Gospel Story Finder

A man told this story about his youth. It seems that when he was seventeen, he used to run with a gang of boys who had great times together. One night after they had been together, he heard the shouting of excited people coming toward his house. Being curious, he dressed and went downstairs to discover that a mob was approaching. It was not long until it arrived and from it sprang three or four of his friends, all members of the gang. One of them said to him, “Come with us, Joe. This man has hurt a girl and we’re going to lynch him.” Before Joe could ask any questions, they grabbed him by the arms and he was swept along in a swirling, shouting sea of humanity.
A mile from his house was a large oak tree. Almost before he knew what was happening, the mob had placed a rope around the accused man’s neck, placed him on a horse, and thrown the rope over the limb of a tree. The moment of death had arrived. Have you ever known such a moment when important things weigh in the balance?
A profound silence came over the mob. The last details of the lynching had been completed. Quite by chance or by the force of circumstance, Joe found himself right next to the horse. Suddenly, the leader—and every mob has such a leader—shouted at him. “Joe, kick that horse and let’s get this thing over with.” The tension within Joe could not be described. He’d never seen this man before. But here Joe was with all these people watching him, anxious for him to carry out the command. He felt the pressure as he hesitated, but then, blinded by emotion and the desire to have the approval of the mob, he kicked the horse. The man met his death.
The next day the mob discovered that they had lynched an innocent human being. This man had had nothing to do with the alleged crime. And for sixty-five years Joe tried to find peace. He wished again and again in the agony of his soul that at the moment when the mob took him along and he found himself by the side of the horse he had had the ability and courage to live as his conscience dictated.
But from his agony and suffering he reported that he learned many things. He learned that some people try to have many consciences. “This is the way I act with the gang because I want their approval. And this is the way I act in school or at work. This is the way I act in church, but this is the way I act on Saturday night.”

When fast Sunday came again, Mark was prepared. His family sat close to the front of the chapel so that he could be first to the podium when it was time for bearing testimonies. During the meeting, he offered a prayer in his heart that he would know what to say.
When it was time, he stood and walked up to the microphone. At first, he was nervous at seeing all the people looking back at him, but most of them were smiling, and he knew that they were his friends.
“I have a testimony of the law of tithing,” he began, “and of the Word of Wisdom. I know we have a living prophet today, and I know Heavenly Father answers our prayers.” Mark ended his testimony and sat down. His mom patted him on the knee.
He still felt a bit shaky, but mostly he had a really good feeling, like he was glowing from head to toe. He was glad that he had a testimony and that he could bear it every single day.

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

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.

For example, a sister in Russia had a difficult family situation that prevented her from attending church for more than a year. Another sister in the branch reached out in compassion every Sunday by calling her to tell her about the talks, lessons, mission calls, babies born, and other news of the branch. When the housebound sister’s family situation was resolved, she felt like she was still a part of the branch because of her friend’s weekly calls.

A true story from the USA.
Thad helped Mom set the table for dinner. “Can I wear my church clothes tonight?” Thad asked. “Since the missionaries are coming to dinner?”
Mom smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”
Before dinner, Thad went upstairs to put on his white shirt and tie.
“Why are you wearing a tie today?” his older sister, Mindy, asked. “It’s not Sunday.”
“The missionaries are coming,” he said. “I want to be like them!”
The doorbell rang, and Thad and Mindy ran downstairs. They saw two missionaries in white shirts come inside. They sat down, blessed the food, and started to eat. Thad was careful not to spill spaghetti on his clean white shirt.
“I like your tie,” said Elder Cowley. “You look just like a missionary.”
Thad grinned. “I’m going to serve a mission when I grow up.”
“That’s a great goal!” Elder Wakefield said. “You can even start being a missionary now.”
Thad sat up taller in his chair. “How?”
“You can be a good example to others. You can serve your family. And you can be a good friend.”
Thad thought about it. “I can do that.”
The next day, Thad tried extra hard to be nice to Mindy. He helped Mom with chores. He shared his toys when a friend came over to play.
At the end of the day, Mom hugged him. “You’re going to be a great missionary someday.”
Thad gave a big smile. “I already am!”
Watch a video about this story at friend.ChurchofJesusChrist.org.
Illustrations by Melissa Manwill Kashiwagi

Then one year came a special trial of his faith. The scorching summer seemed to come early that year, portending a drought. The days passed slowly, the sun baking everything—the lawn, the garden, and the fields wilting under the burning rays. Of all the years to have a Sunday water turn! The farm needed water, water that had not come down the irrigation ditch as runoff on Friday and Saturday; consequently, the farm was dry on Sunday.
One Sunday morning, my mother approached my father with great concern. “Joseph” she said, “I think you’d better turn the water down from the ditch, at least on the lawn and garden. They’re burning up.”
And they were. Everything was burning up without water. There was no alternative. The farm had to have water, and if father let his irrigation turn slip by, there would be no water until the following Sunday. The farm would never go another week.
And so, before getting dressed for his Sunday meetings, father left the house, carrying his shovel over his shoulder. It must have been terribly disappointing for him to trudge up the hill that morning. All these years he had worked to avoid this very labor, and now he was caught. We were sure the Lord would not condemn him, and yet, Father wanted very much to find another way.
He reached the irrigation ditch and put the canvas dam in place, but before doing anything else, still bending over the ditch, he paused and contemplated. What was he to do? He pondered the Lord’s injunction to keep the Sabbath day holy. Did he really believe that, not merely with his lips but with his life?
While he was deep in thought, he received a poignantly powerful communication, one he would never forget: “Pull out your dam. Put up your shovel and tools. I will take care of things for you. It may not be early in the day, but I will take care of it. As for the summer, leave it to me, I will provide.”
Father straightened up. There was no one around. He looked heavenward. The sky was clear and blue, no clouds in sight. A dry breeze was blowing, promising a stifling, suffocating day.
With the broiling sun intense and the earth parched and powdery dry, father pulled out the canvas dam, left the ditch, and returned to the house. He had been told. He knew that. He didn’t know how he would be taken care of, but he knew he had been promised. He dressed and went to his Sunday meetings, leaving his farm to the power he had trusted all his life.
When they returned home from their meetings, the sky was still clear, the air hot, the farm wilting beneath the sweltering sun. With no visible sign of relief, mother, still greatly concerned about the garden, again spoke to father, who had not mentioned to her the experience he had had that morning; “It surely doesn’t look much like rain,” she said. “What are you going to do about the garden?”
For the second time that day father climbed the hill of the irrigation ditch, but then he paused, amazed by his own faltering conviction. “Where is your faith?” he asked himself pointedly.
Filled with a new resolve, he pulled the dam from the ditch and went down the hill, determined never again to make that Sabbath trek to the canal.
Coming down the hill, he lifted his eyes to the sky and saw clouds beginning to gather. Within an hour the rain was coming down in torrents. The dry earth soaked up the needed moisture, and the lawn, the garden, and the fields were refreshed.
That rain was a miracle, but it was only a beginning. Summer was just commencing. The sweltering months of July and August lay ahead. But father had no worries; he had been promised by Him who had given the law and who would provide the way for its compliance.
The following week a neighbor asked father if he would trade a portion of his Sunday water runoff for a portion of a Saturday one. Father was delighted. During that short time on Saturday he was able to water the lawn and garden.
Still, there was no possible way to irrigate the farms’s acres of corn, barley, and hay during those few short hours on Saturday. But the Lord blessed him in another way. Periodically throughout the summer, just when rain was needed most, clouds gathered, the rains came, and the crops were watered.
So sure was my father that the Lord would watch over him that not once during the summer did he clean a ditch or furrow out the corn. This was hot, dry Utah, where the farmer’s whole existence was dependent upon those irrigation ditches, but this summer the ditches on father’s farm were never used. Never before had father gone an entire summer without irrigating his farm, but this summer was different. This summer was the Lord’s summer, and he was providing.

Molly held five tickets in her hand as she walked to school. Every Monday, Mom gave her tickets to buy milk at lunch. But lately Molly had lost her tickets before lunchtime. Today Molly was determined to not lose her tickets. When she got to school, she carefully put the tickets in her pocket before playing on the slide.
When the bell rang, Miss Martin came outside. The children began to give her their milk tickets for the week. Molly put her hand in her pocket, but the tickets were gone! Molly’s heart sank. She knew Mom would be disappointed.
Molly panicked as she moved closer to Miss Martin. She decided to make up a story so she wouldn’t get in trouble. She said to her teacher, “A boy took my tickets.”
Miss Martin looked surprised. “Which boy, Molly?” she asked.
Molly’s eyes searched the playground and found an older boy kicking a ball. She pointed at him. “That boy! He took my milk tickets.”
Miss Martin told Molly to go to the classroom while she talked to the boy. Molly felt awful. She hadn’t meant to get the boy in trouble.
All Molly could do all morning was worry. But she knew if she told the truth, she would be in trouble for lying.
As Molly was going to recess, the principal stopped her and asked her to come to his office.
“Oh no!” she thought. “He knows I lied, and I’m going to be in trouble!”
But the principal talked to her nicely and asked her to tell him what happened that morning. Molly said the boy had taken her milk tickets.
“Are you sure that is what happened, Molly?” the principal asked.
She nodded. The principal told her she could go to recess.
As Molly left the office, she saw the boy sitting in the hall. He looked like he had been crying. Molly knew how much trouble she was causing, but she was too scared to tell the truth.
After school Molly walked home slowly, feeling worse with every step. When she got home, Mom said, “Molly, the principal called.”
Molly couldn’t stand it anymore. She started to cry, and she told Mom the whole story.
“Molly, this is a very bad thing you’ve done. Do you understand that?” Mom said.
“Yes.” Molly really did understand.
“What do you think you should do?” Mom asked.
Molly knew she had to tell the truth. But what if the principal got angry? What if Miss Martin didn’t like her anymore? Molly didn’t know if she had enough courage. But then she thought about the boy she had gotten in trouble, and she knew she had to be brave.
“I want to go back to school,” she told Mom.
Mom held Molly’s hand as they walked back to school. The principal listened carefully.
“Molly, I am disappointed in you,” he said. “But I am glad you decided to tell me the truth. I know it wasn’t easy.”
While they were walking home together, Mom said, “Molly, I am proud of you for telling the truth. But what else do you think you need to do to make this right?”
“I need to apologize to that boy,” Molly said.
“Right,” Mom said. “I can drive you over to his house tonight.”
Molly’s heart got a little lighter. “Mom, do you think we should make him some cookies too?”
Mom hugged her. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Taylor loved Elder Turley and Elder Junker (Yewn-kur), the missionaries assigned to her ward. She especially loved having them over for dinner.
Elder Turley was tall and slender. His head almost touched the ceiling in Taylor’s living room, and he had to duck when he came through the front door. He had a Book of Mormon with colorful sticker pictures in it. He would flip through the pages, telling Taylor the stories that each picture illustrated.
Elder Junker was short and round. He was always laughing, and Taylor loved his accent. He told Taylor stories about his large family back home. He was the oldest of eight children. He had a brother who was her age and a sister who was just a little younger. Taylor was always glad to see his happy face.
One Sunday, Taylor saw Elder Turley and Elder Junker in church as usual, but she could tell that something was not quite right with Elder Junker. His beautiful smile was missing. And even though he turned up the corners of his mouth when he shook her hand and said hello, it was not the same jolly smile that she was used to.
“Mommy, why did Elder Junker look so sad?” Taylor asked after church.
“Well,” Mommy said, “Elder Junker comes from a faraway country called Germany. His entire family is there, and I think he is homesick.”
“What does homesick mean?”
“When you’re homesick, you miss the people and things of your home,” Daddy told her. “In Germany, the people speak differently. They eat different foods too. Even the sounds and smells are different.”
“Couldn’t we do something to help?” Taylor asked.
“Well, I suppose we could ask the elders to dinner,” Mommy said, “but I don’t know if that would help much.”
“Yes it will,” Taylor practically shouted, “if we eat food from Germany!”
Mommy laughed. “Of course—an authentic German dinner. The Guenters are from Germany. Sister Guenter could give me one of her mother’s recipes. What do you think, Daddy?”
“I think it’s a great idea. and I’ll get a German phrase book so we can learn to say something nice in his native language.”
“Hurray!” Taylor cheered, growing more and more excited. “I know exactly what I’ll do too.”
The next day, Taylor and Mommy went to Brother and Sister Guenter’s house. While Mommy explained to Sister Guenter what she wanted and why, Taylor went to the work shed out back to find Brother Guenter.
She watched him for a few moments until he looked up from his workbench.
“Oh, my goodness,” he said, “I wasn’t aware that I had a visitor. Come in, come in.”
“I’ve come to ask a favor.”
Brother Guenter patted the seat next to him. “Sit here,” he said, “and we will discuss it.”
Taylor told Brother Guenter her idea, and he agreed to help her. All that week she went to his house after school and stayed for an hour or so, learning to sing a special song in German.
On the night of the dinner, Taylor’s house was filled with exciting new smells.
When the elders arrived, a strange look came over Elder Junker’s face. He sniffed the air and smiled. “I smell bratwurst! And sauerkraut!”
Daddy bowed. “Wilkommen zu Hause (welcome to our home). Taylor thought an ‘evening in Germany’ might help you feel less homesick.”
“Oh, Taylor,” Elder Junker exclaimed, “how thoughtful of you! I have been feeling homesick lately. Thank you very much.”
“Bitte schön (you’re welcome),” Taylor said, beaming. “Möchten Sie ein Lied zuhören (Would you like to hear a song)?”
“Ja, bitte (Yes, please),” Elder Junker told her.
“Ich bin ein Kind von Gott (I am a child of God),” Taylor sang in a clear voice. She finished without a mistake while Elder Junker wiped happy tears from his eyes.
Later, he told Mother that the bratwurst and sauerkraut tasted just like his mother’s, and he asked Taylor for an encore of “Ich bin ein Kind von Gott.”
When the missionaries left, the jolly smile had returned to Elder Junker’s face.

Brother Ridd said his family’s work ethic has been a blessing in his life. So have mentors and priesthood leaders who have sometimes nudged him along the gospel path. While many of his classmates from high school accepted mission calls at age 19, Randall opted to enroll in college and enlist in the army. He later took a job as an X-ray technician while continuing his studies at the University of Utah. A few wise men were bold enough to tell him that his place was in the mission field. He followed their direction and put in his application to serve. Soon he was sharing the gospel in the Mexico North Mission. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I had not served a mission,” he says.

Thanks so much for the article “Picture This” (Sept. 1994). I decided to put a picture of Christ in my locker too. It took me a few days to actually put it up, but when I did I noticed an instant change in myself, in the way I thought about and treated other people. Now every day at school I look at myself in my mirror, then at the picture of Christ, and it reminds me to be as Christlike as possible. Being one of only four members of the Church at my school, I feel like it’s an example, not only to my member friends, but to other people as well.
Cari RickabaughSturtevant, Wisconsin

Jay stood proudly at the front of the classroom, holding a big box full of golden-brown raisin bran muffins. “I brought a treat for everyone,” he announced. “They’re magic muffins.”
“How can muffins be magic?” Jenny asked.
“They can’t be,” Glenn scoffed. “He’s only saying that because he knows we’d rather have chocolate cupcakes.”
“No!” Jay protested. “My grandad made them. He makes magic muffins.”
“I don’t believe it,” Glenn said.
“You’ll see.” Jay passed out the muffins.
“What’s the magic?” Stacy asked. “I won’t shrink, will I?”
Glenn laughed. He took a big bite of muffin. “The magic is,” he said, crumbs dribbling down his chin, “when you eat one, it disappears.”
Others laughed, too, but Jay shook his head. “The magic is that after you eat one of Grandad’s muffins, something good happens.”
Jay seemed so certain of this that the muffins were gobbled up. Everyone looked around as if expecting something good to walk in.
“Nothing happened,” Glenn said, “but it tasted OK. May I have another one?”
“Will the muffins make something happen, Mrs. Martin?” Jenny asked.
“We’ll list all of today’s good things,” Mrs. Martin said. “Maybe then we’ll be able to decide if the muffins are magic. Now it’s time for addition problems.”
A few minutes later Robert raised his hand. “Mrs. Martin, my last piece of paper ripped when I was erasing, and Stacy gave me another piece before I even asked. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” Mrs. Martin agreed, printing on the blackboard: Stacy gave Robert a piece of paper.
“I broke my pencil, and Ted is letting me use one of his,” Mark said. “That’s just as good a thing.”
“That’s a very good thing, too,” Mrs. Martin said, printing: Ted lent Mark a pencil. “It would be good,” she said, “if everyone finished this assignment quickly so that we can go outside.”
“That would be a great thing!” Glenn shouted.
“Including you, Glenn,” Mrs. Martin added.
The class, even Glenn, worked quietly, and soon they were outside, where good things continued to happen: Carrie let Robert have the swing, although she had it first. Ted asked Mike to play catch, even though Mike was the worst catcher in the second grade. Mark found some smooth stones for the girls who were playing hopscotch. Those same girls gave their chalk to Glenn so that he could draw monsters all around the hopscotch game.
There was already plenty of proof that Grandad’s muffins were “magic.” Jay wanted his name on the list, too, however, and now they were marching back into the classroom. The school day was almost over. The only subject left was science. Nothing goodwill happen in science, he thought.
“Yesterday,” Mrs. Martin said, “we talked about animals sleeping through the winter. Does anyone remember the word for this?”
Jay’s eyes were on the clock. “Hibernation,” he called out, wanting to hurry along science and go on to something better.
“Name some animals that hibernate,” Mrs. Martin said. Again Jay answered quickly and surely.
“Why do they hibernate?” Mrs. Martin asked him.
“It helps them get through the winter, when there isn’t much food and when they would be too cold.”
“Jay,” Mrs. Martin said, “you don’t usually answer many science questions. Today you’re our star pupil—congratulations!” She handed him a gold star.
“Something good happened!” Jay declared. “Can we add it to the list?”
Mrs. Martin printed: Jay is the science star. She said, “Let’s look at this list. What do you think? Are the muffins magic?”
“Jay knew the answers,” Glenn protested. “It wasn’t the muffins.”
“But Jay never talks in science,” Jenny said. “It was special that he did.”
“Everybody did all those other things on purpose,” Glenn argued.
“Maybe the ‘magic’ is that if you look for good things, you find them,” Stacy said.
“You also try to do good things,” Jay added. “That’s probably what Grandad meant by making magic.”
“I still don’t think that they were magic,” Glenn said as the bell rang, “but I know my name is on a good list for a change. Maybe we should have ‘magic’ muffins every day.”

Another example: Years ago in one of our Church schools, a teacher was summarily dismissed. The general explanation given did not satisfy his colleagues.
A delegation went to the office of the principal and demanded that he be reinstated. The principal refused. He offered no further explanation.
The delegation concluded, therefore, that the principal had acted for “political reasons,” for he was known to have some deep philosophical differences with that teacher.
The teacher (and this is frequently the case) took the part of a mistreated soul. His actions encouraged his colleagues in their protest.
The truth, known to the members of the Church Board of Education, was that the teacher had been dismissed for some very serious misconduct. Should all be made public, it would be doubtful that he could be reemployed as a teacher.
The principal, however, had some faith. If things were not noised about, the teacher might, through repentance and restitution, make himself again worthy to teach—perhaps even in the Church school system.
This principal generously took much criticism, even abuse, over a long period of time. He felt that the good of a family and the rehabilitation of a teacher was more important than his own professional reputation for the moment.
I was inspired by his example. It has been repeated a thousand times or more in the wards and stakes of the Church.

Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, … and … Grandpa Norman … and Grandma Brown … are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? … He looks like you, only taller. … He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.

“For nearly an hour, Sherrie … described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”

Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”

Dating is another area where we short boys get in over our heads.
In high school I was enthusiastic but far from being a good dancer. I always believed that if the Lord had meant for short fellows to dance, he’d have equipped them with periscopes. Where most of the boys my age found dancing effortless and fun, we shorty-dancers deserved combat pay. Those elbows from other dancers that caught taller participants in the ribs poked us right in the eye!
I once took a pretty girl I’d known most of my life to a dance. Since grade school, she and I had had a thing going about spelling. Though I could outspell her anytime, she could now outstretch me. I took her to the dance because she was a natural athlete and I needed all the help I could get on the dance floor. But that date was a mistake. It was fine for her to be up there in the clear air, but no one gives any thought to a short escort who can seldom see over or around to avoid the advancing troops.
Despite all these difficulties, things went along all right until, under the spell of the moonlit night, I turned and whispered sweet nothings, softly and romantically, right into her shoulder.
Speaking of cloud-reachers, want to know what happened to that girl I took to the dance? One of my best friends married her. We still see a lot of each other socially. She’s still pretty, and she’s the best volleyball player in our crowd. She can do anything with a volleyball. Well, almost anything. She spells it v-a-w-l-e-e-b-o-l.

To grow fruit there is a yearly challenge. After the fruit has blossomed, if it gets extremely cold, the blossoms will freeze, and the whole crop will be wiped out. Just as the fruit farmers relied on the Lord for rain, they also relied on the Lord to help them protect their crops. One time we had a long, hard cold spell that lasted night after night. Our stake president asked for a special fast that the elements would be tempered, and we were able to save our fruit.

The people who live in the house are Don and Clara Goudy and their seven children—four boys and three girls.
Until recently the Goudys had lived in the East Millcreek 14th Ward of the Salt Lake Mt. Olympus Stake. And as one neighbor, Doris Peterson, said: “They fit right in, and felt at home, and were very loved.”
The people in the ward describe Clara as one of the “bravest, strongest women, we know.” “She has been so diligent in spiritual things.” “A fantastic person.” “We all loved her.”
They remember Don when he first came into the ward. He was a “vital young man, a hard and willing worker.”
Then the ravages of disease began to take their toll on Don and, suddenly, Don and Clara had some hard things to face and some difficult decisions to make.
Don could no longer work hard to provide for those he loved. He became progressively worse, and at length he couldn’t work at all. Don and Clara decided to take their family back to Santaquin where they had been raised. There Clara’s mother had a piece of land on which a home could be built. It seemed the right place to assume the heavier load that was coming to her. And she could be near her 78-year-old mother.
In the hearts of far-sighted Aaronic Priesthood MIA leaders and a wise bishop was the knowledge that in service young people grow. Ideas for service were constantly being discussed. Young men and women were continually involved in the discussions.
Then three young men—candidates for the Eagle Scout Progress Award—had an idea. Could they take a lawn down to the Goudy’s new home? They knew Brother Goudy couldn’t put it in, and maybe Sister Goudy could use their help.
John Benson, the Aaronic Priesthood MIA young men’s president, encouraged the boys.
When first approached, Clara was a little reluctant. She and Don had always taken care of themselves and their own. What they had, they had shared. It had been enough.
But now the prospects for immediate landscaping were slim. Clara thought about that, but mostly she thought about the teachings of the gospel. “Yes,” she thought, “this is the gospel at work.” And then she told them they could come.
So Brother Benson and the three boys, Ted Bullen, Robert Purcell, and Gary Buehner, went down to Santaquin to see their friends, to plan out a yard, and to see what the project would cost.
It was decided that Gary would take care of fencing the property. Ted would see that the lawn was planted, and Robert volunteered to do the shrubbery, trees, and planting of flowers.
They measured the yard. They also had Sister Goudy’s desires in mind. Next they each went to experts to get some first-class help in planning the landscaping.
With the plans completed they proceeded to line up help and materials. Each boy organized his own project and work crew. As they worked the enthusiasm and support mounted.
Others in the ward wanted to help. They donated funds. They dug up shrubs and trees, taking them from their own yards. They went to the state capitol and were given some flats of flowers that were surplus.
As the project grew Bishop Lewis Farr counseled his people to work with the young people on this project as fathers and mothers would work with their own sons and daughters, assisting not only with money but also with physical labor on the planting day.
As Bob Purcell put it: “We had made our plans in detail, and it didn’t take too long when we got down there.”
Most of the materials and hand tools came with them from Salt Lake City, but several yards of top soil were needed. Contact was made with the bishop of the Santaquin Ward, and he saw to it that the top soil was delivered the night before. The Santaquin people also provided a tractor.
Brother Benson and the three boys went down early on the day of the project. He had grown up on a farm and knew how to handle the tractor. So with the boys directing, he spread the top soil, and by 7:30 A.M. they were ready for the work group. Between 50 and 60 people—youths and their parents and leaders—came down to help. A little later in the morning five or six people from the Santaquin Ward brought over their power tools and joined in.
Under Bob’s direction they dug holes and planted the shrubs and the trees. They planted the flowers, and the girls built a little stone path through the grass and edged the flower planting area with rocks Clara had been saving.
Gary and his crew dug post holes and cemented the poles in place for the chain link fence. They also prepared the framework, put up the cedar fence, and stained it.
At the same time Ted and his crews were rolling and planting the lawn, others were covering it with peat moss and wetting it down.
Then suddenly they were through. They had finished everything on their blueprints, and there was an entire yard growing.
As Alice Buehner, Aaronic Priesthood MIA young woman’s president, reported: “Not a whole day and it was accomplished. We just stood around and gazed at it.”
Then Don Goudy, who is now almost bedfast, came out of the house and walked out onto the porch. It was a tender moment as he looked around at what his friends had done for him. He said simply, “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
As Sister Buehner said: “It made me want to cry. I was really deeply moved.”
In addition to helping with the yard, the Wayne Ottleys who live in the ward went into the house and draped it.
Brother Benson summed it up this way: “By 3:00 there was a new yard. It was really an enjoyable day. And very exciting.”
Because of the spirit that was there that day, young and old felt a new commitment to service, and the spirit was catching. Since then the Santaquin Ward itself has turned out to put in lawns for two other families in need within their little town.
On the way back to Salt Lake City the workers stopped for a swim, but nobody seems to recall that. When you ask the young people about the experience, this is what they say:
Susan Horman: “When we left it looked really special. Flowers everywhere and trees … it was a good feeling.”
Steve Farr: “At first I didn’t think it would be so neat to just waste a day down there, but when we finally finished, it was really neat. It sure looked good.”
Karen Horman: “It was fun. I would gladly do another project like that. They were really happy we came, and they were really sorry when we had to leave.”
Sister Buehner evaluates: “Our young people felt very responsible. It was a real growing experience.”
The three boys who planned the whole project and directed its execution were most explicit.
Gary summed it all up this way: “It turned out pretty fun. I’d probably do it again. We knew that they needed the help.”
Ted declared: “The Goudys are some of my best friends. I’ve talked to them several times since. They said how great it was and how thankful they were. It was a testimony builder to work on something like that. It wasn’t just completing an Eagle project, but it was helping someone and feeling good about that.”
Bob reported: “I enjoyed it. I enjoy helping others. I guess that’s what it’s all about really, both Scouts and the Church. It was worth it. I know that much.”
“This was a spiritual experience for our young people,” Brother Benson declared. “In my estimation the only types of experiences that don’t get old are spiritual experiences. Our young people tasted of that at the Goudys, and they are anxious to have that renewed.”
But for the young people Bob summed it up best: “I’m just glad that we did it.”

Should you become discouraged in your efforts, remember that sometimes the Lord’s timetable does not coincide with ours. When I was a bishop many years ago, one of the leaders of the young women, Jessie Cox, came to me and said, “Bishop, I am a failure!” When I asked why she felt this way, she said, “I haven’t been able to get any of my Mutual girls married in the temple, as a good teacher would have. I’ve tried my very best, but my best apparently wasn’t good enough.”

I tried to console Jessie by telling her that I, as her bishop, knew that she had done all she could. And as I followed those girls through the years, I found that each one was eventually sealed in the temple. If the lesson is engraved on the heart, it is not lost.

As a bishop of a student ward adjacent to the University of Utah campus about 18 years ago, I tried vainly to hold a young marriage together. The wife had been unfaithful, and as I sought to help and to understand, I learned that as a child this woman had an adulterous father. Though unjustified, she acted out her feelings about men. What she then did was not love. Several years after my release as bishop, I saw a story in the local paper about her having been arrested for prostitution. I know not where she is today, but I cannot put out of my mind the words of Jacob, who decried unfaithful fathers who had lost the confidence of their children because of their bad examples (see Jacob 2:35).

Twenty five years ago this September, Jenny and I were married in Australia. We met two years earlier in Chicago on a work trip, and just two days after meeting her I had this thought pop into my head “you’re going to marry this girl”. That flash of inspiration led me on a journey from London to Australia in order to take Jenny on a date, then to Church. She was baptised 4 months later and moved to London so we could date some more. We got engaged in Italy less than a year later, married in Sydney, then sealed in the London Temple, and subsequently became parents to our four wonderful boys. It was a whirlwind romance!