Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago I heard a story that I shall not soon forget:
A young man, climbing in some rugged, high mountain peaks, came across an eagle’s nest. The nest contained several eggs. He took one and gently carried it back to his home. He then put it with several eggs an old hen was setting over. In due time all of the eggs were hatched, and there came forth the eaglet with the baby chicks. During the next several months the baby eagle grew along with the chicks. He scratched in the barnyard for his food like chickens do. Although he grew to full size, he still never flew. The young man watched the process with great interest. He wanted the eagle to fly. So one day he took the eagle up on top of his house and said, “Thou art an eagle, fly.” But the eagle just flew down to the barnyard and commenced scratching like the chickens. A few days later, long before sunlight, the young lad took the eagle to a lofty crag high among the mountain peaks. Then, as the first streaks of sunlight burst over the mountain range, he said, “Thou art an eagle, fly.” The eagle began to stretch its wings; its eye caught a shaft of sunlight; a sensation swept through it from wing tip to wing tip. The fresh, cool air, the smell of pine trees, and an exhilaration it had never known coursed through the great bird. Its wings spread wider; power swept through its entire frame. It began to lift off the arm of the young man. Soon it was lifting and soaring hundreds of feet above the high peaks. It lifted higher and higher and soared farther and farther into the endless sky. It saw more in an instant than its earthbound chicken companions saw in a lifetime. From that time forth the eagle was never more content to be a barnyard fowl.

A story is told of a woman who was upset that her son was eating too much candy. No matter how much she told him to stop, he continued to satisfy his sweet tooth. Totally frustrated, she decided to take her son to see a wise man whom he respected.
She approached him and said, “Sir, my son eats too much candy. Would you please tell him to stop eating it?”
He listened carefully then said to her son, “Go home and come back in two weeks.”
She took her son and went home, perplexed why he had not asked the boy to stop eating so much candy.
Two weeks later they returned. The wise man looked directly at the boy and said, “Boy, you should stop eating so much candy. It is not good for your health.”
The boy nodded and promised he would.
The boy’s mother asked, “Why didn’t you tell him that two weeks ago?”
The wise man smiled. “Two weeks ago I was still eating too much candy myself.”

My family had just returned from a wonderful vacation. After dinner I let our two children, four-year-old Markus and three-year-old Emma, play in the upstairs bedroom of our fourth-floor apartment. In Denmark, windows open out like shutters. The windows are usually locked, but we had left them slightly ajar during our vacation so the apartment would be ventilated during our trip.
As I was doing the dishes, I suddenly felt that something was terribly wrong. I ran into the living room as Markus came running down the stairs. He was screaming with fear, saying Emma had fallen out of the window—a window about 40 feet (12 m) above a cement sidewalk. I ran down the stairs, repeatedly screaming Emma’s name. I saw my little daughter lying on the cement as if she were lifeless. She was completely limp when I picked her up, and I thought my worst fears were confirmed. My husband, who had followed me outside, took her in his arms and immediately gave her a priesthood blessing.
The ambulance came quickly, and Markus and I said a prayer while the paramedics worked on Emma. Soon we were all in the ambulance heading to the hospital.
At the intensive care unit we were quickly joined by family members who came to support us. Markus went home with his cousins, while my husband and I stayed behind, not yet knowing about Emma’s condition.
After what seemed like a long wait, one of the doctors finally came in, asking for details about the accident. They said that normally a fall from such a height would have resulted in internal injuries and only a small chance of survival. Emma had a broken pelvis and a concussion, but her scrapes were only superficial. The doctor said an angel must have caught her.
Even though Emma’s survival was a miracle, she was still unconscious because of head trauma. My husband and two close friends again administered to Emma. In that blessing she was promised a complete recovery without any lasting problems and that this would be a positive experience in her life. I felt immense gratitude for the power of the priesthood. All my nightlong pleadings had been heard.
Emma came out of her coma four days later. During those four days, friends, members of the Church, and others fasted and prayed for her. I felt the prayers of faithful Saints weave around me, strengthening my family and me. I felt as if Heavenly Father had wrapped His arms around me and filled me with comfort.
Our stake had held a fast on the day before she woke up. We believe that Heavenly Father heard our prayers and that Emma’s waking up was a direct result of the fast. From there Emma recovered quickly. Five days later she said her first word since the accident, and nine days later she was released from the hospital. She spent five weeks in a wheelchair and then started physical therapy.
One year later, Emma could run, laugh, tell stories, and think as a four-year-old should.

Timothy Wood had a fun time serving at the dance. He made sure that everyone was having a great time, and even led a large group in a “train,” where everyone lined up behind each other and snaked through the gym. Timothy says that serving is acting as Christ would and that doing so has built his testimony. “I act better when I’m here,” he says. “I’m calmer, more patient, and I think of others’ needs before mine. It helps me to be more like Christ would have me be.”
Timothy says that on some nights at special-needs Mutual, when he’s waiting for his friend, Stephen, to arrive, he’ll remember something he needs to get for the activity. But Timothy will wait for Stephen to arrive because he wants him to feel welcome when he gets there. “Being a volunteer helps me to care more for others,” Timothy says.

This story happened in the USA.
Jessica fidgeted nervously in the car on the way to her aunt and uncle’s ward. Christmas was only a few days away, but she didn’t feel like celebrating.
Earlier that week there had been a fire at her house. Everyone was safe, but their home was damaged. Many of their things were ruined. Jessica and her mom, brother, and two sisters had moved in with her uncle and aunt until their house could be fixed.
Jessica’s aunt smiled at her. “I know you’ll have a great time in our Primary,” she said.
Jessica wasn’t so sure. She was nervous to go to a different Primary. I won’t know anyone, she thought. Will they be nice to me?
Jessica tried not to think about the fire as she walked to Primary. She held her little cousin Sam’s hand and helped him find his seat. The Primary sang Christmas songs about Jesus. Jessica thought about how Joseph and Mary were away from their home when Jesus was born. She wondered if they felt lost and alone, like she felt right now.
When it was time for class, Jessica felt even more nervous. Another girl smiled at her. “Hi, I’m Anna. Do you want to sit by me in class?”
Jessica smiled back. “Sure.”
In class they read in the scriptures about when Jesus Christ was born. The teacher, Sister Rios, said that the Savior was Heavenly Father’s greatest gift to the world. “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son,”* she read to the class.
Jessica had never thought about Jesus as a gift before. She thought about their Christmas presents that had been ruined in the fire. She loved getting presents and was sad hers were gone. But she loved Jesus even more and knew He would never go away.
At the end of class, Sister Rios took out a few small boxes from her bag. Each one held a tiny carving of baby Jesus.
“I have a gift for each of you.” Sister Rios started passing out the boxes. “It can help you remember that God loves you so much that He sent His Son for you.” Then she looked at Jessica. “Jessica, I’m so sorry. I don’t have one for you. I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
Jessica looked down at her hands and tried not to cry. She didn’t know she was going to be here either. She wished she could be in her own home, in her own Primary class for Christmas.
Just then, someone placed a box in her lap. She looked up and saw Anna smiling at her. “Merry Christmas! You can have mine.”
Jessica gently touched the tiny baby Jesus figure. “Thank you! Merry Christmas to you too!”
After church, Mom gave her a hug. “How was Primary?” she asked.
“Good! I got this as a present.” Jessica smiled. “And I learned that Jesus is the best gift of all.”

Dad’s car was mustard brown. Its color made the rust spots less noticeable. It seemed like a tank left over from a war. The name on the car’s grill was Plymouth. Actually it wasn’t a Plymouth at all. It was half Plymouth and half Dodge, a spare-parts mobile made up of two wrecks, always lacking something and always showing us a new frailty in its character.
But Dad’s car was his pet. He would never consider giving it up for anything. He tried convincing us that it was really a sports car in disguise. He would tell us that it had a floor stick shift just like a Porsche. I soon realized, however, that a floor gear was the only thing the old wagon and a Porsche 920 had in common.
“Anyone can have a nice new car,” Dad would say. “But how many people do you know that actually own a 1976, stick-shift, mustard-brown station wagon? We want to be unique.”
Unique was an understatement in my book. You see, I was in ninth grade, my first year in high school. I wanted to impress my peers. But how could I when everyone knew that the mustard-brown tank belonged to my family? It was bad enough that I was a freshman and couldn’t drive. But to imagine being seen by upperclassmen in that junk heap was more than I could bear. When my dad would drive me and my brother to school after seminary, I would duck down as he pulled in to the drop-off spot. I desperately hoped that no one would see me. I would then slink out of the car, bury my head in my books, and run as fast as I could for the safety of the school building.
During my junior year in high school, however, my feelings for the “tank” changed. It took a frustrating experience—my illustrious career as a cross-country runner—to finally show me the light.
During the cross-country season, I came to see a great likeness between myself and the tank. I was not, to say the least, the star of the team. I was slow (my engine only a weak V-6), ungraceful (my rusting joints needed oiling), and my body type was not the one best suited for running (I had the wrong engine with the wrong carburetor). Yet I was constant. I ran every day, sometimes even twice a day, always trying to improve, trying to be the magnificent runner I dreamed of becoming. But I was nowhere close. I tried everything I could think of to improve my time. I ate the right pastas, I tried exotic stretches, I even slept in my shoes (I had read in a magazine it made one more in tune with running). But nothing worked! I was extremely frustrated. I felt like last year’s track shoes headed for the trash. I wanted to be the foremost runner on the team, but it took all my energy to keep from coming in last.
Finally I asked my dad for a blessing. I desperately needed some outside help. But what my dad said as he laid his hands on my head was not at all what I had expected. He told me flat out—“You are not a runner.” He said, “Your purpose is not in being the best runner. You have another purpose for being on the team.” And that was it. I felt let down and not particularly proud of myself. I did feel, however, that what my dad had said was what the Lord wanted me to hear. So I continued with the racing, straining and struggling my hardest not to come in last. At times I felt I had a few screws loose or that I could use a better set of spark plugs, but I never changed—at least not physically.
By the end of the season, however, I had changed. Spiritually I had grown. My vision had been expanded. On the night of our final athletic banquet, my coach came up to me and told me the secret I found in our old station wagon. He said:
“I know running hasn’t been easy for you, and you know something, you’ll never be a great runner.” No joke, I thought to myself. I’ve heard that one before. Then he continued. “But you are one of the most important members of our team. You have had such a positive influence on the team; they all look up to you. Thanks for being such a good example.”
And that was the secret. That’s what made the car special—it had a function, a worthwhile purpose. It was the car we knew we could depend on during winter in subzero temperatures. We knew it would be the only one to start. It was the only car that could pull our trailer and the only car with a rack on top for hauling luggage or Christmas trees. Despite its many frailties, it was needed, wanted, and yes, even loved.
Our station wagon would never be the sleekest car on the block. It would never win any prizes for the smoothest performance or most comfortable ride. Though it was old, rusted, and to some people even worthless, it was vital to our family. Its dependability was more important than its outward value.
The lesson I learned from the old station wagon was this: Although it may not be easy to see, our Heavenly Father has given everyone an important purpose. Despite our frailties, we are needed, wanted, and loved. We are each unique and priceless.

After the closing prayer, while everyone is mingling and cleaning up, 17-year-old Chilton Sisinio Tutor, Jr., sitting in a wheelchair, shares his story. “I’ve been a member now for six years. First my mother was baptized, but it took me a year to decide. The missionaries always seemed happy. There was something different about them. I wanted to know more about the gospel.
“We hadn’t been very religious up to that time, because before my father died we spent every Sunday at the beach. When he died, we moved here. I was 12. Like Joseph Smith, I wondered what church was right.
“I haven’t been handicapped all my life, but I was only six months old when I got polio. It’s fairly common here. As I learned about the gospel the bitterness about my disease melted. It’s all gone now. Sometimes I think I’d rather be like this than able to walk. Maybe this has been a blessing in disguise, because it’s helped me to think about the Church more, to think about life more.”
He smiles and laughs. “When I first started coming to the ward, there were only 16 people. Now there are more than 600. The Church is growing fast here in the Philippines.” Then he talks about how Church activities have helped him develop reading and speaking skills. He just won first place in the stake speech contest.
“I’ve had lots of good examples in my life,” he continues. “But the man I admire the most is Joseph Smith. He had strong faith and courage to ask which church is true. I think he showed a lot of people how important it is to ask God.”
For the young Latter-day Saints in Quezon City, Makati, Cainta Taytay, and Angono, life in the Philippines is a life of contrasts. They know that in the tops of remote outer-island mountains some aborigines still live in tribes, while in the tops of modern office buildings in Manila executives plan international marketing ventures. In the streets, flashy motorcars and horse-drawn kalesas (carriages) travel down the same lanes. In private conversations 87 dialects are spoken, but in public, English and Tagalog (ta-GAL-ag) unite the people.
In the city, brightly painted jeepneys (taxi buses) rush commuters to businesses and markets where thousands of people crowd the streets. In the provinces, a farmer plowing behind a carabao (water buffalo) might spend the whole day without seeing another person, and by the ocean a beachcomber can wander for miles all alone.
The Saints here have seen contrasts in life, too. Chilton knows that his father’s death led his family to move to the area where they met the missionaries and found a new life. He is convinced that his childhood affliction has molded his character and helped him to rely on the gospel. Myrna has known the frustration of groping in ignorance and the joy of learning by the Spirit. Raoul doesn’t like to get up early but loves to go to seminary. Susie misses Mexico but loves her new home.
They live in a land where summer sparkles and winter brings monsoon rains. It is a land where wars and occupation once thwarted a people who love freedom and peace. It is a land that has bred a people full of optimism and courage, who firmly believe difficulties are only opportunities looked at from the wrong direction.
The Philippine Islands are a land of sunshine and rain, a land that hopes to weather storms and challenges to arrive at a bright tomorrow. Young Latter-day Saints who live here know that by living the gospel and sharing it with their friends, they will lead the way.

11-year-old Riley Quigley has a few challenges that normally would stop him being able to attend an event where there are crowds and a lot of noise.
On 11 November 2020, during the lockdown, Riley went with his aunt to the Poole Park War Memorial and, on behalf of Poole Ward of the Poole Stake, very thoughtfully laid a Royal British Legion poppy wreath.
After laying the wreath, Riley said that it made him feel very proud to have been able to do something as special as that.
He then went around and helped tidy up some of the other wreaths that had previously been laid but had been blown about by the wind because “they needed to look nice and tidy for the soldiers who died”.
His bishop, Ben Silsby, said, “He looked so smart and respectful. I am very proud of him.”

Chase and Heston watched as Sister Lind interrupted their Primary lesson by placing an empty chair between them.
“President Benson has a family saying about chairs. Have any of you heard it?” she asked, glancing at the extra seat. When no one held up his hand, she gave the answer herself: “‘No empty chairs!’ What do you suppose President Benson means?”
When still no one responded, Sister Lind held up a picture of Jesus holding a lamb. Smiling, she continued, “Could it have something to do with our lesson on Jesus and His lost sheep?”
Sharla raised her hand hesitantly. “Is the chair missing a person, like Jesus was missing a sheep?”
Sister Lind nodded.
“That’s it, Sharla. Just as Jesus brought back His lost sheep, we’re supposed to find our friends missing from Primary and bring them back to their empty chairs.” She placed her hand on the chair between Chase and Heston. “Now, who is missing from our class? Who needs to come back and sit in this chair?”
The whole class turned to one another and mumbled just one name—“Charles.” No one dared to shout it out. They were all reluctant to talk about Charles because his mother had died only two months before.
Redheaded Charles had loved Primary, especially singing time, but he hadn’t come to church for almost three months. The empty chair in the classroom suddenly came alive with loneliness. Charles wasn’t in it, and the other children missed him.
“What can we do?” Heston asked.
“Well, Charles is what the rest of our lesson is about. We’re going to discuss what we can do for him, and then we’ll pray for help.”
The class erupted with ideas: “Let’s ask him to play baseball!” “How about inviting him to the Primary talent activity?” “Isn’t it almost time for his birthday? Why don’t we do something for his birthday?”
Sister Lind pulled out her roll and looked at the birthday list. “You’re right,” she announced. “His birthday is next Saturday.”
Jessica jumped up and suggested, “What if we took balloons and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to him at his house?”
Heston and Chase pulled faces. “The balloons are OK, but do we have to sing?”
Sister Lind laughed. “Of course you’ll sing.” She smiled at Jessica and said, “That’s a fine idea.” To the whole class, she added, “I also think that while we’re there, he’d like to be invited to the Primary activity. Let’s meet at my house on Saturday at ten o’clock.”
When everyone agreed, Sister Lind looked at the empty chair again. “Before we have the closing prayer, I want to remind you to remember Charles in your individual prayers this week.”
On Saturday morning the children climbed into Sister Lind’s van and went to Charles’s home. “Before we get out,” she said, turning around in her seat, “don’t forget about the talent activity.” She winked encouragingly at Chase as she challenged him to invite Charles to it. “The rest of you must show Charles that you really want him to come,” she told them.
The balloons bobbed gaily as the children piled out of the van. Only Chase walked slowly toward the house—he was wondering how to invite Charles to the activity.
A dog bounced out the door when Charles opened it. “Look who’s here, Dad!” he shouted with a surprised look on his face. “It’s Sister Lind and my Primary class!”
“Happy birthday to you,” they chorused. “Happy birthday to you. …”
“Ar-rooo!” a strange voice joined in, unheard by all but Sister Lind. …
“Happy birthday, dear Charles. …”
“Ar-rooo!”
This time they all heard Charles’s basset hound, Bowser, “singing” with them, his head thrown back for a full-throated sound.
“Ar-rooo-ooo!” he finished the song for them, then gave them a big doggy smile, rolling his head to one side and watching the children and Sister Lind laugh.
“Charles, Bowser likes to sing, too,” Heston shouted.
“He sure does,” Charles said, hugging his dog tightly. “He loves music as much as I do.”
Chase saw his opportunity. “Then how about singing with us for the Primary talent activity?”
The class stopped giggling at Bowser and looked expectantly at Charles. “Dad, can I?”
Charles’s dad was quiet. He just looked down at the floor. Their whole plan might have ended awkwardly right then if Heston hadn’t exploded with a fresh burst of giggles. “Hey, Charles,” he chortled, “can Bowser sing with us for the show? Do you think he’d do it?”
Bowser loved the idea! He lifted his head high and sang his loudest “Ar-roo.”
Charles’s dad lifted his head, too, and watched the happy faces of his son and his son’s friends as they again broke into helpless laughter. “Sure,” he said softly. “Maybe I’ll come too.”
During the next few weeks Charles, Bowser, and the rest of the class practiced their special act at Sister Lind’s house. Bowser enjoyed certain notes more than others, so Sister Lind played through her music until they found the song that appealed the most to him.
On Primary Talent Night, everyone’s family and friends crowded into the cultural hall. After the opening prayer, the bishop announced, “And now for a unique opening act: Sister Lind’s Valiant A class will accompany Bowser, the singing dog!”
Charles and his classmates led Bowser onto the stage, and Sister Lind stood below them. “Look across the room and tell me what you see,” she whispered.
The children looked out at the hall filled with people. Charles waved when he saw his dad sitting in the back, surrounded by Sister Lind’s family.
“No empty chairs!” Sharla told Sister Lind excitedly. “There are no empty chairs here tonight—or in our class, anymore.”
“That’s right!” Sister Lind gave them all a big smile and Bowser a pat, which made his tail wag with a thud on the stage. “Now let’s sing!”
The children’s voices rang, and so did Bowser’s. The room rocked with laughter at the hound’s musical howls. Everyone—including the children and Bowser—was having a good time. And best of all, there were no empty chairs.

Once in Utah, Dan Jones settled in Manti, where he was elected the first mayor in 1851. A year later, however, he was called to serve a second mission in his native land. Again he responded without hesitation. With a few others, he began the long trek east. When about eighty miles out of Salt Lake City, he met a group of Welsh Saints coming to the Valley. They had been baptized during his first mission, and they could scarcely contain their feelings when they met their beloved leader, they on their way to the valleys of the West, and he on his way to the valleys of Wales. They sang; they wept; they spoke with words of true affection. They spent a happy day together before parting. As they were separating, Elder Jones gave William Morgan a letter to be delivered to the Presiding Bishop of the Church, Edward Hunter. It breathes the spirit of this remarkable man and his love for his Welsh brethren and sisters:
“Esteemed Bishop Hunter.—Many of my compatriots are coming across in the 13th Company; I do not know their condition; perhaps their money and their provisions are scarce. If so, when they reach the Valley, I shall be grateful to you for furnishing them their needs, through the hand of [Brother Morgan], and I shall pay you in Manti, San Pete Valley.”7

After that, the missionaries came to our home and gave us the first discussion. Then came the invitation: “Will you pray to Heavenly Father to know if the Book of Mormon is true?” We both agreed to do it.
On the first night I prayed before sleeping, but I was so tired that I fell asleep without waiting for a response. On the second night I prayed again, but I didn’t receive an answer. The next night I prayed once again. I wanted to feel what the missionaries had taught me: “Your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8). I prayed and waited, but I didn’t receive a response. Still, I went to bed certain that one day I would receive it.
The next day was the first Sunday of the month, and we went to church. It was then that it happened. During class I began to feel something I had never felt before—something that made me feel so happy. When sacrament meeting began I had a desire to bear my testimony, but I didn’t have the courage. However, I was certain that the Book of Mormon was true.
My brother and I accepted the gospel without reluctance. We had testimonies of the Book of Mormon, and we knew that everything else the missionaries taught us would be true too.

“Have you seen the new girl?” everyone wanted to know.
We were eighth graders in a small town in Utah, and when a new girl came to school in the middle of the year, she was the subject of much discussion in the hallways.
Her name was Cathy Carlisle—a beautiful name that sort of rolled from the tongue—and the name fit. She had moved to our town from Salt Lake City when her father bought a local car dealership. She was totally “citified,” and her whole appearance, from her hairstyle to her clothing, bespoke sophistication and money. To teenagers who had grown up in a small rural community and did most of their shopping at one local department store, Cathy Carlisle represented a whole different world—a world that we admired and envied.
Each school day I could scarcely wait to see what Cathy Carlisle would wear. She always seemed to look perfect, with every hair in place and a radiant smile that-she flashed to one and all. She moved with a graceful poise that was uncommon to eighth graders, and whatever she undertook at school, whether it was tumbling in gym class or reading aloud in English Literature, she did it flawlessly.
It was strange, but I never heard anyone refer to her as just plain Cathy. It was always “Cathy Carlisle” this and “Cathy Carlisle” that. If Cathy Carlisle did it, or wore it, or said it, “it” became the popular thing to do, wear, or say. Despite Cathy Carlisle’s immense popularity at school, however, she didn’t seem to have any close friends. Hers was not a kind of popularity where everyone flocked around. It was more of an awe-inspired adoration from afar. We all thought she was amazing, and yet we were afraid to speak to her. Cathy Carlisle did not seem to be the sort of person that you went up and mingled with.
The cluster of girls I socialized with at school were the group commonly known as “the nice girls.” We were not the group of girls who were nominated for everything, nor were we the “nobodies.” We were just kind of middle ground. Probably because our crowd felt rather threatened by anyone as perfect as Cathy Carlisle, we began to refer to her as “the Snob.” To our way of thinking, it just followed that anyone as exceptional as she seemed to be must be stuck on herself. The fact that she really didn’t “run” with any of the kids at school only supported that idea.
The conversation among us began to go more along the line of, “I wonder what the Snob’s going to wear?” and “You can be sure the Snob will get it right!” But we were still just as awed by her as ever.
Then came the day of the eighth-grade sock hop. Because we were considered too young for nighttime activities, eighth-grade dances were held in the afternoons in the gymnasium. The first hour at these dances was always spent the same way. The girls sat on the bleachers on one side of the gym while the boys sat on the other side. Minutes would drag by while the music played, and boys and girls stared at one another in acute embarrassment.
Finally, a threesome of brave boys would jointly walk over to the girls’ bleachers. Then, almost in unison, they would ask three girls to dance. The three couples, each fearful of reaching the dance floor first, would timidly walk out and begin to shuffle their feet. The ice was finally broken, and it was safe to dance now. Slowly other couples would get up to tromp across the floor.
This particular dance began as any other. Most of my friends had gone out with partners, and I was still sitting on the bleachers, not particularly caring, until I looked up and saw Foy Murray walk in. A feeling of dread came over me as he shuffled past the bleachers, clumsily, with that silly smile on his face.
Foy Murray was mentally retarded and attended the special learning school next to the junior high. He rode the same bus as the junior high students and delighted in attending our school activities. I didn’t understand why our principal allowed him to join in—I thought he was a nuisance.
At the school dances, Foy loved to ask the girls to dance. No one ever accepted, but he would go to one girl after another, undaunted. Our response was always the same. We would giggle in embarrassment, roll our eyes, and try to ignore him until he went away.
That day, as Foy walked closer to me, meeting rejection after rejection, I decided not to stay and be subjected to the usual humiliation. I scrambled to the top of the bleachers where I hoped I would be out of sight. As I settled into my new spot, I gave a small groan. Foy was approaching Cathy Carlisle! This was her first school dance since moving to our town. She didn’t ride the bus, so she would not have encountered Foy Murray yet.
“Wow,” I thought, “the Snob will die when Foy asks her to dance.”
I held my breath as I watched; then I couldn’t believe my eyes! To my utter shock, Cathy Carlisle stood up and let Foy lead her out onto the dance floor. She was as graceful as ever, looking perfectly lovely. As the music started and Foy put his arm awkwardly, hesitantly, on her waist, she smiled that wonderful smile directly into his eyes. But it was Foy’s face that kept my eyes riveted. It was absolutely rapturous! I had never seen him look like that. It was obvious that he was thrilled beyond belief. The two of them moved around the dance floor, his big feet stumbling over the steps, hers never faltering as she continued to smile.
I sat with my mouth open and realized that everyone else did too. Couples on the floor had stopped dancing to turn to watch. Cathy Carlisle and Foy appeared not to notice and danced as if they were oblivious to everyone else.
When the dance ended, Foy walked Cathy Carlisle back to the bleachers, a new look of confidence on his face. He moved on to another girl on the bleachers, asking her to dance. After a moment’s hesitation, the girl jumped up and joined him. He grinned widely at her and everyone else around him, looking as overjoyed as he had moments before.
I descended the bleachers in a hurry to join my friends near the door. “I can’t believe it,” I said. “Cathy Carlisle just danced with Foy Murray.”
At that precise moment, I glimpsed my own reflection in the hall window nearby. I stared long and hard as a sudden realization struck me. I had always considered myself “too good” to dance with someone like Foy Murray. As I looked once again at Foy’s glowing face on the dance floor, I knew what kind of person that made me.
I sat, feeling wretched, as I watched Foy dance every dance after that, each with a different girl. From then on, it became an unspoken law at school dances that if Foy Murray asked a girl to dance, she didn’t refuse. It was a sort of contest between us to see who could make him look the happiest.
Each day as we waited for the bus after school, we chatted with Foy, and soon began to actually look forward to having him join in on our conversations. We asked him questions and became genuinely interested in him as a person. Throughout the rest of the school year, Foy continued to make lots of friends, and as he did so, he blossomed before our eyes.
I don’t know what became of Cathy Carlisle. Her family moved back to the city a year later. Foy Murray passed away a few years later, but I’ve often considered how less joyful his last years on earth might have been if not for one lovely 13-year-old who set a firm example of friendship for her classmates.

Grandma was 75 years old when she initiated a “12 days of Christmas” secret Santa project with her Sunday School class of 14-year-olds. “How would you like to do something nice for someone?” she asked. Each person in the class, including Grandma, would secretly take treats to Brother Johnson, who had recently lost his wife. “Sometimes,” Grandma had said, “people may feel alone and need service even if they are not poor.”
Brother Johnson’s house was set far back from the road, and there was a wrought iron fence surrounding the property. On the night of her first turn, Grandma parked down the street and stealthily crept up to the door. She placed the package, rang the bell, and suddenly realized she couldn’t run fast enough to get away. She quickly crouched behind the car and held her breath. Brother Johnson came to the door, picked up the package, and looked around.
He stepped out into the night to get a better look and came up to the car. Grandma slumped down behind the bumper, scarcely breathing. Brother Johnson gave up the search and went back into the house. Grandma was safe this time.
On the night of her second turn, she found the gates locked. Somewhat relieved that she wouldn’t need to crouch behind the car again, she hung the gift on the gate and returned home.
On the night of her third visit, we received a call. “Please,” she said, “would you come and help me deliver my secret Santa gift?” We accepted and started toward the house with the gift. We started to laugh when we saw how challenging this house was to approach.
In church that Sunday, Brother Johnson expressed his gratitude that the gifts had made him feel the love of the ward on his first Christmas alone. Grandma will always be our example of compassion and charity and has taught us that you’re never too old to serve.

A friend of mine told me how she had once handled a situation that embodies the same principle. Married in a civil ceremony, Anne and Bob had set a goal to be sealed in the temple. For a time they were both active in the Church, but Bob gradually lost interest. He and his sports-minded friends looked forward to watching Sunday afternoon football on television.

Anne rose early each Sunday morning, made breakfast for her family, straightened the kitchen, and got herself and their two small children ready for church meetings. She left Bob with a kiss and a smile. In sacrament meeting, she struggled alone with the children, even though her husband had offered to care for them at home.

She said, “I knew it was critical that I set a good example for him and my children. I prayed that Bob would come around if I kept my faith in him. After church, I would pause before entering the house, clear my mind of any negative feelings, and remember how much I loved him. Sometimes the living room was messy with popcorn and cans, but I wouldn’t allow those things to interfere with our relationship.”

After asking her husband’s permission, Anne started preparing to receive her own temple endowment. At first, Bob made only small concessions to living gospel principles. Later, he resumed attending church with his family and finally joined in preparing to attend the temple. Eventually, they were sealed as a family for eternity.

Anne said, “I think he saw the difference the gospel had made in my life. He also noticed that his family was progressing. One day, he just decided to catch up.”

At school the next afternoon Keith was struggling to keep up with his classmates as they ran around the track. Jason had been a fast runner, and sometimes Keith’s teacher, Mr. Lee, would kid him by saying, “Are you sure you’re a Johnson boy?” Last time Keith had answered with a grin, “I got the brains of the family.”
Now Mr. Lee was yelling at the runners, “Keep going! Two more times!” Then he went in to his office.
“Follow me,” a boy in front of Keith called out as he cut across the middle of the track. Everyone laughed and began to follow him.
“Come on, Keith,” called a girl. “This way we won’t have to run so far.”
Keith thought quickly: That’s not honest. Jason wouldn’t do it, and neither will I. He continued his jog around the track.
When Mr. Lee returned, everyone was finishing the run except Keith, who still had another lap to go. He heard his classmates giggle when Mr. Lee said, “That Johnson boy seems slower than usual today.” Keith didn’t know it, but his teacher had stopped the giggles when he added, “And the rest of you seem to have extra energy, so we’ll do jumping jacks while we wait for him!”
When Keith finally finished, Mr. Lee patted his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Johnson.”
“For being last?” Keith panted.
“No. For being honest. You’re a lot like your brother, after all.”

One of our fine stake presidents shared with us the following experience:
“I remember a girl that I had gone to high school with. She was from a good LDS family, but when she was a junior in high school, she began to compromise her standards and principles.
“I remember how stunned I was one afternoon as a group of us were in the back of the bus, riding home from school, and we were talking about the consequences of sin or transgression. And she flatly announced that she wasn’t worried about committing any sin because her bishop had told her she could easily repent and could be quickly forgiven.
“Well, I was shocked with this flippant attitude that didn’t reflect any understanding of repentance and no appreciation of the miracle of forgiveness. I was also sure that she had grossly misunderstood the instruction and counsel of her bishop.”
Adultery, or anything like unto it, is abominable in the sight of the Lord. President Kimball also wisely observed:
“Among the most common sexual sins our young people commit are necking and petting. Not only do these improper relations often lead to fornication, pregnancy, and abortion—all ugly sins—but in and of themselves they are pernicious evils, and it is often difficult for youth to distinguish where one ends and another begins. …
“Too often, young people dismiss their petting with a shrug of their shoulders as a little indiscretion, while admitting that fornication is a base transgression. Too many of them are shocked, or feign to be, when told that what they have done in the name of petting was in reality [a form of] fornication” (The Miracle of Forgiveness, pp. 65–66).

“For I remember the word of God which saith by their works ye shall know them; for if their works be good, then they are good also” (Moroni 7:5).
My bishop, a great friend and example to me, continually invited me to minister with him even when I was no longer attending Church. He was such an important person to me that I couldn’t refuse his invitations. We had countless wonderful experiences serving those whom we visited, and he always offered to share gospel insights with them so that I would not be uncomfortable.
He served me while also inviting me to serve others, and that made a huge difference in coming back to Christ.

During my service as mission president, I met many young people who also demonstrated this kind of pliability. I first met Olivier Pecqueux on a visit to New Caledonia. He was 24 years old and in the military service. He was not active in the Church, pursuing instead a life of worldliness. But the Lord had other plans for him. At his request we met and discussed his patriarchal blessing. He decided to humble himself, repent, and let the Lord mold his life. Soon he was called on a full-time mission, and he became one of my most capable elders. He is now attending college and was recently married in the Tahiti temple.

Bravery is a trait every young man can develop. It is based on love for others more than safety for self. One Venturer Scout who is blind signed up to go on a hike in southern California with his Scout troop. They hiked to Lord Baden Powell Peak over a steep trail. The young man held on to the shirt of a fellow Boy Scout every step of the way. It was a long hike and took two full days. This boy did not complain, did not seek pity, just kept grinding on and on until they came to the trail’s end. Equally as brave was the Scout who volunteered to lead his friend over a steep and challenging trail. He felt honored to help.

I attended the Hamilton School. The bane of my first-grade teacher’s life was my friend Louie. He had what psychologists might call some kind of a fixation. He would sit in class and chew his tie until it became wet and stringy. The teacher would scold him. Louie eventually became a man of substance. I learned never to underestimate the potential of a boy to make something of his life, even if he chews his tie.