Gospel Story Finder

Xander always wished he had a big brother. And now he had one!
Well, not really, but Xander liked to pretend that Sevàk was his brother. Sevàk was staying with Xander’s family while he visited the United States to go to school.
For family home evening tonight, Sevàk was teaching them about his home country. He pulled a little flag out of his pocket. It had three stripes—red, blue, and orange. “This is the Armenian flag. Armenia is in Eastern Europe,” he said. He told them more cool stuff about his country—like how it was so small that it could fit inside Xander’s state eight times!
While Xander listened, he thought about how Sevàk was different. He talked kind of funny. He looked different too—his hair and eyes were darker than Xander’s. And Sevàk’s family went to a different church than Xander’s family.
But he’s not that different, Xander thought. We both like to play games. They had even made up their own game together with Xander’s trading cards. They also both liked watching Saturday morning cartoons.
After Sevàk finished telling about his country, they sang a Primary song and read a scripture. “Thank you for sharing with us, Sevàk,” Dad said. “Nathan, will you say the closing prayer?”
“Yup!” said Nathan. Xander glanced at Sevàk, who bowed his head and clasped his hands reverently.
Even though he’s different, Xander thought, he’s Heavenly Father’s son—just like me. That makes us pretty much brothers!
The next afternoon Xander and Nathan were playing basketball on the driveway.
“Hey, guys,” Sevàk said when he got home from school. “Can I play?”
“Sure!” Xander said. “We’re playing Horse.”
Sevàk didn’t know how to play, so Xander explained the rules while Nathan went into the garage to get another ball.
“So when it’s your turn, just make sure you don’t miss the basket,” Xander finished.
“OK, let’s play,” Sevàk said.
They all took turns shooting baskets. Sevàk was pretty good. But after a couple of rounds, he missed a shot, and the ball bounced off the backboard.
Sevàk laughed. “I can’t believe I missed that!” Then he said some words that made Xander’s stomach squirm.
Sevàk wasn’t a bad person, so why did he say those bad words? Maybe he doesn’t know that’s wrong, Xander thought. Sometimes he forgot that Sevàk didn’t know the same things about Heavenly Father and Jesus.
“Umm, we don’t say those words at our house because it makes Heavenly Father sad,” Xander said as kindly as he could. “If you want to say that, you can always just say ‘bummer’ instead.”
“Oh, OK,” Sevàk said, picking up the ball. “Thanks for telling me.”
They kept playing. Sevàk missed again, but this time he said, “Bummer!” and smiled at Xander.
The month went by quickly, and soon it was time for Sevàk to leave. Before he left, he hugged Xander goodbye. “Thank you for teaching me about God. I learned a lot from you,” Sevàk said. “I had such a cool feeling during family home evening and prayers with your family. I want to have a feeling like that in my home someday.”
Xander hugged him back. “Bye, Sevàk. I’ll really miss you!”
Sevàk got baptized later! And he’s still like a brother to Xander.
Xander felt warm inside. He knew that Heavenly Father was happy that he had helped Sevàk feel the Holy Ghost and learn about how Jesus wanted him to live.

After my wife joined me in Utah, we went to California to visit her family, and it was there that I received an unexpected call from Elder Ian S. Ardern, Pacific Area President. He asked when I was returning to Fiji then said he urgently needed to meet with me. I told him I was returning to Utah the following week, so President Ardern said he would contact me then.
I did not sleep well after that call. My mind was troubled. My whole attitude for the remaining days of my holiday changed.
It was Elder Carl B. Cook of the Presidency of the Seventy who contacted me next, and my wife and I drove to Church headquarters to meet with him. What a humbling experience it was to be called to serve as an Area Seventy. While I had never turned down a calling in my 42 years of Church membership, this was different. I was overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy; I felt unprepared. I wept openly in the presence of my wife and Elder Cook. Was this really happening?
All my life I had looked up to the General Authorities and the General Officers of the Church—they were elected by God and were revered throughout the Church. All my callings up till then had been local. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined holding an Area ecclesiastical calling.
I struggled to accept what was asked of me, but doubt in my ability to fulfil this calling began to subside and instead, I was overcome by gratitude for my Savior, for His love and tender mercies. I felt a righteous determination to serve the Lord in this capacity. This was an opportunity for me to demonstrate my love for Him and for His Church. The scripture that came to my mind with great force was Doctrine and Covenants 82:3, “For of him unto whom much is given much is required.”
I was sustained during the April 2020 general conference, which was the first ever virtual conference held by the Church. My training as a new Area Seventy was also held virtually as the COVID-19 pandemic was at its peak. My first year in the calling was truly miraculous; the support I received from the Pacific Area Presidency, my fellow Area Seventies, and visiting General Authorities was amazing. Traveling to stake conferences and attending general conferences in person were highlights of this time, filled with wonderful learning and growing experiences.
However, deep inside, I still struggled, especially in my moments of personal reflection. I still felt insecure and inadequate in my service as an Area Seventy.
It was not until the last session of the General Authority, Area Seventy and General Officers Leadership Training, during the April 2021 general conference, that I finally received the spiritual witness I had been seeking since my call. I will never forget that moment.
This session’s agenda was for all 15 apostles and prophets to bear their testimonies and witness of Jesus Christ. The solemnity and sacredness of this occasion is glorious. It was Elder Neil L. Andersen’s testimony that changed my perspective and gave me the reassurance that I was searching for.
Elder Andersen explained how he felt when he was called to The Quorum of The Twelve Apostles. He said when he first sat in the seat that Elder Ulisses Soares now occupies, he looked up the row at the other 11 Apostles and the First Presidency, and feelings of personal inadequacy overwhelmed him. When I heard Elder Andersen say that, I sat up straight in my chair because I knew that what he had just said—and what he was going to say next—was specifically for me.
Elder Andersen said he struggled with this issue for a while and then it came: He heard the voice of the Lord say, “Neil, you did not put yourself there. I did, because I love you, and I know you can change, and I know you can help with my work.”
When Elder Andersen shared that sacred experience, it became sacred to me also. It was the confirmation that I needed.
I know that Heavenly Father and His Son did not call me because of anything I had done to qualify for this role, but it was because They love me. They know I can change, and They know I can help Them in Their glorious work: to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of all Their children. (See Moses 1:39.)

Sister Jill Berrett, a full-time missionary in the Vancouver mission, tells of an investigator who toured the meetinghouse at the invitation of her 18-year-old friend. “While she was on the tour she became so excited she wanted to take the lessons right away. Her friend gave her a Book of Mormon, and another friend invited her to Young Women camp. She felt so loved and so involved that she began referring to the ward as ‘her ward’ even before she was baptized.”

In a 1929 American football game held in Pasadena, California, a player named Roy Riegels recovered a fumble and ran almost the length of the field toward the wrong goal line. He was tackled and brought down by one of his own teammates, thus preventing a score for the other team. He had lost his sense of direction in a moment of stress. His mistake cost his team a victory. He was a great player, but ever afterward he was remembered as the man who ran the wrong way.

It was the week before Christmas, I was baby-sitting with our four older children while my wife took the baby for his check-up. (Baby-sitting to me means reading the paper while the kids mess up the house.)
Only that day I wasn’t reading. I was fuming. On every page of the paper, as I flicked angrily through them, gifts glittered and reindeer pranced, and I was told that there were only six more days in which to rush out and buy what I couldn’t afford and nobody needed. What, I asked myself indignantly, did the glitter and the rush have to do with the birth of Christ?
There was a knock on the door of the study where I had barricaded myself. Then Nancy’s voice, “Daddy, we have a play to put on. Do you want to see it?”
I didn’t. But I had fatherly responsibilities so I followed her into the living room. Right away I knew it was a Christmas play for at the foot of the piano stool was a lighted flashlight wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a shoe box.
Rex (age 6) came in wearing my bathrobe and carrying a mop handle. He sat on the stool, looked at the flashlight. Nancy (10) draped a sheet over her head, stood behind Rex and began, “I’m Mary and this boy is Joseph. Usually in this play Joseph stands up and Mary sits down. But Mary sitting down is taller than Joseph standing up so we thought it looked better this way.”
Enter Trudy (4) at a full run. She never has learned to walk. There were pillowcases over her arms. She spread them wide and said only, “I’m an angel.”
Then came Anne (8). I knew right away she represented a wise man. In the first place she moved like she was riding a camel (she had on her mother’s high heels). And she was bedecked with all the jewelry available. On a pillow she carried three items, undoubtedly gold, frankincense, and myrrh.
She undulated across the room, bowed to the flashlight, to Mary, to Joseph, to the angel, and to me and then announced, “I’m all three wise men. I bring precious gifts: gold, circumstance, and mud.”
That was all. The play was over. I didn’t laugh. I prayed. How near the truth Anne was! We come at Christmas burdened down with gold—with the showy gift and the tinsely tree. Under the circumstances we can do no other, circumstances of our time and place and custom. And it seems a bit like mud when we think of it.
But I looked at the shining faces of my children, as their audience of one applauded them, and remembered that a Child showed us how these things can be transformed. I remembered that this Child came into a material world and in so doing eternally blessed the material. He accepted the circumstances, imperfect and frustrating, into which He was born, and thereby infused them with the divine. And as for mud—to you and me it may be something to sweep off the rug, but to all children it is something to build with.
Children see so surely through the tinsel and the habit and the earthly, to the love which, in them all, strains for expression.

Dr. Heyerdahl—With great argumentation, with terrific debate! Scientists said that it would be impossible for anyone to leave America with a raft. Well, I had collected a thick volume of evidence, but no scientists wanted to read it because they said that balsa rafts and reed boats were the best vessels used by South American Indians and such vessels would get waterlogged and sink in two weeks. Well, even to me a reed boat sounded completely crazy at that time. So I discarded that. But I thought that a log raft would be sturdy enough to make it. Fortunately I knew nothing about sailing—otherwise, I never would have gone ahead. But I just believed in my ideas enough to do it anyway. The scientists kept warning me that a balsa raft would sink in two weeks. They’d taken a piece of dry balsa and put it in a tank, and it did absorb water and sink in two weeks. But if you do it like the Indians, go into the jungle and cut a tree with sap, the sap acts against impregnation. So together with four Norwegians and a Swede, right after World War II ended, I built the raft we called Kon-Tiki, after the legendary sun god of Peru. We left Peru and in 101 days had floated to Polynesia. Not only did the raft stay afloat off the Polynesian coast for several months after our arrival, but we took it to Norway and it floated for six months in the Oslo Fjord before we took it ashore to a museum.

On 31 July 1995, a group of Church members from the Toa Baja Puerto Rico District made a trip to the Orlando Florida Temple. As four buses unloaded on the morning of 1 August, the members saw the temple for the first time. While waiting for the doors to open, they sang “The Day Dawn Is Breaking,” “High on the Mountain Top,” and “How Great Thou Art.” Fifty young men and young women performed 3,600 baptisms for the dead. Even when they became cold and tired, they wanted to keep working.
The following day, Hurricane Eryn arrived on the coast of Florida. Orlando was battered by heavy winds and rain, and many temple workers could not get to the temple. So, the Puerto Rican members volunteered throughout the temple, working as escorts, officiating in ordinances, working in the kitchen and dressing rooms, ironing, folding, and distributing clothing.
Though there was chaos outside, in the temple there was peace. The members felt as if “the world outside of the temple walls did not exist, and time stood still.” Each member who participated had his/her own personal spiritual experiences, but together they experienced unity and love.
At the end of the trip, Angel Rodriguez, president of the Humacao Branch, expressed that feeling. “During this trip I met many brothers and sisters from many different branches and towns from Puerto Rico. Today, I can say that I no longer feel that I am just a member of this or that branch of the Church. I know that we are all truly brothers and sisters.”

One day I was talking to a friend, who is not a member of our church, and we almost got to the point where we started putting each other’s churches down, but I didn’t want it to get to that point, so I just bore my testimony and stopped. A few weeks later I got some pamphlets and magazines in the mail from her. I could have kept them so that I would know what some writers think about our church, but I didn’t. This experience made me want to be more prepared when things like this happen.Alexandria M., 15, Oregon

I grew up in Norway. The nearest temple was in Stockholm, Sweden, an 8- to 10-hour drive away. Needless to say, any trip to the temple took careful planning and deliberation. Our stake planned two visits to the temple for the youth each year; several wards would rent a bus and go to the temple for a weekend. It was fun to go with other youth, but my family and I wanted to go to the temple together sometime.
So one year we decided to go to Stockholm during our summer vacation. It was a great experience, and it soon became a pattern for our summers. We would camp at a campground close to the temple. Each morning we would get up early for a baptismal session with other families from Norway who had come to the temple. Afterward we would play football and go swimming at the campground.
These summers are sacred memories for me now. Although we didn’t live close enough to the temple to go there each month, it was always a special occasion when we could go. And even though the car ride was long and tedious, the Lord blessed us for our sacrifice. The spiritual experiences I had at the temple helped me develop my love for the temple and its ordinances. They also brought us closer together as a family.

“Hurry up, Mom!” five-year-old Jackson shouted. He grabbed the Book of Mormon story book and sat down on the bright blue chair.
Four-year-old Michelle climbed up beside him. “Story time!” she cried, eagerly clapping her hands.
Mother squeezed between them on the chair and opened the book. “Let’s see. … Yesterday, we were reading about the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, weren’t we?”
Jackson nodded.
“They were Lamanites. And they’d been converted to the gospel, remember?”
“And they were really wicked!” Michelle declared emphatically.
“Yes, they were really wicked. But when they were converted, they wanted to repent,” said Mother. “They promised the Lord that they would never fight again. In fact, they buried all their weapons of war in a big pit—see,” she said, pointing to the picture.
“Wow!” Jackson cried excitedly. “Look at all those weapons. Swords and bows and arrows and all kinds of things!”
“That looks fun!” exclaimed Michelle. “Let’s bury our weapons, too, Jackson!”
Jackson giggled. “Oh, Michelle, don’t be silly. We don’t have any weapons.”
“Hmmm,” Mother said thoughtfully. “You may not use swords and bows and arrows, but sometimes the things that come out of your mouths hurt too.”
Michelle looked puzzled. “What comes out of our mouths?” she asked.
“Words,” said Mother.
“You mean words like stupid and dumb, don’t you?” Jackson asked.
“Right,” said Mother. “Sometimes words hurt as much as a punch on the arm.”
“Then we must bury our bad words,” Michelle urged, “and never use them again!”
“I know what,” said Mother. “You tell me some words that hurt other people’s feelings, and I’ll write them down on slips of paper. Then you can dig a big hole and bury all those bad words, just like the Lamanites buried their weapons.”
“Great idea!” Jackson exclaimed. They found some paper and tore it into pieces. Then they thought of all the unkind words that they knew. Mother wrote them down.
“Come on, Michelle, let’s go dig that pit now,” Jackson called enthusiastically. They took their dad’s shovel out of the shed and hurried to an area behind the house where they could dig.
Jackson dug the shovel tip into the dark, rocky soil. He pushed as hard as he could, but the ground was so hard that he loosened only a small clump of dirt.
“Wow! You’re not very strong,” Michelle teased.
“Well, you’re pretty weak yourself,” he growled back. Then he stopped. “Hey, wait a minute. We’re supposed to be burying those kinds of words! Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Michelle told him sincerely. “How about trying this?” she suggested, handing him a garden trowel that they used in their sandpile.
Jackson took it and chipped at the dirt while Michelle dug with a stick.
Soon they were covered with dust and dirt, but the hole was dug. They put all the papers with the unkind words written on them into the hole. Then they pushed the dirt back.
“Are you finished yet?” Mother called from the kitchen window. “I’ve made some hot muffins for my two hungry Anti-Nephi-Lehies.”
“Yes,” answered Jackson. “Our weapons are finally buried!”
“And,” Michelle solemnly declared, “we won’t ever use them again!”

My brother and I are a year and a half apart. For the past four years, insults between us have outnumbered the praises and expressions of love. He is beginning to see himself as the person I described to him through my insults. I now see that he lacks confidence in himself. I can’t change what I’ve said, and I may have lost a wonderful brother. I can ask for forgiveness, but tearing down the wall between us is much harder. Before you belittle someone with your insults, think about what you risk losing eternally.
Name Withheld

Now that she is a Laurel, Amy has also chosen a value project that is helping her come closer to Christ. “This year I’m really concentrating on getting to know Jesus Christ better,” she says. Realizing that the way to know Him better is to be more like Him, Amy made a list of all the attributes of Christ she could think of, with help from the scriptures. She came up with attributes like faith, charity, and generosity, and she tries to develop each of the qualities on her list one at a time.

“Sunrise, sunset—swiftly fly the years. …” (From Fiddler on the Roof, 1964.)
Those lines from the poignant song bring a memory of two friends who, like the father and mother portrayed in Fiddler on the Roof, did not “remember getting older.” The man was about sixty-three and the woman fifty-five. Both were healthy, happy, and employed in work they enjoyed.
One day the man was told he must take an immediate retirement. On the Monday morning the retirement took effect, the husband watched his wife prepare to leave for work. He realized that he would be home alone with nothing to do. He had no occupation, no hobbies, no special interests, and no plans for the future.
As he followed his wife to the door that morning, he exclaimed in anguish, “What’s going to happen to me? What can I do?”
What, indeed, was there for this man to do, who one day was at the peak of his career and the next day was classified among the elderly unemployed? He was left to try to find a new life for himself or to vegetate and die. Sadly I add that within a brief time he did die.

As life became challenging in Amanda’s teenage years, she fell away from the Church looking for new experiences. After several years, Amanda felt empty. Finding happiness began with an important question.
My family was baptized in 1993. My parents divorced several years later, and slowly my three siblings fell away from the Church. In 1998, when I was in 11th grade, I stopped attending too.
I promised myself that I was going to experience new things and look into other churches. I received several invites from friends to go to their churches, but I didn’t go often. It wasn’t because I still felt any connection with the Church. It was just that for some odd reason, things got in the way. Either I wouldn’t wake up, or I had other plans, or I made excuses.
I was inactive for about eight years. During this time, I got mixed up with the wrong friends. My mom was terminally ill. I was quite down. I felt an emptiness in me. I started wondering, “When was I last truly happy?”
If you looked at my life from the outside you would think, “She’s got one of the coolest lives!” I surrounded myself with popular people and appeared to have a nice life. But I still felt empty and incomplete.
Then I thought about when I was in Young Women. I realized that’s when I last felt true happiness. I decided to go back to church the following Sunday. I met with the branch president and began my journey of repentance.
A short time later, I was called to work with the Young Women. When we recited the Young Women theme, I remembered it instantly! Today, each time I recite the theme, I receive a confirmation that the Church is where I belong.

I met William on the first day of my third year of teaching English in the adult high school program at our local community college. He was small, dark-eyed, with tight blond curls, rather unattractive, unwashed, and, as I soon came to discover, almost totally illiterate. It was the early ’70s, when long hair was popular among the young and drugs were beginning to be a major problem. I thought, Here’s another victim of the drug culture, and my heart sank.
After making my introductory remarks, I asked the class, as I always do on the first day of school, to write about themselves. Looking from student to student, I noticed that William worked very hard on his paragraph, grasping the pencil in a stranglehold, licking the point every few minutes. William’s face was close to the paper, his brows knit close together.
The rest of the class completed the assignment rather quickly and grew restless. I let them leave. It took William 40 minutes to print a few lines, and when he at last handed it to me, I could not read it. He stood at my desk staring at me while I looked at the paper.
“You want I should read it for you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“My name is William, and I live off a government pension in my car in an empty garage. I’m 19 years old, and since I was 11 I been a drinker. Now I’ve decided to be a learner.”
I had never before taught a student who could hardly read and write. I had no idea how to handle the problem.
“You’ve misspelled every word,” I said.
William looked dismayed. “I can learn,” he said.
“All right. I’ll print them correctly, and when you come to class tomorrow, plan to write them for me.”
“A spell test,” he said, as though it were some magical word.
I looked away from him. “Look, William …” I meant to tell him that the class would be impossible, that his skills were so poor he would fall behind immediately, and that there was no hope for him to catch up. I meant to tell him he could not possibly succeed. But instead I said, “Your basic skills are somewhat limited. How hard are you willing to work?”
He stared at me.
“We’ll be studying difficult writers—like Shakespeare and Twain.”
“Who?”
“William Shakespeare. Mark Twain.”
“Oh,” he said. And after a pause he added, “I can learn.”
“It won’t be easy for you,” I said, “but if you work hard …”
I didn’t expect to see him ever again, but the following day William was the first one in the room. He took a front-row seat, and as I taught, his eyes followed me intently, his brows knit into the same shaggy line, his mouth slightly open as he listened. After class ended, he stood by my desk staring at me for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked, irritated.
“I’m ready to spell,” he said.
And he was. He had memorized all the words, and as I called them out to him he wrote them quickly.
He stood watching as I marked his paper, putting a check by each correct word and then an A+ and a large I AM SO PROUD OF YOU at the top of the page. For the first time, I saw William smile. He took the test, folded it carefully, and put it into his shirt pocket.
“Now,” he said, “I’d like to pick up some on my reading. You got anything I can borrow?”
“I don’t think I have anything appropriate,” I said. Opening the desk drawer I began to look through the papers and books.
“What about that?” he said, pointing to a copy of Huckleberry Finn.
My hand hesitated, and then I shook my head. “It would be too hard for you.”
“I’ve done hard things all my life,” he said.
I pulled Ellie the Elephant Learns to Fly, one of my daughter’s books, from my desk drawer.
“That’s for little kids,” he said.
“It’s for new readers,” I said, handing it to him.
“I want that other one.”
Ignoring his comment, I opened the child’s book and began to read aloud, resting a finger under each word while he stood beside me watching and listening.
“Let me do it now.” He read hesitantly and with great difficulty. “See, if somebody shows me, I can learn. If I had that other book, I could work at it. I’m not stupid.”
I gave him Huckleberry Finn.
Each day I sent William home to the garage with a list of words clutched in one hand and one of my daughter’s books tucked under his arm. Every morning he came back with the material mastered. A few weeks later he returned the Twain text. “I read it,” he said, and the look of pride on his face brought tears to my eyes.
That week I gave him a bag containing a bar of soap, a washcloth, a towel, and deodorant. “This is an important part of education, too,” I said.
He looked in the bag and then at me, stunned. But the next day William was clean. And he was reading and writing with greater confidence. He had progressed so much that he insisted on taking his turn at reading poems from our literature text aloud. And every day he stayed after class for an hour to talk with me. Actually, he asked question after question, and I tried to answer them.
His enthusiasm for learning was contagious, and soon three other students began to stay, too. There was Suzy, who later trained as a registered nurse; Jody, who went on to earn a doctorate in biology; and George, who planned to become a physician but died in a motorcycle accident that spring.
George’s death upset the class deeply, and we spent that day talking about the transient quality of life, trying to answer the eternal questions—where did we come from, what are we doing here, and what happens to us when we die? I taught the class that knowledge is power, that the glory of God is intelligence, and that all we take with us from this world to the next is our relationships with others and the knowledge we gain in this life.
“There are two ways most people learn,” I told them. “One way is by experience—and life doesn’t last long enough for us to get all our knowledge that way. The other is to read.” I encouraged them to spread their wings and learn while they were young and filled with energy and enthusiasm.
One day William came into class with a list of quotations he’d copied from the library, and he shared them with us. He particularly loved “Knowledge is the wings wherewith we fly.”
“Watch me fly, teacher.” He spread his arms and flapped them, bringing laughter from the students and me.
William (this genius—the only true genius I ever taught) was my student for two years of English. When he graduated, I sat in the audience and watched with pride, tears brimming my eyes. He enrolled in the community college program and continued his education. On occasion he stopped by my office during the week, sharing with me the excitement of his new world. Each Friday afternoon he borrowed one of my books, which he quickly read and returned. On one occasion, he asked to read my Book of Mormon. I gave him a copy and a week later learned that he had called the missionary number left with my testimony on a front page. At his baptism, I gave him the Pearl of Great Price.
Last spring I received a card from William. He was teaching Spanish and American literature at a large university. “We’re reading Huckleberry Finn,” he wrote, “and I’ve never been happier. I seem to have a gift for languages.” He continued, “Remember years back when you had to teach me English? For all you did for me, I thank you, teacher. Thank you for lending me your wings while I was growing my own.”

Long years ago I was touched by a story which illustrated love of neighbor between a small boy named Paul and a telephone operator he had never met. These were the days many will remember with nostalgia but which a new generation will never experience.
Paul related the story: “When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember that the shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but I used to listen with fascination when Mother would talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was ‘Information, Please,’ and there was nothing she did not know. ‘Information, Please’ could supply anybody’s number and the correct time.
“I learned that if I stood on a stool, I could reach the telephone. I called ‘Information, Please’ for all sorts of things. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my arithmetic, too.
“Then there was the time that Petey, our pet canary, died. I called ‘Information, Please’ and told her the sad story. She listened and then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. ‘Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up, on the bottom of the cage?’ I asked.
“She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, ‘Paul, always remember that there are other worlds in which to sing.’ Somehow I felt better.
“All this took place in a small town near Seattle. Then we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. ‘Information, Please’ belonged to that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying to call her. The memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
“Later, when I went west to college, my plane made a stop in Seattle,” Paul continued. “I called ‘Information, Please,’ and when, miraculously, I heard that familiar voice, I said to her, ‘I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?’
“‘I wonder,’ she said, ‘if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls.’ I told her how often I had thought of her over the years, and I asked if I could call her again when I came back west.
“‘Please do,’ she said. ‘Just ask for Sally.’
“Only three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, ‘Information,’ and I asked for Sally. ‘Are you a friend?’ the woman asked.
“‘Yes, a very old friend,’ I replied.
“‘Then I’m sorry to have to tell you. Sally has only been working part-time the last few years because she was ill. She died five weeks ago.’ But before I could hang up, she said, ‘Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?’
“‘Yes,’ I responded.
“‘Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down. Here it is—I’ll read it. Tell him I still say there are other worlds in which to sing. He’ll know what I mean.
“I thanked her and hung up,” said Paul. “I did know what Sally meant.”
Sally, the telephone operator, and Paul, the boy—the man—were in reality good Samaritans to each other.

A national magazine recently included a feature article about two brothers—not members of our Church, but with Utah roots—whose acts of kindness are on the Lord’s side. They honor people who are committed to serving others. Since 1988, Val and Bill Halamandaris have given the National Caring Awards in Washington, D.C. Recipients have included both famous and obscure adults and young people, such as a former secretary of health, education, and welfare; a lifelong resident of Watts in the Los Angeles area who has single-handedly found housing for hundreds of homeless neighbors; a world-famous physician; and a Minneapolis housewife who began her own soup kitchen.

Successful in their business and government careers, the two brothers were “concerned with the materialism of the country and the tremendous amount of attention we were paying to celebrities. There are millions of people doing extraordinary things in this country, and nobody was honoring them.”

The magazine article asks,

How did two brothers in their late 40s, with successful careers in Washington, come to devote so much of their lives to an ideal as abstract—and certainly unremunerative—as caring? As it turned out, the story began long ago.

“We’re a couple of kids from Carbon County, Utah,” Val explained. “After the railroads met at Promontory in 1869, they shipped a lot of the railroad workers—Chinese, Greeks, Italians—down to Carbon County to work in the coal mines. Our grandfather was a Greek immigrant who worked on the railroads. Our father was a miner. We grew up in a multicultural society where everybody was comfortable with everybody else, where we were constantly reminded of the goodness of people. We heard about the importance of doing things for others day in and day out.” As Bill remembered: “When somebody needed something, you did what had to be done.”

. . . “There is joy in transcending yourself to serve others.” [Michael Ryan, “Somebody Cares,” Parade Magazine, 28 June 1992, pp. 24–27]

These brothers are good people who are honoring those who care for and serve others. Their efforts are the fruits of having learned in their youth to accept those who are different from themselves, not judging wrongly, but simply serving.

Years ago, I found a summer job on an oyster boat in Long Island Sound. Four of us lived together in an area not much larger than the cab of a big semi-trailer truck. At first, I was considered a spy for the owner, and then a boy who didn’t have courage to “live like a man.” The others really gave me a bad time. Finally, when they understood that I would not do wrong things to prove I was a man, they left me alone, and we became friends. And then privately, one by one, they asked for help.
You know what is right and wrong. Be the leader in doing right. At first you may not be understood. You may not have the friends you want right away, but in time they will respect you, then admire you. Many will come privately to receive strength from your spiritual flame. You can do it. I know that you can do it.

Min-Jun stared out the window at the clouds. “It looks like it will rain tomorrow,” he said.
Grandfather looked up from his newspaper and nodded. It was late summer in Seoul, South Korea, and monsoon season had begun.
Min-Jun set an umbrella next to his clothes for Sunday. “I think we should leave early tomorrow.”
Grandfather smiled. “Good idea. We’ll have to walk the longer way, in case the lower road floods.”
“Do you think the Church building will be all right?” Min-Jun asked. Last year the basement had flooded during monsoon season.
“Yes,” said Grandfather. “But it never hurts to pray.”
“Then I’ll pray for the church tonight. And that we can make it there safely. Jal-ja-yo (good night).” Min-Jun bowed and went to bed.
In the morning they left the apartment early. Min-Jun looked up at the dark clouds that filled the sky.
“Have faith,” Grandfather said.
Min-Jun followed Grandfather up the narrow staircase on the hill near their apartment. They paused at the top to catch their breath. Their white shirts were already damp from the heavy humidity in the air.
Grandfather held out his hand to feel the first raindrops. “Do you feel that? The rain is starting.”
They opened up their umbrellas. By the time they reached the next staircase, the rain was coming down fast. Min-Jun squinted to see each step through the rain. “Whoa!” he cried as he slipped and landed on his knee.
“Are you hurt?” Grandfather asked. He leaned down to look at the hole in Min-Jun’s trousers.
“It’s just a scrape,” Min-Jun said, his voice shaking.
“We can fix it up at the church,” said Grandfather.
Min-Jun and Grandfather climbed the rest of the stairs and turned onto the upper road.
“The wind is worse up here,” Grandfather said, clutching his umbrella. Min-Jun could barely control his umbrella. Suddenly a gust of wind came and flipped it inside out, tearing the umbrella at the seams. Min-Jun’s shoulders drooped.
Grandfather held out his umbrella. “Come under mine. We’re almost there.”
Min-Jun and Grandfather shared the umbrella, but it did little to keep out the constant rain. As they came near the church, Min-Jun heard music playing.
“They’ve already started!” Min-Jun ran to the front doors. Then he saw his reflection in the glass. His hair was matted and dripping, his trousers were torn, and his shoes were muddy. He shrank away from the door and back down the steps.
“I … I can’t go in,” Min-Jun stuttered.
“You’re just fine,” Grandfather said.
“But I’m all dirty and wet!”
Grandfather looked at Min-Jun, then looked at the rain gauge tied to the fence.
“It’s easy to measure the rain, Min-Jun, but how do we measure ourselves?”
Min-Jun blinked up at Grandfather.
“You see muddy shoes, a scraped knee, and messy hair, and you think you don’t measure up to much,” Grandfather said. “But Jesus Christ has a better way of measuring. He sees your heart and knows that you’re doing what’s right. If you measure yourself His way, you’ll see that the gauge is overflowing.”
Min-Jun looked at the rain gauge. It kept rising with each raindrop. He thought of how hard he had worked to get to church and how warm and happy he felt when he was there. He thought about how much he loved the Savior and how much the Savior loved him.
Min-Jun hugged Grandfather, and together they walked into church.

Let me tell you of one young woman who has demonstrated remarkable strength in the face of great tragedy. On April 17, 1999, a big van broadsided a car and severely injured 16-year-old Emily Jensen. Her skull was fractured, and she was in a coma for three months, and six months in the hospital. She has had to learn everything again as if from birth. It would have been easy to give up, but giving up is not in Emily’s vocabulary. She works so hard at recovery that she runs the equivalent of a 26-mile marathon every day. Her faith, courage, and perseverance have strengthened and motivated many other hospital patients.

Emily is still working very hard to regain her speech. Even so, she fearlessly asks nurses, technicians, and therapists, “Are you a Mormon?” If they reply no, she tells them in her muddled sentences, “You should be. Read the Book of Mormon.”

Emily dictated to her mother what she wanted written in five copies of the Book of Mormon that she gave to a doctor, three therapists, and a technician before she left the hospital.

Emily dearly loved one technician who had become totally inactive in the Church. They prayed together in Emily’s hospital room. In language that was difficult to understand, but with a spirit that was strong and clear, Emily told her that she needed to go back to church. That technician later wrote Emily: “I want to thank you so much for the Book of Mormon you gave me. I cried when I read what you wrote. I know someday I will love this book as much as you do.”

Emily’s life was recently brightened at Skyline High School in Salt Lake City. The student body picked her as this year’s prom queen in recognition of her extraordinary courage. Her classmates stood and cheered as she struggled to the stage of the packed auditorium, supported on the arm of the student body president.

Though she continues to go each day for therapy, Emily’s life is still defined by her spiritual identity, her goodness, her kindness to others, and her strong testimony.