed a postcard to Steve every month for twenty-two years. When Steve experienced redemptive turbulence in the death of his wife, who do you suppose Steve turned to for comfort and support? His faithful home teacher who had not tired of holding his arms out ready to catch for twenty-two years. (See “What If Love Were Our Only Motive?” BYU devotional address, 8 March 2011.)

I’m a leader in my Young Women class in my ward, so every first and fourth Sunday, I go out with the missionaries or the other youth to minister to less-active youth. I bear my testimony to them that drawing closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ makes us stronger and helps us overcome our trials. Giving up on Them isn’t the solution.
One time, we ministered to a young man. We invited him to offer the closing prayer at the end of the visit. When he prayed, he thanked Heavenly Father for our visit. He was so happy and thankful that we took the time to check in on him.
I felt grateful too, and increased my feelings of self-worth. I realized that other people are happy in my presence, and I can help them. I can be an instrument in God’s hands to show others that they’re not alone.

Our grandchildren are learning that when they make a choice, they also choose its consequences. Recently one of our three-year-old granddaughters refused to eat her dinner. Her mother explained, “It’s almost bedtime. If you choose to eat dinner, you are choosing ice cream for dessert. If you choose not to eat dinner, you are choosing to go to bed now, without ice cream.” Our granddaughter considered her two choices and then stated emphatically, “I want this choice—to play and eat only ice cream and not go to bed.”

Miriam looked at the floor. “I think I goofed,” she said. “I didn’t come up with a good idea like the others.”
“I’m sure you did fine,” Mom said. “Please tell us what you did.”
“Well, I didn’t eat my Popsicle,” began Miriam. “I saw Tony on his front porch. I said, ‘Hi,’ but he didn’t say anything. Then I remembered that he had his tonsils taken out Monday. That really makes your throat hurt. So I gave my Popsicle to him, and I sat by him and told him stories and jokes until I saw everyone else coming back here. When I left, he still didn’t say anything, but he smiled.”
“Miriam,” said Mom, kissing her, “that was a good idea. You made someone just as happy as Benjamin and Johnny and Katie did. In fact, now we have a problem.”
“What?” asked the children.
“I don’t think I can decide which idea was best. They were all wonderful.”

We have all seen recent images in the news: thousands of evacuees being flown from Afghanistan. Many arrived at air bases or other temporary locations in Qatar, the United States, Germany, and Spain before continuing to their final destinations. Their needs were immediate, and the Church responded with supplies and volunteers. At Ramstein Air Base in Germany, the Church provided large donations of diapers, baby formula, food, and shoes.

Some of the Relief Society sisters noticed that many Afghan women were using their husbands’ shirts to cover their heads because their traditional head coverings had been ripped off in the frenzy at the Kabul airport. In an act of friendship that crossed any religious or cultural boundaries, the sisters of the Ramstein First Ward gathered to sew traditional Muslim clothing for Afghan women. Sister Bethani Halls said, “We heard that women were in need of prayer garments, and we are sewing so that they can be [comfortable] for prayer.”

Commit yourself to serve your companion. One of the surest ways to develop love for someone else is to serve in very personal ways. Two companions who had had some difficulties in getting along discovered this principle when one of them became ill and had to be in bed for a day. Elder Blake did everything he could to help care for his sick companion. Elder Waite was especially surprised when he woke up and found that during the time that he was running a fever and sleeping, Elder Blake had cleaned and shined his shoes and also made sure that everything was in order in their apartment. “I began to realize,” said Elder Waite, “that I needed to do more to be of service to my companion. Appreciation for each other and a real friendship began to develop from that day on.”

Justina Mumcy De’Beauville was raised as an only child in a strong countryside community and earned the nickname “country girl” because of her weekly trips to town, where she sold produce at the city market. One fateful day, Clayton John De’Beauville, a city boy bus driver, picked her up, and they fell in love at first sight. A cherished memory, held dear by Sister De’Beauville, focused on a sweet gesture from Brother De’Beauville. He decided to purchase her entire daily produce, allowing them to spend more time together that day. It is still a mystery what he did with that abundance of vegetables. This act of kindness has been the foundation of their enduring love and affection.

Even before Dad called Sister Willingham by name, I knew it was her, and the last thing I wanted to do was to waste a perfectly good Saturday in her yard. I felt myself stiffen with resentment and rebellion, and my cheeks colored and warmed with a frustrating tide of irritation. Grabbing a slice of toast, I began spreading it thick with jam while Dad talked.
“Sure, I think he could help you out,” Dad said, nodding his head. “Well, he does have a ball practice in the afternoon, but I’m sure he can have things taken care of at your place before then.”
When Dad came back to the table, he poured himself a glass of orange juice and took a sip before saying anything to me. Since Mom and the three younger kids had left earlier to do some shopping and wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon, Dad and I were the only ones home.
“That was Sister Willingham,” he remarked casually, setting his glass down.
I munched my toast without responding.
“She wondered if you would mind helping her out for an hour or so.”
I cleared my throat. “I have a talk to prepare for sacrament meeting,” I mumbled tersely.
Dad picked up his glass again and sipped his juice, watching me the whole while. “It should only take an hour or so, Ryan. Couldn’t you spare that much time? She said she’d pay you.”
“Pay me!” I growled, pushing back from the table. “She never pays me, not in full. Oh, she counts out a few quarters and maybe peels off a dollar bill once in a while, but it’s not pay, not for the time I put in. And then she always asks, ‘Is that enough, Ryan?’” I looked up and asked, “What am I supposed to say, ‘No, it’s not enough. I make three and a quarter an hour when I work at the store?’ or ‘Mel Richardson pays me ten dollars for a couple hours of work?’” I shook my head. “She might as well ask me to do it for free,” I complained. Dad didn’t respond. “And why does she always ask you to relay the message to me?” I continued sourly. “I’m not a little kid. I’m 17. Why doesn’t she ask me? I can answer for myself.”
Dad sighed, finished his juice, and began clearing off the table. “You should feel flattered that she trusts you.”
“I wish she’d flatter somebody else,” I grumbled, pushing back from the table and taking my plate and glass to the sink.
“I’d go myself,” Dad spoke up, “but Bishop Hall asked me to go with him over to the welfare farm this morning to hang some doors on that new storage shed.”
“So I get stuck with Sister Willingham.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that she might hate asking you as much or more than you hate being asked?” I didn’t answer. Dad began rinsing the dishes off. “For almost 12 years Sister Willingham’s been a widow. All her life she’s been able to do things for herself. Now she can’t, so she has to depend on somebody else. She’d pay you three and a quarter an hour if she had it. She probably pays you twice as much as she can afford. You’re worth the pay. I’m not denying that. Brother Richardson hires you so he can spend an extra afternoon playing golf, not because he really needs you. He should pay you a good wage.”
I shrugged, trying to appear indifferent, but my conscience was pricked and I felt a touch of shame. “Maybe it’s just the way she goes about it,” I muttered. “Why doesn’t she ask me personally? She knows I live here, that I can answer the phone as well as you. I’ll tell you why,” I argued, attempting to justify my reluctance. “Because she’s afraid I’ll turn her down, and she wants you to make me go.”
“I’ve never made you go, have I?”
I laughed dryly. “I’ve always gone because I knew if I didn’t you’d probably make me or tell me I couldn’t take the car or something else. You would, wouldn’t you?” I asked pointedly.
Dad smiled wanly and wiped his hands on a paper towel and tossed it in the garbage under the sink. “Maybe I would,” he admitted. “I’ve always been proud that you’ve gone on your own.” He knit his brow. “I suppose I’ve—well, I guess I’ve—” He shook his head. “I’ve hoped that you would want to help Sister Willingham on your own.”
“For the pennies she pays?”
“Maybe there’s more in it than pennies. If I were interested in the money, I’d see if Brother Richardson would hire you more often.” He turned from me and put the juice and butter in the fridge. “Some things we do because—” He pondered. “Some things we do just to help somebody out. I’ve wanted you to help Sister Willingham. I don’t deny it. I suppose I’ve wanted you to get more out of it than money. Perhaps something money can’t buy. But as long as you do it just for the money—well, as long as you take the money, the money’s all you get.”
Dad left me in the kitchen and went to get his tool box and coveralls. A few minutes later the bishop pulled into the driveway and honked once. Dad hurried to the front door. He opened it and then paused in the doorway. Without turning to face me he called, “Ryan, it’s up to you what you do with Sister Willingham. I won’t make you go. And in the future I’ll let you talk to her. I won’t commit you to something you don’t want to do.”
I stayed in the kitchen and finished washing the dishes, not that I had to or that anybody really expected me to, but at least that way I was busy, and being busy was justification for not going over to Sister Willingham’s. But the dishes were soon finished, and I was still pestered by persisting thoughts of Sister Willingham. Finally in exasperation I sighed and grumbled, “I could use a little money. Troy’s birthday’s coming up. I might as well earn a couple of bucks as sit around the house all day.”
Five minutes later I was knocking on Sister Willingham’s screen door. As I hammered on the screen’s wooden frame, it creaked and shuddered on its loose hinges. I noticed that the paint was beginning to chap and peel and the screen had pulled out at the bottom. I looked behind me at the front yard. The grass needed trimming, the shrubs could have used a good pruning job, the irises along the front of the house needed thinning and weeding. I looked away; the whole sight made me feel just a little uneasy, a little ashamed for being so reluctant to come.
The front door opened slowly. “Why, hello, Ryan,” Sister Willingham said, squinting at me through the rusted screen and pushing her slipping glasses up on her nose. She chuckled. “I’d almost decided you couldn’t come.” She pushed the screen door open. It whined and rattled closed behind her as she stepped outside. “I’ll show you what I need.”
Sister Willingham was a frail-looking, gray-haired woman in her middle seventies. Her cheeks were sunken, her face creased with countless wrinkles. When she walked, she shuffled along with her shoulders stooped, her pale-blue eyes peering through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Her voice was always a little high-pitched and irritating in tone, and yet she was a pleasant enough person—perhaps too pleasant for me this morning because I was almost looking for an excuse to dislike her. I would have felt better had she been cranky and complaining. Then I could have justified my irritation. As it was she made me feel guilty.
We went around the house to her backyard garden. Brother Al Willingham had always had a garden, probably the best on this side of town. After he died Sister Willingham tried to continue the tradition, more as an honor to him than because she really wanted it. I never went to her yard when she didn’t reminisce and brag about the earlier gardens of her husband’s, and I always knew that in her eyes nothing I did would ever rival his work.
“The garden needs weeding, Ryan,” she remarked, her shrill voice cracking as it did quite often. “We’ve had so much rain this spring that I haven’t had a chance to weed it.”
I stared out across the garden without speaking. From where I stood it looked like a tangle of weeds and grass, no garden at all. Of course, the garden was still young. The spring rains had allowed the weeds to thrive and almost choke the vegetables out completely. I could only see the four rows of corn struggling in the midst of the carpet of weeds, and even they were being overrun.
“There’s a good morning’s work there,” she grinned at me, “but a big strong boy like you can get it done. I’d do it myself, but it’s so hard for me to bend down and my hands just can’t hold the hoe anymore.” She shook her head. “That’s the kind of job Al just loved. Of course, he would have never let it get that bad. But he liked the challenge of getting the ground ready, fighting the weeds back, and bringing the plants up from the soil. Nobody ever hoed a garden like my Al. He had a green thumb for sure. Why, I think he could have raised a garden on a slab of concrete.”
Sister Willingham looked over at me. I ignored her and stared gloomily out at the tangle of weeds. “The Browns are taking me to the temple,” she explained. “I’ll be gone until six or so, but I can pay you as soon as I get back.”
You don’t have enough to pay me to do that garden, I thought to myself. I’d be here a week and still not clean that mess up. I swallowed. “I doubt I can finish it,” I said, sounding less irritated than I really felt. “I have a talk to prepare for tomorrow and a baseball practice this afternoon.”
“Well, do what you can.” She smiled. “Every little bit will help. But if you can, get the ditches cleaned out. That’s the important thing. My irrigation turn is Monday.”
For ten minutes after she left I browsed through the mat of weeds in search of anything worth salvaging. I found the carrots, radishes, and beets hidden completely in the weeds. The zucchini and cucumbers were easier to find because they were in hills and had grown almost as fast as the weeds. The green beans, the peas, the tomatoes, and the bell peppers were almost choked out of existence. I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t even want to start. But after showing up, I was committed to do at least a little bit.
She had said that what she needed most was to clean out the ditches for her irrigation turn, so I decided to do that and leave. “That’s all she’d pay me for anyway,” I murmured. “Someone else can do the weeding for their service project.”
I got her shovel and attacked the main ditch running along the top of the garden. The shovel ripped and tore through the mat of weeds and grass. I didn’t clean the ditch really well. I didn’t worry about getting the weeds and grass along the edges or up on the bank. I concentrated on the weeds in the bottom of the ditch, just so the water could pass through for a week or so.
After the main ditch I began ripping jagged little ditches up and down the rows and around the hills of cucumbers and squash.
The sun was hot and unmerciful and beat down with a fury. Drops of sweat trickled down my face, but I didn’t stop to rest or find refuge in the shade. I just wanted to get the job done and get out of there.
By ten the ditches were semiready. At least they’d get her through her first irrigation turn. I leaned the shovel and hoe against the back of the house and left, not once turning back to admire my work. There wasn’t anything to admire, and I knew it.
I was in the bathroom washing my hands when Dad came home. He came in behind me, his hands dirty. “Well, the bishop and I hung the doors,” he announced jovially. “It wasn’t as big a job as I’d thought. I see you made it over to Sister Willingham’s.”
I shook the water off my hands and grabbed a towel. “I put in a good hour and a half. I did five dollars worth of work, that’s for sure.”
“Well, that should make Sister Willingham happy.” He glanced over at me and smiled. “There’s always a good feeling that comes with helping someone. Not because you have to but because you want to.”
“I just wished she’d chosen a day when I didn’t have to prepare a talk for sacrament meeting.”
Dad laughed and dried his hands. “Preparing a sermon is easy. Living one is what’s hard. You’ve lived one this morning. It will be a cinch getting one for tomorrow.” Dad hung up the towel and slapped me on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “Ryan, don’t expect a big wage from Sister Willingham. In the long run the money isn’t the important thing anyway. Some things you can’t ever buy with money. That good feeling is one of them.”
I went to my room to work on my talk. I opened the scriptures and perused the pages, but I kept seeing the unfinished garden and thinking of what Dad had said. An uneasiness erupted and festered inside me. I couldn’t shake the nagging guilt, a guilt I didn’t even think I deserved. Irritably, I tossed the scriptures aside and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling trapped.
Suddenly I became resentful. There were lots of kids around, kids that had done a lot less than I had to help Sister Willingham. Why should I have to feel guilty when they escaped without the slightest prick to their consciences? How many times had I mowed her lawn, raked her leaves, pruned her shrubs? At least I’d helped out a little. That was more than anyone else.
I grabbed my scriptures again and turned to Moroni, determined to forget Sister Willingham and her annoying garden. I had a talk to prepare, I argued. The bishop had given me the assignment long before I knew anything about the garden. My first responsibility, I insisted, was my talk.
The bishop had asked me to talk on faith and had suggested Moroni 7 [Moro. 7] for a reference. I thumbed leisurely through the pages of Moroni, reading very little from the blur of words but contemplating faith in general. Faith seemed like a safe topic. I could easily extol the virtues of faith without committing myself to action, but still I found myself struggling to study.
“I just won’t let her pay me,” I finally grumbled in exasperation, unable to shake the tenacious guilt that continued to raise its accusing face. “That should satisfy everyone. After all, Dad said I should do it for nothing. That way anything I do is a gift, and not even Sister Willingham can complain about a gift.”
I nodded and hunched over the Book of Mormon and began to skim through chapter 7 of Moroni. For a moment I thought I was done with the garden; then I came to verse eight [Moro. 7:8]. Before I could skip over it, the words leaped out at me and stung me with a poignant rebuke: “For behold, if a man being evil giveth a gift, he doeth it grudgingly; wherefore it is counted unto him the same as if he had retained the gift; wherefore he is counted evil before God.”
I read the passage once, twice, a half dozen times, searching for an out, some scrap of evidence that would free me from the verse’s pointed accusation, but there was none. I knew better than anyone that I had resented and begrudged the giving of the gift. The fact that I didn’t demand a price for my selfish labor didn’t change the real intent of my heart.
I shook my head. Mine was a shoddy gift. I couldn’t deny it. And merely preparing a talk on faith didn’t change the glaring reality of my uncharitable act toward Sister Willingham. Suddenly I remembered something that Paul had said. I couldn’t remember the words exactly, but the message was clear, something about a person having all faith, even enough to move mountains, and yet, if that person lacked charity he was nothing.
I could work all day on my talk for sacrament meeting, and Sunday morning all I’d have would be a sour sermon of empty words. The people in church didn’t need my talk nearly as much as Sister Willingham needed her garden weeded.
As I pondered Paul’s words I could picture Sister Willingham coming over in the evening, prying open her worn coin purse and counting out the quarters and dimes and smoothing out a wrinkled dollar bill. The doleful picture released a trickle of compassion, a trickle that increased as Paul’s and Mormon’s words whispered in my mind.
Slowly I closed the Book of Mormon and stood, knowing that this was one sermon I would have to live long before I attempted to preach it from the pulpit.
I left my room and started for the front door. “Where you headed?” Dad asked from the kitchen.
“I got a little job to finish,” I answered simply.
“Do you want a sandwich or something. It will be time for lunch in an hour or so.”
“I’m not hungry,” I called and slipped outside, returning to the garden.
I attacked the corn first. Perhaps because it looked easier. Hunched over with the hoe gripped tightly, I started down the rows. It was slow, tedious work, and I soon discovered that I could use the hoe only part of the time. To really do a good job, I had to pick away at the weeds with my fingers.
When the four rows of corn were completed, I looked back and admired them. The tender stalks, freed from their tangled prison, contrasted drastically with the rest of the garden and allowed me a pleasant peek at the garden’s pending potential.
The squash and cucumbers were next. My hoe ripped and tore at the grass and weeds and broke up the hard ground so the tender roots could breathe and grow. Puffs of dust exploded and got in my eyes and nose. The sun’s heat increased, and it became a constant battle to wipe the sweat from my eyes. My back began to stiffen and then ache and finally throb. Every few minutes I had to straighten up and rub the feeling back into my tortured muscles.
The morning passed and slipped into afternoon. The sun reached its pinnacle and then began dropping to the west, but the heat continued. It must have been around two or two-thirty before I had finished everything except the last three vegetables. All the while I had been dreading the radishes, beets, and carrots. Now my back was tight and stiff; my fingers, cramped and raw. Dirt had pushed itself under my nails and pressed itself into my pores and made my hands dry and chapped. Two blisters had sprouted and burst and were now red tender spots.
For a moment I was tempted to stop and perhaps come back another time to finish. Sister Willingham wouldn’t have room to complain now. I’d done a good job. She’d be content. I shook my head. I knew that when I came back, I came intending to do more than merely squelch complaints. I had come to finish a job. I intended to do it.
Dropping to my knees, I started on the rows of carrots. Though the rows were short, each one required at least 30 minutes to complete. Three o’clock came and went. I didn’t even think of my baseball practice, not until close to five when I was just finishing the last row of beets and staring over at the single row of radishes, the last part of the garden to be weeded.
“Hey, where were you, Ryan?” a voice called to me from the corner of Sister Willingham’s house.
I looked up and saw Dusty Hamilton approach. Groaning softly, I stood and winced at the pain as the blood in my legs began to circulate. I brushed off my jeans and worked my fingers to get some feeling back into them. “I forgot about practice,” I grinned sheepishly. “I had a little job to do here.”
Dusty looked over my shoulder at the garden. “Looks like you’re almost done. Why don’t you take a break and come with me to get something to drink. I’ll die if I don’t drink something soon.”
All I’d had since breakfast were drinks from Sister Willingham’s hose. A cold drink was certainly tempting. “I better finish here,” I said, declining.
“You’ve only got a little left. You can come back.”
I pondered, then shook my head. “Sorry, Dusty. Maybe another time.”
Dusty slapped his mitt against his leg and remarked, “Oh, well, suit yourself. I’ll be thinking about you when I have that nice cold lemonade.”
I watched Dusty walk away and then sank to my knees again.
It was five when I finished the garden. It looked like a miniature battlefield with the dying, wilting corpses of a thousand weeds strewn about the ground and the freed, victorious vegetables swaying gently in the warm breath of wind that passed along the ground. I admired my work and felt a surge of poignant satisfaction course through me. Then I noticed the ditch bank that had been haphazardly done that morning. Now it looked so out of place next to the meticulously manicured garden. I snatched the shovel and attacked it again, this time cleaning the edges as well as the bank itself.
Tired and stiff, sweaty and dirty, I shuffled around the house for home, but when I got to the front yard and saw the uncut lawn, the unpruned shrubs, and the irises along the house, I knew I wasn’t finished.
The lawn wasn’t large and there weren’t a lot of shrubs, so I was finished there within 30 minutes, but the irises were a little different. Once more I took hoe and shovel in hand and set to work weeding and thinning the irises as Sister Willingham had showed me last spring a year ago. After weeding the radishes, beets, and carrots, this was easy.
I was just smoothing out the dirt around the last corner of the iris bed when Sister Willingham pulled up in the driveway with the Browns. The sun was casting long dark shadows and I was partially hidden behind the front steps, so she didn’t see me until the Browns had left and she was starting up the walk to the front door.
“Is that you, Ryan?” she asked, squinting through her thick lenses. “Why, I didn’t expect to see you around, not this late.”
I smiled sheepishly and stood. “Oh, I found some other things that needed doing,” I explained.
Sister Willingham peered at the iris beds. Her gaze went to the lawn and the shrubs. She didn’t speak. She set her bag of temple clothes down and shuffled around to the back of the house to inspect the garden. I didn’t follow her. I dropped onto the front steps to rest. I knew my body ached. I knew I was dirty and sweaty. I knew I’d be stiff and sore in the morning, but all the discomfort was blanked by an all-pervasive warmth, one that made me feel as though I glowed. I smiled and closed my eyes.
“I don’t know what to say,” Sister Willingham spoke, her voice breaking. I opened my eyes and saw the tears on her cheeks. “I hadn’t expected you to stay so long, to do so much work. I’ve never seen it look so good, not since Al did it himself.”
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s that good,” I grinned. “I can’t grow beans out of concrete yet.”
“I don’t have enough money to pay you right now,” she continued, “but I’ll get it. I promise. I’ll make it right with you.” She pulled out her little coin purse. “I do have some of it now. I’ll give you all I’ve got so that—”
“Sister Willingham,” I cut in huskily, feeling my own voice crack and being so glad that I hadn’t had to watch her pry open her purse with the garden the way I’d left it in the morning. I was so grateful that I’d returned. “I didn’t do it for money.”
“Oh, but I want to pay you.”
I shook my head. “I did it—” I stopped. I wasn’t even sure why I did it. I shrugged and smiled, my whole insides warm and satisfied. “I just wanted to do it.”
“But I have to pay you.”
I shook my head again. “I’m afraid that would ruin it,” I whispered. “I don’t need the money. There’s pay enough in it for me.”
“But I’ll probably need you again. I couldn’t ask you if I knew I hadn’t paid you for the work you’ve already done.”
I smiled wanly and shrugged. “I’ll come again,” I said, standing. “Just give me a call. Or leave a message with Dad.”
I left Sister Willingham in her front yard with her coin purse clutched in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. When I returned home Dad was just cleaning up after having changed the oil in the car. He saw me approach but didn’t speak. I leaned against the fender of the car and looked down at the engine.
“Did you finish?” he asked.
I swallowed and nodded. “Did she pay you?”
“No,” I whispered, “but I got paid.”
We started for the house, not saying anything but communicating so much in our silence. When we reached the front door, he asked, “Did you miss your ball practice?”
I thought for a moment. “No, not really,” I replied, shaking my head. “I don’t think I missed it at all.”

As a young man, Heber was bothered by a promise made to him in his patriarchal blessing that he would be called to the ministry in his youth. Thinking this meant he would serve a mission for the Church, he was disturbed when at age 23 he had received no mission call. This lack caused him to feel concerns about his status and also about the Church. Thoughts began to cross his mind that the patriarch had not been inspired, and if so, maybe other revelations weren’t inspired either. As he pondered, he grew more confused. He knew the Church was true, so why did doubts continue to plague him? Eventually he concluded that the patriarch must have made a mistake, but still he found no peace concerning the issue.
One day while he was walking down Main Street in Salt Lake City, these thoughts began to torment him again. Heber stopped right there on the sidewalk and spoke out loud, even though no one was present: “Mr. Devil, shut up. I don’t care if every patriarch in the Church has made a mistake in a blessing, and told a lie, I believe with all my heart and soul that the gospel is true and I will not allow my faith to be upset.”
Never again was Heber tormented by these negative thoughts. And within a short period of time he was called to serve as a stake president—a fulfillment of his patriarchal blessing.9

Sister Evans and I served together as I presided over the Japan Nagoya Mission. Our desire was to increase the quantity and quality of convert baptisms and to more firmly establish the Lord’s church in Japan. As many of you know, in recent months, Elder Oaks has reminded us that the very doctrinal purpose of missionary work is to “teach repentance and baptize converts.”8 That is what we wanted to do! That was the desire of our hearts. We set goals and made plans on how to accomplish those goals. We worked with greater focus and desire than we had ever done in anything in our lives. As we worked with missionaries, we were blessed and the work increased. We found more opportunities to teach repentance and then saw the blessing of an increase in the number of convert baptisms. However, after experiencing this remarkable blessing, we then experienced a period where we plateaued and we stopped reaching our goals.

Have you ever felt this way in those things that you want to achieve? As I contemplated what to do, one of our missionaries wrote to me a letter in which he said:
“I am really thinking about what I can do to [achieve our goals]...I know that it will require more dedication than I have had to accomplish these goals. I think so many times when we have missed our goals, it came down to the sad fact that we just didn’t care. Of course we wanted baptisms, but we didn’t really care enough to do the things that make baptisms happen. It is sad, but when we all really think seriously about it, we all know it is true.”

I recently learned about the experiences of a man in Zimbabwe named Sabbath Sibanda Maturure. Born in Shurugwe in what he describes as “an ordinary African hut,” he was the seventh of eleven children. Like three of his sisters, he was crippled from birth. At an early age he blamed God for his handicap and refused to attend the Christian church to which his parents were devoted.
When he was seven, he and his sisters were sent far away from home to attend a school for the disabled. Lonely for his mother, whom he could visit only once a year, he became even more bitter. “Life was terrible,” he remembers. “There was just no hope.”
His bitterness grew when his only two friends—his mother and another handicapped child at the school—died. “There really wasn’t anything left for me—not one ray of hope anywhere. Life was completely without meaning. God was totally unfair and not worthy of my worship or respect.”
But after he was befriended by some Christians who urged him to read the Bible, his heart began to soften. As the years passed, he found work, was married, and had two daughters.
In July 1985 a man who “looked honest, humble, and loving” came to his home and introduced himself as Elder Boyd Lake. Elder and Sister Lake, a missionary couple from Oakley, Utah, had met Sabbath’s wife, Susan, at work, and she had asked them to visit her husband. “Anything that is about Christ makes our lives more sweet,” says Sabbath, “so I welcomed Elder and Sister Lake to our home.” Their message sounded so good that the Maturures invited the Lakes to meet all of their friends at the handicapped center where they worked. And Sabbath and Susan began studying the Book of Mormon.
After several visits from the missionaries, Sabbath became ill. But a priesthood blessing helped to restore his health. He was impressed by the power of the priesthood and the teachings about home evening, fast offering, tithing, and chastity. “I also learned about the eternal family, whereby if we believe and are worthy, we can be married in the temple and be sealed forever as husband and wife and family.”
On 2 August 1986, Sabbath was baptized by the branch president, and Elder Lake baptized Susan and one of their daughters. “What joy we received in our home to be in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a church that the Lord himself restored!” says Sabbath. Three weeks later, a third daughter, Helen Happiness, was born. (The baby was named in honor of Sister Lake, whose first name is Helen.)
For the Maturure family, Elder and Sister Lake were instruments in the hands of the Lord in working a mighty miracle. How could the Lakes have guessed before they left their home in Utah that they would have such a rich experience in faraway Zimbabwe?

The Saints in the Longview-Kelso area of Washinton, some of them only a few short miles from the volcano, were probably hit hardest. Disposing of the ash was one of the least of their problems, even though they were inundated with it. Many of them faced the threat of flooding or mudslides ruining their homes, as well as the possibility of the natural dam of ash and logs that had built up, holding back Spirit Lake, wiping out the homes of the 50,000 people in the area.
“I went to bed really scared when only a foot more of water would have broken the dam,” said Devon Shaw, 12, deacons quorum president of the Kelso Ward. “We all did a lot of praying. When I woke up the next morning and learned that the water level was down, I knew that our Heavenly Father was watching over us.
“My dad was up on the mountain when the volcano blew up, and we were in Portland and were really worried about him. He called us the next afternoon to tell us he was okay. I was so thankful that my Heavenly Father protected by dad.”
Devon’s family was among the 25 families in the Kelso Ward that were evacuated to other ward members’ homes. Fortunately no Church members’ homes were destroyed.
“I was really scared when everything happened,” said Kathryn Pond, 13 of the Kelso Ward. “I knew that our house was high and dry, but I was afraid that we’d get wiped out too. The volcano is so big and can do so much damage, and we have no control over it. We really depended on our Heavenly Father to help us. No one in our ward was hurt. Some were in places where they could have been, but the Lord really helped us.”

Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed passed away from undiagnosed diseases just a couple of months apart. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. The lives of Kennedy and his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His Spirit craved acceptance, love and belonging.
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was nine and became a baptized member at the age of eleven. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock. While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was not officially adopted, it was even better. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade twelve, obtain a driver’s license and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
It was a year ago that Kennedy made the decision to serve a mission and to become those arms of the Savior for others. His ‘better than adopted family’, his brother Bwalya and his determined Bishop Michael Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare. While at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi mission, miracles occurred and he was able to attend the temple and take part not only in his father’s ordinance work, but also to participate in the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for Kenya Nairobi West Mission. She captured this beautiful photo of Elder Kennedy Chitalu standing in front of the picture of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting with an elder in the mission field. During our interview, I inquired, “Is your father a member of the Church?”
He said, “No.”
“Is your mother a member of the Church?” he was asked.
He responded with a smile, “Just barely.”
I said, “Did your father want you to go on a mission?”
He answered, “No.”
“Did your mother want you to go on a mission?”
“She really didn’t care whether I went or not.”
“Who influenced you most in your decision to go?”
Without hesitation he said, “I did. I’ve always wanted to go, and I knew I could make a success of it.”
I looked into this young man’s eyes and said, “From what I hear and what I feel of your spirit, you will succeed.” He is a determined individual, one who months ago might have said, “My dad doesn’t care. My mother doesn’t care. Why should I care?” This wonderful missionary knows the importance of going forward and has the courage to continue in the paths that lead to happiness. He admitted to me that he once was lost, but now he definitely knows where he is going and how to get there.

Last year was a scary time for me. I had just entered Young Women, and I was going to attend a new ward. I worried that I wouldn’t make any friends, and since I was a new member of the Church, I didn’t understand much about Young Women.
I remember the first day I went to Young Women in my new ward. I went to opening exercises and sat down by myself because I didn’t know anyone. This made me feel uneasy and alone. Then I looked up, and there was a young woman standing in front of me. She said, “Hello, Cecilia” and sat down next to me. This made me feel great, and I wasn’t scared anymore.
It was from her example that I learned what fellowshipping is all about. This has helped me to reach out to other new or lonely people who need their spirits lifted.

In 1981, my father, two close friends, and I went on an adventure in Alaska. We were to land on a remote lake and climb to some beautiful high country. In order to reduce the load we would have to personally carry, we wrapped our supplies in boxes, covered them with foam, attached large colored streamers, and threw them out the window of our bush plane at our intended destination.
After arriving, we searched and searched, but to our dismay, we could not find any of the boxes. Eventually we found one. It contained a small gas stove, a tarp, some candy, and a couple packages of Hamburger Helper—but no hamburger. We had no way to communicate with the outside world, and our scheduled pickup was a week later.
I learned two valuable lessons from this experience: One, do not throw your food out the window. Two, sometimes we have to face hard things.
Years before, during our misadventure in Alaska, I had quickly learned that blaming our circumstances on others—the pilot launching the food out in fading light—was not a solution. However, as we experienced physical exhaustion, lack of food, sickness, and sleeping on the ground during a major storm with only a tarp to cover us, I learned that “with God nothing shall be impossible.”8

Not everyone agreed with him about the valley. Despite its streams and grassy fields, the new settlement was drier and more desolate than any place the Saints had ever gathered. From the moment he arrived, Sam Brannan had pleaded with Brigham to continue on to the green fields and fertile soil of the California coast.16
“I am going to stop right here,” Brigham had told Sam. “I am going to build a city here. I am going to build a temple here.” He knew the Lord wanted the Saints to settle in the Salt Lake Valley, far from other western U.S. settlements, where he was sure other emigrants would soon take up residence. Brigham appointed Sam to serve as president over the Church in California, however, and sent him back to San Francisco Bay with a letter for the Saints.17
“If you choose to tarry where you are, you are at liberty to do so,” Brigham noted in his letter. Yet he invited them to join the Saints in the mountains. “We wish to make this a stronghold, a rallying point, a more immediate gathering place than any other,” he told them. California, on the other hand, was to be a way station for Saints headed to the valley.18

Many in the Methodist congregation where Elder Pratt preached were thrilled with his message until he told them of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the gold plates. Several of the men refused to listen further. John Taylor reminded them: “We are here, ostensibly in search of truth. Hitherto we have fully investigated other creeds and doctrines and proven them false. Why should we fear to investigate Mormonism? This gentleman, Mr. Pratt, has brought to us many doctrines that correspond with our own views. … We have prayed to God to send us a messenger, if He has a true Church on earth. … If I find his religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be.”3
John Taylor continued investigating the gospel, and on 9 May 1836 he and Leonora were baptized. In his later years, President Taylor remarked, “When I had investigated the subject, and became convinced that it was true, I said, ‘I am in for it; I must embrace it; I cannot reject the principles of eternal truth.’”4

Eric couldn’t stop grinning as he walked off the soccer field, the field where his team had just won the league championship. Eric was hot and tired but he knew he had played his best.
As he picked up his bike, he thought of his dad’s familiar words: “Not much of what is important in life comes easily,” his father said. “Our effort puts a shine in things—such a shine sometimes that they glow for years and years in our hearts.”
“This game will definitely glow for years!” Eric thought.
“Hey, Eric!” a voice called from behind him. He turned around and grinned at his teammate, Clay. “Where are you going?” Clay asked. “The victory party is at the coach’s house.”
“I can’t go,” Eric said. “I promised Davy I’d come over right after the game. I was going to spend the rest of the day and evening with him.”
Clay looked upset. “How much fun can you have with someone who’s sick all the time, and can’t even leave the house? We just won the championship, Eric. Isn’t that worth something?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Coach said a reporter is coming to the party. He’s going to take our pictures and interview us. We’re going to be in the newspaper!”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Really?” Clay’s excitement was contagious. “I guess I could just see Davy later tonight,” he said.
“You can’t,” Clay said. “Don’t forget the coach said if we won the game he would take us on an overnight campout to Big Bear Falls. Well, the campout is tonight. You don’t want to miss out on that, do you?”
“No way!” Eric said.
“Davy’s just a sick kid with nowhere to go and nothing to do, except ruin somebody else’s fun,” Clay said, spinning a soccer ball on his finger. “Come on, Eric. It’s time to celebrate!”
Eric eyed the spinning soccer ball. The more he looked at it the more his mind began to spin, and he got caught up in the moment. “OK, let’s go!” he said. He jumped on his bike and headed across the field toward the rest of his team.
During the reporter’s interview, Eric looked at the clock in the coach’s living room. It was three o’clock. He had promised Davy he would be to his house by one. He knew Davy would be disappointed. He always looked forward to Eric’s visits with excitement. But because of school, homework, soccer practice, and family and church activities, it was hard for Eric to spend a lot of time with Davy. But today Eric was going to spend the whole afternoon and evening, and Davy had been marking off the days on the calendar for weeks.
The reporter asked each boy how it felt to be part of a winning team. When Eric’s turn came, he didn’t answer. He was thinking of the time he and his father were hiking in the Big Bear Mountains. They had come to a three-way fork in the trail and had to decide which path to follow. “Like most things in life, Eric,” his dad said, “it comes down to choices. It’s getting late, so …”
Eric studied the three paths. One was overgrown and hard to see in the evening shadows. It looked jungly and mysterious. The second was straight, narrow, and clearly defined, but uninteresting. The third trail was wide and curving with room to wander.
“What will it be?” Eric’s dad asked.
“The wide one, I guess,” he said. “There are lots of turns so it will be more exciting, not knowing what’s ahead.”
They started down the path, but 20 minutes later it ended at the edge of a cliff. Below them in the distance they could make out the small lake where their family had set up camp. Shadows crept across the woodlands below and the sun had sunk behind the mountains.
“Now which path, Eric?” his dad asked.
“How about the jungly one?” Eric suggested. “It looked cool.”
They made their way back to the original path, then started down the dark, overgrown trail.
After a few minutes, though, the path was lost in the tangles of underbrush. “What do you think we should do now?” Eric’s dad asked. “It’s getting dark and we’re no closer to camp than we were two hours ago.”
Eric pulled a thorn from his shirt and rubbed a scratch on his arm. “I guess we better get back to the path we were on in the first place.”
His dad nodded, and the two started back. They finally set their feet back on the original path and faced the trails at the triple fork. It was dark now, but the stars lit up the final path. “What do you say we take that third trail, Eric?”
Eric glanced around uneasily at the darkening woods and took hold of his father’s hand. “Yes,” he said. “I can see the path clearly because it’s straight, and it’s narrow so we won’t wander off it.”
As they made their way through the night, Eric’s dad spoke up. “The Savior said that we should always take the straight and narrow path for the very reasons you pointed out. We can clearly see our way and won’t stray from the path unless we choose to. This path is like the iron rod in Lehi’s dream, isn’t it? Straight and true. And look,” he said, pointing toward the stars. “They light the path, like the prophets we have to guide us back to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”
They paused on a small knoll above the lake, and looking down they could see a glowing light in the darkness where Eric’s mother had started dinner over the campfire. “Kind of looks like the tree of life in Lehi’s dream, don’t you think?” his dad asked. “A welcome sight to any weary, faithful traveler on the road of life. And just like the food your mom is preparing, the Lord has filled His living tree of life with sustenance to nourish our spirits and lift us up in our darkest hours.”
Eric squeezed his father’s hand, and his eyes filled with warm tears.
“What are you crying for, Eric?” Clay laughed. Eric looked around and suddenly realized he was still in the coach’s living room surrounded by his teammates.
The reporter quickly wrote on his notepad and said, “It’s his way of saying what it feels like to be part of a winning team.”
“What it is,” Eric said, “is my knowing that I want to be a part of another winning team, as well.”
The boys looked confused. “Another winning team?” one of them blurted. “What team is that?”
Eric whispered something to the coach, waved good-bye, and left the room.
“What did he say, Coach?” Clay asked.
Their coach smiled. “He told me the name of the other team he wanted to be a part of—the Lord’s team. And he said to be a part of it, he needed to be somewhere else. Any of you boys know where that is?”
“Davy’s place, I think,” Clay said slowly.
The coach’s smile deepened.
Two weeks later, Davy passed away quietly in his sleep.
A few weeks after that, Eric and his father were hiking in the Big Bear Mountains. When they reached that familiar triple fork in the trail, Eric paused and studied the straight, narrow path. He took his dad’s hand and they stood quietly for a few moments.
“Which path do you want to take, Eric?” his dad asked.
“The straight and narrow one, Dad,” he said.
“You’re sure?” his father asked, smiling.
“It’s one thing I am sure about,” Eric smiled back. “It is the right way.”

In summer when Spencer was five, his father gave to him and Alice [Spencer’s younger sister] a patch of planted potatoes. When Spencer had dug them with a garden fork and Alice had cleaned them, Spencer put on clean overalls, Alice a dress, and they took a box of potatoes in Spencer’s red wagon and went to sell them. After the potatoes were sold, Spencer and Alice returned home jubilant. Andrew [their father] listened to them count their money, then said: “That’s wonderful! Now what will you do with the money?” the children answered: buy ice cream, candy, Christmas presents. Andrew gently said: “… The Lord has been kind to us. We planted and cultivated and harvested, but the earth is the Lord’s. He sent the moisture and the sunshine. One-tenth we always give back to the Lord for His part.”

“Father made no requirement.” Spencer remembered,” he merely explained it so convincingly that we felt it an honor and privilege to pay tithing.”