Gospel Story Finder

“This is it, Mark,” I say as I gaze out at the field strewn with hundreds of colorful eggs. “Next year we’ll be too old, so we have to win the prize basket today.”
“I know, Emily,” Mark answers, his grip tight on our basket, his body poised to bolt onto the field.
At the community egg hunt, we’re allowed to work in teams of two. My friend Mark and I have come close to winning before, but this year we have to win the prize basket. Besides the chocolate eggs and stuffed animals in it, there are a gift certificate to a video store, a bunch of CDs, two passes to that new amusement park—all kinds of great stuff.
And we’re going to do it, because this year, Mark and I are among the oldest, tallest, and fastest kids here. I know we can scoop up more eggs than anyone else.
Behind me I hear a woman saying, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to let her try this, Mike.”
I glance back and catch a glimpse of a girl in a yellow skirt. She is with her parents and looks younger than me.
The flag goes down, and everyone goes tearing onto the field. Mark and I have planned out our strategy. We run past the kids stooping down to pick up the first eggs they come to. Instead, we head for the eggs beyond them. We grab eggs like crazy.
Mark and I have loaded our basket by the time the others have cleaned the front part of the field and start swarming into the area where we are. Even so, Mark and I continue to find a few eggs with the other children.
“You’re going to win,” one of the older boys groans when he sees our basket.
I smile. Yes, we’re going to win. I’m sure of it.
By now, the field has almost been picked clean of eggs. Mark and I start to recheck our chances of winning. We feel pretty confident.
Then I notice the girl in the yellow skirt walking slowly toward us. What is she doing? I wonder. She doesn’t have a partner, nor has she found a single egg. She holds her empty basket in one hand. Her other hand grips a long white stick tipped with red. She taps the stick to the ground and sweeps it in front of her as she walks as if she’s looking for something in the grass.
She can’t see! That’s why she has no eggs. Everyone ran out in front of her and grabbed every single egg, leaving none for her to find.
Why did she try this? I wonder. She couldn’t possibly beat us to eggs, let alone win.
Then I realize something. All I care about is finding the most eggs and winning the prize. But that girl doesn’t care a bit about the prize. She just wants to find eggs for the fun of it. And we’ve all taken that chance away from her.
I look over at Mark. He’s watching the girl, too. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he knows what I want to do. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s begging me not to do it. He wants to win.
But I step forward, lift an egg from our basket, and place it quietly in front of the girl. As her stick hits the egg with a satisfying clicking sound, she smiles. She bends over, gropes around for the egg, and finding it, places it in her basket.
I put down another egg. As she finds that one, Mark adds one to the grass. We both put out a couple more.
A little boy darts in front of me, heading for the eggs. I gently grab him before he can reach them. “No,” I whisper in his ear. “They’re hers.”
I know the girl will never have the most eggs—it takes her a long time to find them, and the hunt’s almost over. But at least she’ll have some. And the smile on her face shows how much fun she’s having.
The contest judge announces that the hunt is over, that we should bring all our baskets up to determine the winner. Mark and I go, but we know that we may have lost. We do lose by four eggs.
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see the woman who stood behind me earlier. Her eyes glisten with tears, and she mouths “Thank you” at me before she goes to admire the eggs in her daughter’s basket.
And then my mom’s there. “Emily, Mark,” she says. “I know how much you wanted that prize.”
I shrug. “It’s OK that we didn’t win.”
My mom puts her arms around our shoulders and squeezes. “But you two did win.”
She’s right. Even if our basket was totally empty right now, I think I would still feel like a winner, and I can tell that Mark feels that way, too. We wanted that prize basket. Instead, we’re taking home a wonderful feeling and the memory of a young girl’s smile. That’s the best prize of all.

About three years ago my husband, Rich, and I faced a situation that some might view as “unfair.” We had been living in Rexburg for 18 years. I worked here on campus and my husband was employed by LDS Philanthropies. The stability of our lives was abruptly rocked when Rich learned LDS Philanthropies was downsizing and he, along with everyone in the Idaho office, no longer had jobs. He found a job in Pocatello and we felt impressed to move there, although I still continued to work on campus. I loved working for BYU-Idaho, but could not see how that could continue since I resided 80 miles from campus. I assumed the Lord had another professional opportunity in store for me in Pocatello. I interviewed for a position in Pocatello and was one of the final candidates. Despite being well qualified, and despite my prayers, I did not get that job. I was crushed and frustrated. We had felt prompted to move, but that meant I had to drive 160 miles every workday or find a way to stay in Rexburg—which meant being away from my husband. But that wasn’t the end of that story. I’ll come back to it later.

There were things I learned through that difficult time and I grew closer to my Savior.

Back to my story about not getting the job that I thought I really wanted. After receiving that bitterly disappointing news, I continued doing the things I believed the Lord wanted me to and trusted there was a purpose for what I was experiencing. Two months later, I learned that a BYU-Idaho job I had wanted for 16 years—but didn’t think would become available before I retired—was posted as being open. I applied and I got that job, which is the greatest professional blessing of my life. I still have a long drive, but the Lord has helped me be at peace with that and daily assists me to manage the affairs of my crazy commuting life. I look back on that situation and think that if the Lord had answered my prayer and allowed me to get that Pocatello job, I would have missed out on my ultimate dream job! Every day I am grateful that the Lord knew what was best for me and that I trusted in His care.

May I relate an experience that came many years ago as I was learning to fly airplanes. My instructor and I were flying straight and level, and off on the horizon lay a range of mountains. Suddenly the instructor put the plane into a maneuver, and I saw with my own eyes the mountain range rear up, stand on its end, turn upside down and then continue around until it resumed its former position. The instructor then climbed up to a height, and he put the plane into a spin. As we came falling through the air, I looked down below and saw the whole world whirling around as if it were a huge wheel. I had never beheld phenomena of this nature before.

I have in the succeeding time performed these maneuvers myself many times. If I were to perform that snap roll today, I would not be able to see the mountains stand on end nor turn upside down. The reason is that I have been enlightened by reality and have learned the truth. I know now that it was I who was turning around, not the mountain, and it was not the world that was spinning. Having thus oriented myself, I now observe things in their true light. This is the case as the temptations of this world come upon us. We may momentarily be confused by what appears to be reality; but truth is eternal and will bring clarity to our perception, if we are obedient to the covenant and hold to the iron rod.

So does an employer who is unfair to his employees. An idealistic young professional wrote Church headquarters about the plight of migrant farm workers. He had observed treatment that was probably illegal and certainly unchristian. When I read his letter, I thought of the positive example of Jesse Knight, the great benefactor of Brigham Young Academy. At a time when most mine owners exploited their workers, this Christian employer paid his miners something extra so they could earn their living in six days’ labor and rest on the Sabbath. He did not require them to patronize a company store. He built his workers a building for recreation, worship, and schooling. And Brother Knight would not permit the superintendent to question his workers about their religion or politics (see Jesse William Knight, The Jesse Knight Family, Salt Lake City: Deseret News Press, 1940, pp. 43–44; and Gary Fuller Reese, “Uncle Jesse,” master’s thesis, Brigham Young University, 1961, pp. 26–28).

Some of my best reading has been done on Sunday, not to mention the piles of studies that I did because I played on Saturday. During my last year at college, I decided, to my own amazement, to abolish Sunday study. And I did—to the last degree. I still played on Saturday, but when Sunday arrived, I could not study, so I didn’t worry about tests and papers. I did just as well in school, and my mind was renewed and refreshed, a vital part of the Sabbath.

As noted, Sister Heistø decided to obtain a theology degree. Her family and friends had told her that if she’d had any intelligence she could have seen through the lies of Mormonism. She felt that by attending a Norwegian Lutheran theological seminary and obtaining a theological degree she could show her intelligence and counter the criticisms by family and friends for joining the LDS Church.

One of her first classes was Philosophy of Religions, taught by Professor Guttorm Fløistad. At the end of the course, Professor Fløistad asked for suggestions on how he might improve the course for future offerings. Sister Heistø raised her hand and suggested he add a section on the philosophy of Mormonism. Professor Fløistad responded that he didn’t know enough about Mormonism. Sister Heistø quickly suggested that she could arrange for a Latter-day Saint scholar from Brigham Young University to come to Norway and give a lecture at Oslo University on Mormonism. Then Professor Fløistad could use the BYU professor’s lecture material for his course. Professor Fløistad was agreeable to her suggestion, although it may have been a polite way to close the discussion. However, Sister Heistø, with her strong determination, followed through and arranged for Professor Truman Madsen from BYU to go to Norway. Professor Madsen gave a superb lecture, and Professor Madsen and Professor Fløistad became close friends.

When I went to Norway as mission president, Sister Heistø approached me about having Professor Fløistad visit BYU and lecture at the Kennedy Center. I made contact with the university for an invitation and made arrangements with a donor to pay for his expenses. It was a marvelous experience that resulted in Professor Fløistad becoming one of the Church’s best public relations friends in Norway.

One interesting side note about Professor Fløistad’s visit that shows Sister Heistø’s fortitude when representing the Lord was the commitment she extracted from Professor Fløistad before coming to BYU. The European area presidency visited Oslo and gave a seminar on member missionary work. At the end of the seminar, Elder Carlos Asay, then the European area president, asked the members to make a commitment to give at least three referrals a month to the full-time missionaries. That gave Sister Heistø an idea.

The next day Sister Heistø telephoned Professor Fløistad and said, “Since we are paying for you to go to Utah to learn about the Mormons, I think we should get something in return.” He responded that her request seemed fair and asked what she had in mind. She then suggested that he invite at least three people a month to learn more about the Mormons. He agreed to the request.

Professor Fløistad had taken a year’s sabbatical from Oslo University to study leadership and management in Norwegian businesses. Arrangements had been made for him to tour Norway giving lectures on his findings. The day he returned from Utah he began a week’s tour in Norway visiting major cities and lecturing to Norway’s leading business executives. At the end of the week, when he returned to Oslo, Professor Fløistad telephoned Sister Heistø to give a report on his visit to Utah and to thank her for arranging the trip.

Professor Fløistad then asked Sister Heistø if she remembered the commitment she had extracted from him. She said yes, and he then asked her what it was. She replied that he was to invite at least three people a month to learn more about the Mormons.

He said, “I’ve done better than that. I gave six lectures this week to business executives, and I have invited each of them to learn about your church.” He then added, “Do you want to know what I said?”

“Of course!” she replied.

He continued, “I told them that I have found the most perfect organization, and it is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He then added, “Even if you are not interested in religion, the next time two Mormon missionaries knock on your door, let them in. There is much you can learn from the Mormons.”

A week later Professor Fløistad telephoned again. He said, “Rigmor, I understand Mormons like reports.” She confirmed that we do, and he said, “I’ve called to give you another report. This week I gave five more lectures, and again I invited my audiences to learn more about the Mormons.”

It didn’t stop there. Professor Fløistad has returned to BYU three times. And now, 10 years later, he tells me that he still gives about 400 lectures a year, and in at least one out of three lectures he talks about what his audience can learn from the Mormons.

In order to maintain her commitment to the gospel and build her spirituality, Sister Lawson set some standards for herself when she moved to Kununurra that she has maintained ever since. She reads two or three chapters from the standard works daily, systematically working her way through each of them. She also reads every piece of Church literature she can get. “I subscribe to all the Church magazines,” she says.
Twice each month, she receives a phone call from the Relief Society president in the city of Darwin, 700 kilometers away—the center of Church activity in Australia’s vast Northern Territory. The phone calls are a welcome morale booster, as are the photocopies of lessons from the Relief Society and Sunday School manuals which are also sent.
Normally, Sister Lawson has an opportunity to take the sacrament only once every six months. When she can get the time off work, she travels to Darwin for district conference—a weekend trip that costs her an average of [U.S.] $350 for air fares. Occasionally, the mission president or another priesthood holder travels through the town, and Sister Lawson often takes that opportunity to ask for a blessing.

After a few years of conducting meetings in and around Kotpad, I moved to northern India, where I began to sell books from the Evangelical Christian literature society. I came across a book called Is Mormonism Christian? Something about the book intrigued me, and I decided to read it.
The book had a lot of criticism toward the Mormons and their beliefs. Even so, many parts of the book intrigued me, especially their concept of the Godhead, the components of their worship, and the history of polygamy. However, what interested me the most was that their church was named after Jesus Christ. I was curious to know more.
One day while praying, I felt inspired to investigate the Mormon Church. I learned that Salt Lake City, Utah, was the Church’s headquarters. I decided to write a letter and addressed it to “Men in charge of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City, Utah, USA.”
In 1959, in response to my letter, Brother Lamar Williams from the Church Missionary Department sent me Joseph Smith’s testimony, the Articles of Faith, and the Book of Mormon. I studied them all and was convinced of their truthfulness. However, there were no missionaries or members to teach me in India.
Then in January 1961, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited Delhi. I spent three days traveling with him to the Taj Mahal at Agra and to Dharamsala. I was like a sponge soaking up all the gospel lessons he taught. On the final day of his visit, I was ready for baptism. On January 7, 1961, I was baptized by Elder Kimball in the Yamuna River; Sister Kimball was the official witness, though there were many curious onlookers. I was confirmed that evening.
Those three days when the Lord’s Apostle taught me without any interruptions have been some of the best days of my life. Parting was sad because he had become my special Mormon friend.

I had been going to church for four years and waited until my adoption was final before being baptized. I had fasted many times to know if Jesus Christ is our Savior and if Heavenly Father does answer our prayers.
Before my baptism date was set, I had a strong desire to know if being baptized was the right thing to do. I went to my Young Women leader and asked her how to go about getting an answer to my prayers. She told me to read Doctrine and Covenants 9:7–9 [D&C 9:7–9]. These verses explain that you should study your question in your mind, choose a course of action, and then go to Heavenly Father with your decision in prayer. This scripture says that if it is right, you will have a burning in your bosom. But if it is wrong you will have a stupor of thought.
After I read these scriptures, I knew that I had more to do if I wanted my prayers answered. I had to “search, ponder, and pray.” I also found it very helpful to fast.
I now can tell you that I do know that Jesus Christ is our Savior. Our prayers can be answered if we are diligent and faithful. I also know that choosing to be baptized was the right thing for me to do.

Just before the evening devotional, a reception for the Osmonds was held at the meetinghouse in Solihull where Justin reconnected with Richard Grant, who he had worked with during voluntary service to the UK deaf community years earlier. The pair’s previous assignment was part of their mission for the Church.
Justin said, “My heart is full tonight. The UK is my second home with its beautiful green pastures and to reconnect with my hero, mentor and dear friend, Richard, who changed my life.”
Richard said, “It has been 25 years since we last were together. Justin is a fantastic guy. He was when we were serving together, and he is now. He honestly wanted to serve with all his heart, and he has not changed.”

It was early when Tayson rolled out of bed and put on old work clothes. He and Dad hurried and ate breakfast, then pulled on boots and work gloves.
“Grab those shovels and put them in the car,” Dad told Tayson. “We’re going to need them.”
Last night Dad got a call from Brother Merkley in the ward. Some of the houses nearby had filled with mud from a big storm. The owners needed lots of help cleaning out their muddy basements.
“Can I go?” Tayson had asked.
“Sure,” Dad said. “It’s going to be hard work, but I think you can do it.”
Tayson grinned. He was excited to help Dad out.
When they got to the house, they saw other people from their stake. The stake president patted Tayson’s shoulder and said he was glad Tayson was there.
Tayson was glad too—until he looked down the basement stairs. Squishy, wet mud piled halfway up the stairway! How would they ever get down there? Dad grabbed his shovel and plunged right into the mud. Tayson followed. He tried to step in Dad’s footprints, but the mud sucked the prints away before he could step into them.
“Can you start shoveling?” Brother Merkley asked Tayson’s dad. “And Tayson, maybe you can join the bucket brigade with me.”
Tayson followed Brother Merkley to the far end of the basement. Tayson got in line and passed a bucket full of mud to the person next to him. The last person in line lifted the bucket through the open window to someone outside. Then another bucket came down the line.
Tayson had never seen so many buckets in his whole life. And every one of them was full of mud. The line of buckets never seemed to end! Soon Tayson’s shoulders and arms got tired.
After working for several hours, everyone took a break. Tayson stretched his aching shoulders.
“I think we’ve got it under control here,” Brother Merkley said. “But if anyone can stay longer, it would be great to help other neighbors.”
Tayson rubbed his arms. He wondered if he could ever lift another bucket. But still he climbed up the stairs and followed Dad across the muddy grass to a neighbor’s house. Once again Tayson passed dozens of heavy buckets filled with mud down the line and out the basement window. His arms and back felt sore and limp as spaghetti. But he didn’t quit.
When the basement was cleared of mud, the man who lived in the house shook everyone’s hands. “I can’t believe you folks turned out to help people you don’t even know. I can’t thank you enough.”
Tayson and Dad returned home covered in mud. Tayson felt like every muscle in his body was sore and tired. Even his eyelids!
“I’ve never been so dirty,” Tayson said. “Not even when we went camping last summer. Do you think Mom will let us into the house?”
Dad looked down at his muddy shoes and burst out laughing. “I hope so. I don’t think we can go to church tomorrow looking like this!”
Go to Family Night Fun for an activity to go with this story. And go to page 37 for an activity all about dads!
“I hurt all over, but I feel good at the same time,” Tayson said.
“That’s the good feeling that comes from helping someone else,” Dad said. “I’m proud of you.”
Tayson was wet and cold from the hard, damp work, but Dad’s words warmed him all the way down to his toes.

“Whenever we fall, whenever we do less than we ought, in a very real way we forget mother,” declared President Thomas S. Monson. He added, “Men turn from evil and yield to their better natures when mother is remembered.”1
President Monson’s message has been a strength to me, so much so that when I first read his words, they brought to mind my mother and the wise counsel she gave me years ago, shortly after I joined the Church.
My mother was a member of another Christian church, but she was kind to the missionaries who taught me the gospel. Once I decided to become a Latter-day Saint, she always supported me.
Everything had been going well in my new life as a member of the Church until I joined in Journalism Day observances in my home country of Peru. At a party I attended, talks and complimentary words filled the air. Toasts then followed. As the party grew, so did the temptation to drink with my friends.
The change that converts to the Church make when they accept the gospel often means that they must make new friends. In some circumstances, as I learned, former friends can be instruments of the adversary to tempt us to break the commandments and resume our old ways.
When my co-workers offered me a glass of beer, I took it, drank it, and kept on drinking. At the end of the party, my conscience convicted me. I had fallen. What would my mother say?
When I arrived home, I entered quietly and immediately went to bed. My mother said nothing, but I felt ashamed and decided to quit attending church. A week later, as we sat at the table eating lunch, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Son, never forget that you are a Mormon.”
To go to and from work, I rode my bicycle by the Church meetinghouse. Every time I did so, my conscience bothered me. One evening I decided I could no longer live with my guilt. I parked my bicycle directly in front of the branch president’s office, went in, and requested an interview.
I told the branch president what I had done and asked for forgiveness, after which he counseled with me. From that moment on, I have never broken the Word of Wisdom.
My mother died more than 20 years ago, but I have always tried to remember what she told me never to forget: I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

When one of our sons was 11 years old, he woke up with a bad headache. At first I thought he was just delaying going to school, but I quickly realized he had a high fever. I took him to the doctor, and soon we were rushing to the hospital. There he was diagnosed with spinal meningitis, a serious illness.
As his condition became more severe, he began having seizures. The doctor asked me to step out of the room. As I walked into the hall, I was afraid and began to cry. A woman I did not know put her arms around me. I prayed out loud that Heavenly Father would help my son and that all would be well. I remember feeling that all would be well.
My son had surgery and many weeks of recovery. Today he is healthy, married, and a father of two beautiful girls. This experience was such an example to me of the power of prayer.

My sister and I felt an emptiness because we had no idea who our Laurunen forebears were. All we knew is that they had come from Finland to America in 1901. So in August 2004, my sister Janice and cousin Sandy joined my husband, Charlie, and me on a trip to discover our ancestors.

In the process of researching for our trip, Sandy discovered a two-page report on the Laurunen Homestead, built in 1605. The earliest mention of our family was in 1569 in the town of Kauhajoki.

Once in Finland, we rented a car and left early the next morning for the long drive to Kauhajoki. We had a hard time finding it and were about to give up when Charlie caught sight of a small airport. We drove there to ask for help. Sandy showed a young man our report, and he kindly offered to take us to the town library. I am sure we would never have found Kauhajoki by ourselves since it is well hidden down a forested highway. It seemed the Lord was leading us in our journey.

At the library a young woman gave us a map, circling the Lutheran church and cemetery. We found the church easily. After two hours of research, with the help of the pastor and several clerks, one of them called our Laurunen relatives and told them they had visitors from America. They came immediately with family genealogies dating back to the year 1550.

With the church bookkeeper as our interpreter, we walked through the beautifully manicured cemetery. Sandy stood at her grandfather’s grave for the first time. Later, she saw a picture of him and held his violin. We were all deeply touched as the void we had felt before was being filled.

Then our Finnish cousins drove us to the family homestead, which was pictured on our two-page report. They told us that our family had owned as much land as the eye could see. The house on the family homestead was enormous and had housed Laurunen families as far back as 1550. When the Russian military came into Kauhajoki, they used the homestead for military headquarters. They burned down the church and all other homes in the area. Everyone, including our family, fled to the woods for safety. After the Russians left, our grandfather led the building of the new church that we had seen earlier. Eventually the land around the homestead was divided and sold.

In 2005 Janice, Sandy, and I returned to Kauhajoki for another visit with our newly found cousins and more research. In 2006 we had our first Laurunen family reunion in America, and 15 of our Finnish cousins joined us. Eighty-nine family members celebrated the lives of our grandparents.

What a joy it has been to discover such a rich, fascinating family history and know more about who I am and where I came from. Family history is the work of the Lord.

The trial of my faith came to me at various stages of progression along the journey and was a true refiner’s fire. On one occasion, feeling wronged and hurt, I found myself drawn into an exchange of unfriendly words with a member of my core family. When I realized what was happening, I decided to shut my mouth and leave the scene. As I started walking away, I felt rebuked by the Spirit, so I returned and offered a sincere apology for my part in causing the incident. What followed were mutual tears of regret for what had happened and sincere forgiveness for one another.

Ricky Maxfield can walk through Reno and see the fruits of his Eagle Scout project—cantaloupe, watermelon, squash, carrots, beans, corn, and peas. Fourteen-year-old Ricky, of the Mount Rose Fourth Ward, Reno Nevada Stake, received a pickup load of garden seeds for his Eagle project from the American Indian Services at Brigham Young University. With the help of nine Scouts in his troop and his brother Dale and sister Carrie, he raised $5,500 from selling the seeds and donated the money to American Indian Services. A tractor was bought with the money and delivered to the Hualapai tribe of northern Arizona.

President Hinckley’s grandfather, Ira Nathanial Hinckley, lost his parents and was sent from Michigan to Springfield, Illinois, to live with his grandparents. As a teenager he walked to Nauvoo, Illinois, and met the Prophet Joseph Smith.
He traveled westward with the pioneers. During the U.S. Civil War he volunteered for service in the Union army guarding the transcontinental telegraph line. Later he was sent by Brigham Young to Cove Creek, Utah, where he built the fort that stands today.
On the trek west, Ira Hinckley stayed back for one season to plow the prairies and plant grain that he would not harvest. The harvest belonged to those who came afterward. The forebearers of Brother and Sister Hinckley planted fields of faith for those who followed them.

For example, one young girl had great physical beauty. When she walked in a room of strangers, people stopped talking. They seemed in awe of her looks. Boys she didn’t know would stop her and ask for her telephone number. Attention and opportunities came to her just because of how she looked. She was popular and had friends. But in speaking with a Young Women leader, she confessed that her good looks sometimes made her uncomfortable. She explained that she didn’t know if people liked her for herself or because she was pretty. Sometimes friends were only friendly for a short time. She didn’t trust any of the young men who approached her because she felt they didn’t really want to get to know her; they just seemed to want to go out with her because of her looks. Instead of making her happy, her beauty made her feel insecure because she wondered if people would still like her if she weren’t beautiful.

I learned this in a powerful way while serving as a missionary in Mexico. In the early part of my mission, I was hesitant to speak, both because I am by nature an introvert and because my Spanish was not very good. I greatly feared that I would be embarrassed. I was focused on myself.

One day as I walked down the street, I suddenly had a feeling overcome me that I can only credit to the Holy Ghost: it was a clear feeling that all of the people I saw bustling about me that day were literally my brothers and sisters and that all of them were sons and daughters of my Heavenly Parents, who were also their Heavenly Parents. Without any conscious effort on my part, I felt overwhelming love for each person I saw. At that moment I felt a great desire to speak to them. I was anxious to share with them words that would help them see their divine destiny, even if the words were not in perfect Spanish. I suddenly found that I cared more about them and their well-being than about my potential embarrassment. My fear of being embarrassed disappeared and was replaced by an almost consuming love for those people. As I shifted my focus from me and my inadequacies to others and their needs, my fear was cast out by the love that I felt.

Webster, the Canada goose gosling, wobbles out of his down-lined nest and peers over the edge of the cliff. Two hundred feet below flow the waters of the Missouri River. Webster’s father, the gander, making short, circling flights above the cliff, calls and coaxes, urging his family to leave the cliff and join him.
On the cliff ledge, Webster is joined by his three sisters. Mother lifts off on her strong wings and calls to her babies, come, come, come.
Webster flaps his tiny featherless wings and hurls himself after the goose. Can he fly? No, indeed. Instead he falls down, down, down and lands ker-plunk on a rock pile at the base of the cliff.
One by one his sisters follow. The rocks below are jagged and sharp. It’s a miracle that they are not injured. Webster stands up, shakes himself, and the four goslings tumble and scramble down the rock pile to the waiting goose and gander.
Away they go toward the river—the goose, the four goslings, and the gander, making their own little parade.
But there’s another hazard ahead. Between the river and the cliff is a railroad track. And, while a person like you or me could step right over the tracks, the steel rails make a high fence to block the way of short-legged Webster and his sisters. The only way for the goose and gander to get their babies across is to lead them down the tracks to a crossing.
Look out, Webster! Danger may be lurking. Out in the open in broad daylight, the geese are in full view of any furred or feathered predator. If there’s a hungry fox nearby he may try to nab a gosling dinner. Actually, any fox would be foolish to tangle with the adult geese, because nesting Canada geese are short-tempered and strong enough to knock a horseman from his saddle and break his arm. A fox wouldn’t stand a chance against an angry goose and gander.
Soon the little parade comes to a railroad bridge. This solves the problem of getting across the tracks. Webster and his sisters follow the goose down the steep slope and, for the first time, enter the water. Instinct tells them exactly what to do and in a few seconds they are across the narrow stream and on their way to the main channel of the river just ahead.
The goose family is headed for a tree-covered island in the middle of the river. The island will provide food and a sheltered place for the young goslings to grow up.
Webster jumps in and paddles with all his might against the powerful river current. Bounced and battered by the rolling waters, at times he cannot see either his parents or his sisters. He swims and swims. The river is carrying him far downstream.
Finally he is out of the current and into calmer waters. With his last ounce of strength he wades up onto the levee and sinks to the sand in a tuckered heap.
Far upstream he can hear the come, come, come call of the goose and gander. He struggles to his feet and starts out to rejoin his family. The way is rocky and uncomfortable. He slips and falls, bruising himself as he goes. Although Webster is only one day old and appears to be all softness and fluff, in reality he is wiry and tough. He moves on.
Along the way he meets his sisters, also headed toward the come, come, come call. Soon they are greeted by the goose and gander. The parents flap their wings excitedly to welcome the goslings to the sheltering willows and quiet backwaters of their island home.