Gospel Story Finder

I suppose most kids dream about being rich. When I was little, I’d mooch along looking for money on the sidewalk. As I grew, so did my dreams. I’d think, “What if I see an unmarked envelope dropped into the weeds, and it’s stuffed with thousand dollar bills?” Since there would be no way to find the owner, I could keep the whole wad.
I quit looking for sudden wealth, because the most I ever found was a dime, which a bigger kid took away from me, and I began to think about relatives.
What if a great aunt or uncle died and, come to find out, they were not only secretly rich but—even more secretly—I’d been their favorite nephew, and they left me with a bundle.
But since my relatives ignored me, mostly, except to ask, “What are you studying in school?” I decided to treasure hunt.
I’d daydream about going out with a crew, and we’d find a Spanish galleon loaded with gold which had sunk off the coast of Quintana Roo, or I’d fancy myself fighting my way gamely up the Amazon River, where I’d stumble across an emerald mine.
By the time I was 16, I’d about given up my dreams of wealth, and then Mr. Boyd moved in next door.
Dad said the freeway took the elderly widower’s home, so he bought the house which had stood empty for a couple of months. It was a pleasant place, quiet, shaded by old trees and lilac bushes.
Mom said the rumor that got started about Mr. Boyd being rich had variations like a Bach prelude and was more fanciful. She said she was sure Mr. Boyd had as much money as the rest of us—just barely not enough—but I knew better.
To be sure, the car he drove wheezed like an elephant with the croup, and although he looked neat, with his bushy white hair and clear blue eyes, he sure didn’t dress like a millionaire, at least not like I’d dress if I had a bunch of money cornered.
Still, the vibes I got from Mr. Boyd convinced me he was an eccentric who had funds squirreled away in banks all over town. And when I found out he didn’t have any living relatives except for a lady cousin who lived in Arizona somewhere, I decided to become Mr. Boyd’s next of kin through adoption.
The way I had it figured, I would be underfoot in such a persistently helpful and noticeably warm-hearted way that I couldn’t help but be lovable.
I about wore out my eyes watching Mr. Boyd, waiting for chances to be helpful, although what I got in return were corner-eyed looks which told me he hadn’t been around teenagers for maybe 200 years. I could just feel the elderly man thinking I was a pill freak who roared around on a bike when I wasn’t lurking on street corners waiting to snatch purses from tottery old ladies.
That attitude irritated me. I wanted Mr. Boyd to notice I didn’t even own a motorcycle. I’m not big on them. And since he saw me in priesthood meeting every Sunday I felt he should know I wasn’t into drugs or alcohol. But since he never spoke to me, I couldn’t think of any clever way to tell him I could get a high—a near heaven kind of high—from listening to a Liszt rhapsody or looking at dew on rose leaves.
But for three months Mr. Boyd barely nodded to me except for the time I trimmed our side of the hedge, then went around and trimmed his too. Then he did say, “Thanks,” but nervously.
I sighed, because after he said “Thanks” he hurried into his house, and I noticed that the way I happened to be holding the hedge clippers looked a lot more threatening than lovable.
I decided I’d have to change tactics if I was ever going to make myself adoptable, so I began to wait for Mr. Boyd’s car to limp into his driveway. Then I’d dash over to carry his grocery bags, or what ever, into his kitchen. I’d try to make conversation with remarks like, “Awesome day, right? Sort of majestically inspirational,” and he’d look at me like I’d just stepped out of a UFO.
Dad was pleased with me because I was trying to be nice to Mr. Boyd, although of course he didn’t know about my plan. Dad said, “Your neighborly acts are very commendable, David, and don’t get discouraged if Mr. Boyd doesn’t warm up to you right away.” He’d remind me that adolescents take so much getting used to that by the time an adult gets used to them, they aren’t adolescents anymore. That didn’t cheer me up a whole lot.
Still, I went on playing it cool with one ear cocked for the sound of opportunity knocking, which I heard from half a block away one afternoon—a knock from Mr. Boyd’s car, which was then taken with a severe coughing spell at the corner, where it gave up the ghost.
My trigger-quick mind sent me rushing to his aid. While Mr. Boyd steered, I pushed his deceased automobile into his driveway. When the old man got out he said mournfully, “Guess the old crate’s done for.”
I almost asked, “Why not buy a new one?” but I was afraid that would let him know I knew he was secretly loaded. Instead, using my bright and most lovable tone of voice I said, “Let me work on your car, sir. I’m sure I can revive it.”
Actually, motorized objects and I have no special rapport, but Dad thinks an education should be well rounded. His notion had me taking a class in auto mechanics, so I was able to get Mr. Boyd’s car running again.
I had my head under the hood one afternoon, whistling loudly while I gave the spark plugs a final check, when Mr. Boyd went “Harrumph!” just behind my right ear. The sound startled me so much I gave a leap and banged my head smartly on the hood. I was still seeing afternoon stars when Mr. Boyd demanded, “Is that Rossini you’re whistling?”
Rubbing my dented head I said, “Yes, sir. The Thieving Magpie Overture.”
“Good gracious!” Mr. Boyd stared at me as if I’d sprouted an extra nose. “You mean you know opera?”
A bit miffed I said, “Why not? Dad’s a music professor at the university. Opera and classical music got piped into my bassinet.”
Then, for the first time, I saw Mr. Boyd smile. He said, “I thought kids nowadays never listened to anything but that loud noise you call stone.”
“Rock, sir. Anyway, some of that music is very good, Mr. Boyd. There are quite a few groups who really know about music, and I like them, but I prefer Beethoven, Vivaldi, Wagner …”
“Have you ever heard of Enrico Caruso?” Mr. Boyd interrupted, his blue eyes fixed anxiously on my face.
“Sure. Dad says Caruso was about the greatest tenor opera ever had.”
“Come inside.”
Mr. Boyd trotted toward his house. I followed, wondering what had gotten into him.
The living room of the house was cool, quiet, high ceilinged. Heavy furniture rested on a carpet with roses woven into a soft pattern. Mr. Boyd walked briskly to a corner and put his hand on a tall, boxy object.
“This,” he told me, “is a Victrola which still works.” After he explained that a Victrola is a sort of old-time stereo, he told me he had records for it that were priceless, and the most valuable of the old recordings were those done by Caruso.
Carefully he removed a brittle, black record from a paper envelope, cranked the machine with a handle, and then for the first time I heard the voice of Enrico Caruso. Was he something! Mr. Boyd said that since he could tell I appreciated good music I was welcome anytime he was home to come over and listen to his records.
I grinned. At last! Mr. Boyd was going to get to know me.
One evening I was sitting in front of his Victrola, enjoying the fringe benefits of Caruso, when Mr. Boyd came out of his bedroom carrying a photograph album. He looked edgy, old, and there was a loneliness in his eyes deeper than usual when he asked, like he expected me to back off, if I’d like to see his family pictures.
The truth is I wanted to back off. I had to remind myself sternly about the hard work I’d already put in to make myself lovingly adoptable before I could put the proper enthusiasm in my voice when I cried, “I’d enjoy that!” I jumped right up to sit beside the old man on what he called the “davenport.”
I don’t know where the evening went. Who would have dreamed that a peaceful-appearing man like Mr. Boyd could have lived a life of such high adventure?
He’d been raised in southeastern Utah. By the time he was my age he was already running the Colorado River in a canoe, and that was before they dammed those violent waters. He’d been sheriff of a county bigger than some states. He’d been member of a rescue posse that patrolled the wild Canyonlands, and he’d served as a stake missionary on the Navajo reservation.
He told me about so many exciting adventures that I had goosebumps all over. That evening he showed me only a few of his family pictures, but he did tell me that his wife had died ten years earlier, and that their only child, a son, had been pilot of a B-17 bomber during World War II, and that he had been shot down over Italy.
“Missing in action,” Mr. Boyd said. An old sorrow dimmed his eyes. “Thirty-three years have gone by, and never a word about what happened to our Dan.”
I don’t know if he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but I knew the lump in my own throat was still there when I went to bed that night.
From then on I hardly bothered to knock before I walked into Mr. Boyd’s house. A special feeling had developed between us. It was like, when we were together, he forgot he was 76, and I forgot I was 16. Each of us was so much aware of what thoughts and emotions were going on inside the other that what was outside didn’t matter.
I can’t remember when it finally began to dawn on me that Mr. Boyd not only didn’t have funds hidden in any banks, nor musty bills in his mattress, but that while his monthly pension check stretched far enough to cover his utilities and groceries, the covering was often skimpy.
The knowledge that my friend was anything but rich penetrated my skull for good the day I asked why he didn’t have a telephone. Smiling, Mr. Boyd said, “For one thing, son, all the people I’m interested in live no further than a brisk walk away. For another, if you let that company install a telephone they begin to expect you to pay for the use of it.”
Then one day, when Mr. Boyd and I were walking home from sacrament meeting, he cleared his throat in a way that warned me he’d been working to get up enough nerve to say whatever he was trying to get out. After another self-conscious “Harrumph!” he blurted, “Son, you got any plans to get married?”
That stopped me cold in my tracks. I squeaked, “Good grief, Mr. Boyd, I haven’t even been on a mission yet!”
He laughed in the hearty way he has that always makes me grin from the inside out. He said, “I planned to come at you slantways with that, not scare you to death, but what I’m trying to find out is if your future plans include a wife?”
I said, “Sure. But please,” I pleaded dramatically, “can I wait to get married until I find a girl?”
As we walked beside lilac bushes in bloom Mr. Boyd put his hand on my shoulder. He said, “Even nice girls can be picky. Maybe the one who waits for you won’t want a lot of old relics, but,” his steps slowed, “I have a few belongings of mostly sentimental value, like my records and Victrola, a copper kettle my great-grandmother brought across the plains in a handcart, similar things I wouldn’t want just anybody to have.”
I stopped to pick a lilac because I didn’t know how I could look at Mr. Boyd when he said what I expected him to say next, which he did.
“I’m making a will, David. I’ll leave my home to Cousin Bertha, but what I own that is really important to me I want you to have.”
I studied that lilac like it was going to help me pass a botany exam, which I’d have flunked because the lavender blossoms kept going blurry on me. I was remembering how I’d schemed to become Mr. Boyd’s adopted son so I would be his heir. Now I could hardly believe I’d ever been greedy and dumb enough to think that money could have as much value as a very special friend.
Pretending a ladybug on my sleeve needed loving care I lifted the orange insect off and placed it on the sidewalk, which gave me time to get hold of myself. But I guess Mr. Boyd thought I was trying to think of how I could tell him I wasn’t interested in his keepsakes, because when he spoke again it was in a slow, explaining sort of way.
He said, “I’ve never worried a great deal about working for material goods, David. I’ve tried to live by what Jesus told us in Matthew, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven’” (Matt. 6:19–20). Mr. Boyd smiled. “So I haven’t laid up many earthly treasures. I’ve felt the most important work I could do here is to learn how to get back where I came from, and to send ahead what I could.”
I looked with affection at Mr. Boyd’s face, which was lined with age but beautiful with dignified peace. How much he had taught me about what’s important in life and about what doesn’t matter very much, like money.
As his officially unadopted son, Mr. Boyd had already given me many valuable gifts, like the way I was able to understand what he meant when he spoke of treasures, and when his face took on a look of quiet happiness I knew he was thinking about his wife and his son, Danny.
I stopped to pick a few more lilacs, then caught up with Mr. Boyd.
I said, “Sir, I want you to know I’ll be proud to take care of the material things you treasured on earth. And I promise I won’t marry a girl until I know for sure she’ll appreciate them as much as I do.”
Then, with what I hoped was a courtly flourish, I held out the lilacs to Mr. Boyd. There were many tender and loving phrases tumbling around in my head that I wanted to use, but all that came out was a humble, “Thank you.”

I saw it in New Mexico as a young man. For generations the prophets have told us that we must help the missionaries find and teach the honest in heart and then love those who come into the kingdom.

I have seen for myself what faithful priesthood leaders and members can do. In 1955 I became an officer in the United States Air Force. My bishop at home gave me a blessing just before I left for my first station, which was in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

In his blessing he said that my time in the air force would be missionary service. I arrived in church on my first Sunday at the Albuquerque First Branch. A man walked up to me, introduced himself as the district president, and told me that he was going to call me to serve as a district missionary.

I told him that I would be there for training for only a few weeks and then I would be assigned somewhere else in the world. He said, “I don’t know about that, but we are to call you to serve.” In the middle of my military training, by what appeared to be chance, I was chosen from hundreds of officers being trained to take the place in headquarters of an officer who had died suddenly.

So, for the two years I was there, I worked in my office. On most evenings and every weekend, I taught the gospel of Jesus Christ to people the members brought to us.

My companions and I averaged more than 40 hours a month in our missionary service without once having to knock on doors to find someone to teach. The members filled our plates so full that we often taught two families in an evening. I saw for myself the power and the blessing in the repeated call of prophets for every member to be a missionary.

On the last Sunday before I left Albuquerque, the first stake was organized in that city. There is now a sacred temple there, a house of the Lord, in a city where we once met in a single chapel with Saints who brought friends to us to be taught and to feel the witness of the Spirit. Those friends felt a welcoming home in the Lord’s true Church.

In Kelsey, Texas, in 1942, at the height of World War II, a group of Latter-day Saints approached President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973), who was at the time a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. They asked, “Is now the day for us to come up to Zion, … where we can be protected from our enemies?”
President Lee took the question seriously. After pondering, studying, and praying for some time, he concluded: “I know now that the place of safety in this world is not in any given place; it doesn’t make so much difference where we live; but the all-important thing is how we live, and I have found that security can come to Israel only when [we] keep the commandments, when [we] live so that [we] can enjoy the companionship, the direction, the comfort, and the guidance of the Holy Spirit of the Lord, when [we] are willing to listen to these men whom God has set here to preside as His mouthpieces, and when we obey the counsels of the Church.”8

Keith Chapman, a forward at the University of Utah, is a returned missionary from the Germany Frankfurt Mission. As he was growing up, he had always planned to go on a mission. But when the time came to submit his papers, the game plan became a little more complicated. “The NCAA started having a controversy about whether missionaries would lose eligibility or not. That was the first hesitation I ever felt about my decision to serve a mission. After praying, I decided I was going to go at any rate. The NCAA then decided that we would keep our eligibility.”
On his mission Keith learned to keep an eternal perspective on things. “Before my mission, basketball was my whole life. Now I know there are more important things like staying worthy and looking more into the eternities than just to the next game.”

A friend of mine played football at a community college in California. He wasn’t a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but when a teammate transferred to BYU, he decided to come along.

He spent more time on the sidelines than he did on the field, but he didn’t mind because he was learning a lot, majoring in English, and meeting people, including someone he hoped to marry. He was inquisitive and asked good questions. On the field, his queries were about Xs and Os. In the classroom, he sought to hone his academic and communication skills. He became increasingly interested in the purpose of life, in his relationship with God, and in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

In time he was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When a teammate asked why, he responded simply, “I really believe for me this is the way.”6

As he approached graduation, a thoughtful mentor, seeing potential in this young man, asked him to stay on as a graduate assistant.

Fast-forward more than forty years to February of this very year, and that same BYU graduate, now looking a little older, stood atop a massive podium in Las Vegas surrounded by floating confetti. He was holding the Vince Lombardi Trophy, side by side with the woman he met and married here at BYU. Travis Kelce hugged him. Even Taylor Swift was giving him a little love. If you haven’t guessed by now, this is the Andy Reid story.

It is also a classic BYU story—a story of becoming. It is a story full of triumphs and trials as well as highs and lows. It is a story marked by daily decisions to choose Christian discipleship and the courage to embrace what Ruth L. Okediji described on this campus as a fully integrated life—a life in which religious convictions and professional pursuits are harmonized, not compartmentalized.7

In the LDS Living podcast All In, Andy Reid said:

What a great example [Christ] was for us. All the trials and tribulations that He went through. [And] Joseph Smith, the trials and tribulations that he went through. These are great examples for us.

And then we just hang on to that iron rod, because that son of a gun [life] can be difficult at times. But you hang on and you work your way through these things and bank on your faith.8

Time passed. Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I had made rather rapid progress as far as promotions are concerned, and I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. And I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. There was just one man between me and that which for ten years I had hoped to get, the office of general in the British Army. I swelled up with pride. And this one man became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner in charge of all Canadian forces. I called in my valet, my personal servant. I told him to polish my buttons, to brush my hat and my boots, and to make me look like a general because that is what I was going to be. He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the General, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer. Someone else will be made a general.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for ten years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.

Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and I took a soldier’s privilege of looking on his desk. I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it in bold, block-type letters was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. I already held the highest rank of any Mormon in the British Army. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly. I saluted out of duty and went out. I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure. You will be called a coward when you get home. You raised all those Mormon boys to join the army, then you sneak off home.” I knew what I was going to get, and when I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap and my saddle brown belt on the cot. I clinched my fists and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have a Mutual Improvement Association. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their voices singing:
“It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me;
But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 75.)

I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost fifty years later, I look up to him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension when I’m no good any longer, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

Champion Koruea Kaburara estimates that she and her husband assist about 100 people every month. She is very careful to help those she gives her seedlings to by providing instruction and supervision.
Sometimes she helps them by giving them soil or compost that she produces.
Koruea gives her tender plants to those who are serious about following through. “Many members come to me and so do people at my work and in my community. I feel like I want to help both. They are happy to get the plants.”
Koruea is able to feed her family and to generate some extra income through her skillful management. Her neighbours are grateful to be able to purchase the fresh vegetables from her. The creative system benefits all involved and can be sustained.

The Dauphins’ mother, who is single, isn’t a member of the Church, and she often has to be at work on Monday evenings. So Marco and Rosenelle hold family night, complete with a game, songs, prayers, and a lesson. Sometimes the full-time missionaries are invited. It’s a challenge to coordinate their efforts, but all the Dauphins say it’s worth it.
“Joining the Church was a real relief for us,” says Marco. “When we have the Spirit in our home, we feel closer together. We just feel better.”

A few years ago, I coached a boys’ soccer team. They were an amazing group of players—fast, agile, with the instinct of anticipating where the ball would or should go on the next kick. The players really clicked as a team. They breezed through the season with a perfect record, most of the games ending in lopsided scores.
One of my favorite players on the team was Matt. Matt was an exception to most of his teammates. He wasn’t as skilled or naturally athletic as they were, but he played with a lot of heart. He developed a knack for playing defense. Matt wasn’t a fast runner, but he had courage and the uncanny ability to get himself right in front of a player ready to shoot on goal. Matt stopped dozens of shots that season with almost every part of his body—feet, legs, stomach, chest, and, on one memorable shot, his face. Matt earned the nickname “The Wall” because it seemed like no opposing player could get the ball past him.
Matt had one dream for that season: he wanted to score a goal. Since he played defense, at the opposite end of the field from the opponents’ net, he had little chance to score.
The last game of the season came and our team raced out to a quick and comfortable lead. As the match wore down, I called Matt over to the sideline and told him to play forward for the remainder of the game, a position where he’d have a better chance to score. With a confidence that surprised me, I told him, “Whenever their goalie has the ball, plant yourself in front of the box. Be in the right place at the right time and you’ll get your goal today.”
A few minutes later, one of our players kicked the ball on goal. The other team’s goalkeeper stopped the shot, put the ball on the turf, and kicked the ball low and hard.
And Matt, true to his nature, got right in front of it.
The ball thudded into his chest and ricocheted past the shocked and flailing goalkeeper into the net. Matt’s teammates and their parents exploded in cheers.
It wasn’t pretty, but Matt got his goal. He couldn’t have been more excited if he’d scored in a World Cup match.
I bumped into Matt a while ago, and it didn’t take long for us to start reminiscing about his amazing goal. We both agreed that, while his goal was thrilling and something neither of us would ever forget, it was the lessons we learned about life that warm autumn day that mattered most.

The faith of the Korean Saints grew constantly but was often tested. Brother Chun Nak Seo, who after his baptism joined the army to fulfill his military duty, recalled some trying times: “During the three years of military service, my faith and testimony were tested. One day the company commander was drunk and brought a lot of liquor and pressed it on the company members. Because my colleagues knew that I was LDS, they always emptied the cup for me. But on that evening, the drunken commander was watching me carefully and commanded me to drink from the cup. I said that I didn’t drink alcohol, but he ordered me to do so. But I disobeyed again. He took out his pistol and aimed at me and ordered me to drink. Everyone was holding his breath and watching. I once again clearly said, ‘I do not drink alcohol, sir.’ I felt that moment was very long. He finally said, ‘I give up’ and put down the pistol. Everyone sighed with relief and came back to the barracks. The next morning, the company commander came to me and apologized for what he had done the previous night. Later he used to come to me to get advice on personal matters.”6
Brother Chun served as a full-time missionary in Korea and later as a bishop of the Alameda Ward in Maryland, USA.

For my 17th birthday, my dad presented me with his old Volkswagen. I was ecstatic. Imagine—my very own car! I was anxious to take a drive. A long drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. I suppose my excitement was, in part, a result of a boyish, budding sense of independence.
The long-awaited and sorely anticipated journey finally arrived the following summer when my parents gave me permission to drive a few states away to visit a cousin. My 15-year-old brother, Tom, accompanied me. My dad hugged me and cautioned, “Keep your sense about you, Ray. And be careful.”
It was a memorable trip, mainly because it was my—rather our—maiden voyage, of sorts. Our first real time away from home. That, in itself, was the real adventure.
As with all adventures, this one came to an end, and it was time to go home. We were tired and ready to return to the comfort of our own beds.
Tom was asleep in the backseat of the car as I snaked my way through the mountains on a high, narrow road. I had been driving all day, and it was late, so I couldn’t wait to get down off that mountain, pull off the road, and get some sleep, at least enough for a brief respite before finishing the final leg of our journey.
Being saddled with an aching want for sleep, along with a youthful helping of inexperience and irresponsibility, I was driving too fast for the conditions of the road. The night was blacker than a bad tooth. The sickle-thin cut of moon in the inky sky and the feeble, confetti-like throw of star glow provided scant illumination on the dark road. I negotiated the narrow, serpentine roadway using the almost-just-as-meager aid of the vehicle’s headlights.
Just as I was about to round yet another sharp curve, I heard a voice within me say, “Slow down. There are two deer around the corner in the road.”
Driving as fast as I was and already upon the turn, I had only time enough to react—to either ignore the voice or hurriedly follow the instruction.
I chose the latter, quickly slowing down as I took the blind curve. And there, just as the voice had forewarned, standing in the middle of the narrow roadway, were two deer, blinded by my headlights and too startled to move.
Had I not heeded the voice, I would have swerved to the left and driven off the edge of the huge drop-off.
After maneuvering around the deer, I proceeded on our route. It was good to be home again. As I lay in my own bed with my hands tucked under my head, I realized that as much as I looked forward to the notion of one day being on my own, I hoped that wherever life found me, I would be living righteously enough to always have the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

I know of one boy, now a man still far away from Church activity, whom a deacon was sent to find, and he told his grandfather of that visit 20 years earlier. And it seemed to have no effect, and yet he even named the deacon who came. The grandfather asked me to find and thank the deacon who was called to invite, to exhort, and to teach. It had been only one day in the life of a boy, but a grandfather and the Lord remember the words the boy was inspired to speak and the boy’s name.

2. Be Honest with Yourself
A young woman on a university volleyball team tells of the time when she and her friend Muki were playing together in a championship match:
“I remember it being a close game. … Gracie [on our opponents’ team] rounded her approach, jumped, and smacked the ball as hard as she could. … The line judges signaled out, and the head official raised his finger to show a point for [our team]. We began giving our usual high fives when we noticed that Muki was hand-motioning to the official that she touched the ball on her block. Muki was calling her own touch.
“The quiet, withdrawn Muki had showed an act of integrity and honesty like I had never seen before. Gracie was so impressed that she talked with Muki after the match. … Muki later gave Gracie a Book of Mormon. I don’t know if Gracie has read the book … , but I do know that Gracie was touched by Muki’s example, as we all were.”2

“It can’t be done. It won’t work.” That’s what everyone said. But when 17-year-old Tanya Fisher took a courageous stand against an embarrassing “eyesore” in her community of Laramie, Wyoming, she made it work.
A huge retaining wall (100 feet long and 22 feet high) covered with graffiti stood at the intersection of two of the busiest streets in the city. Many efforts had been made by the city council to eradicate the graffiti. They had tried painting over it with white wash. But that encouraged youthful street artists to write on it again. Then the city council spent lots of money to have large streetlights installed hoping to deter the activity. All that did was give the artists more light to work by. It seemed to be a losing battle.
One day Tanya and her mother were chatting at the kitchen table when Tanya came up with the idea to paint a giant mural on that embarrassing retaining wall. She thought it would be a great project for the student council of Laramie High School. An ambitious idea was born that day, but to bring it to full maturity took a lot of time and energy.
Tanya fought opposition everywhere, especially with her peers. They said it wouldn’t work, that graffiti would cover the drawings immediately. But Tanya didn’t give up. During the summer of 1988 Tanya visited Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, with her family. She contacted the Anti-Graffiti Network there and gathered more information. She took pictures of a wall that had been partially painted with a mural. Interestingly enough, there was graffiti all over the unpainted part of the wall. But the mural was left untouched. This gave her hope.
After much research Tanya’s first step was to present her idea to the student council at Laramie High School. It took a written proposal and some tall talking, but she finally won their support. The second step was to get the city council’s approval. Surprisingly, she was met with enthusiasm by both the council and the mayor, and the project took hold in the summer of 1989. It had taken more than a year to get to this point.
Ryan Fulton, a counselor at Laramie High School who became the sponsor of the project, said of Tanya, “That girl ramrodded the project and spent her time researching possibilities from other walls in other cities. She wasn’t afraid to present her ideas to the city council. That’s something for a high school student.”
The theme of the mural represents the three educational institutions of the community: Laramie High School, Wyoming Technical Institute, and the University of Wyoming. It was decided that there would be no advertising involved and neither the names of the schools nor the artists would appear anywhere in the drawings. Logos of the institutions are depicted in a kind of “new wave” art according to Tanya.
With about a dozen students from the high school and another dozen from the tech school, Tanya launched her project. John Kearnes, a Wyoming Tech student, was very helpful in the design and drawing of the mural.
Tanya had already met many challenges, but as the project began she found there were many more ahead. While the paint was still wet, rain washed away the first base coat. Hail ruined the surface in places another time. Tanya described the problems with the size of the wall. “There are 29 sections, only four where you can really stand. To get to the rest of it, we had to tie ropes around our waists and hang down the wall while we put in the measurements, did the sketching and the painting.” Over 600 man-hours were spent on this project. And Tanya personally contributed 87 hours. She also used this as her Young Women values project in the Laramie First Ward, Laramie Wyoming Stake.
Tanya’s mother Darlene Fisher, says, “Months have gone by and the wall is still fine. The whole city is proud of it. My husband (Monte Fisher) and I overhear people talking about the wall, and they don’t know we’re the parents of the girl who spearheaded the project. It makes us feel so good.”
What about upkeep on this huge project? The senior class of Laramie High School has formed a committee from the student council to provide maintenance on the wall. And the city council donates the paint.
Tanya said, “Everyone said it can’t work. But I said ‘Yes it can. If it can work in Boston and Chicago, it can work in a small town like Laramie.’” And it did! One young, determined girl, with a sense of community commitment, proved it.

In summer 2017, the Page family participated in the British Pageant at the Preston, England Temple.
Preparations began early in January, with applications to be made, auditions to attend, and accommodations to organise. We were very excited to receive our phone call from Peter Trebilcock (the pageant director at the time). He told us that we had been accepted into the family cast. We were then set apart by our bishop, who said our children were the youngest he had ever set apart for a calling!
Our time at the British Pageant was very busy, with long days of rehearsing, many late nights, and makeshift meals. But it was wonderful— we made some new friends, grew through the expertise of all the directors and had many spiritual experiences and opportunities to give testimony.
One of the highlights was a visit from President M. Russell Ballard, an Apostle. My husband, Matthew, who was working on the security team, had the privilege of ferrying President Ballard around the site in a golf cart! We also had visits from President and Sister Kieron, and President and Sister McReynolds of the Manchester England Mission.
At the end of the performance each night, it was our privilege to speak with our visitors about their experience at the pageant. Many were not members of our Church, while others had not attended for a very long time. There were many positive stories of people feeling the Holy Ghost, as well as compliments as to the quality of the event.
The British Pageant is a truly worthwhile experience, and we wholeheartedly recommend getting involved!

I could see by the length of the shadows that it would be almost dark by the time I got home. Supper would be over at our house, and, being late, I’d get only what was left over. The fire in the stove would have burnt itself out, so I’d probably eat another cold meal too. I put a little more effort into my stride, because thinking of food had made me hungry.
As I walked, I thought about some of the people I wanted to be like when I grew up. One was Uncle Milton. He always said, “If you will say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ along with ‘you’re welcome,’ you can make friends and get along with most everyone.” Since he was so well liked, I tried hard to practice what he said.
Then I thought about my cousin Garn. To me he was a great horseman and cowboy. Garn came by our house and showed me the rope tricks and fancy riding he could do. He used me in one of the tricks he did: He loped his horse almost at a run. Then, as he went by, he reached down and grabbed me under my arms and swung me up on the horse with him.
Garn had surprised me the first time he snatched me off the ground. Once I got over the shock and got my breath back, I asked him to do it again. After just a few times, I felt secure with his strong arms around me, and we soon had the trick worked out so it looked smooth and easy.
The first time Mother saw Garn and me do the snatch-up trick, she was upset. “What if you drop Adam, and he breaks something?”
Garn didn’t have much to say, so I came to his defense. “We’ve done it lots of times, and nothing has happened.”
Father put his arm around Mother and added, “It’s much safer than Adam’s riding a half-broken horse.”
Nothing more was said, but I knew that Mother worried.
A few days later I was showing off my little gray mare by loping her up and down the streets of town. I met my friend Marlene and asked her, “Would you like to learn the snatch-up trick?”
She just kept walking without answering me, so I asked again, adding, “I’ll give you a ride anywhere you want to go, if you will.”
She finally nodded. “OK.”
I rode down the street, turned the horse around, and loped toward her. As I got close, I leaned over in the saddle and got a firm grip on the horse with my knees, just like Garn did. Then I reached under her arms to pick her up.
She was heavier than I thought, but I got her up off the ground without slipping out of the saddle. I just had to swing her up in front of me. But her long dress flew up and spooked the little gray horse. It shied, and I lost my hold and dropped Marlene.
Before I could get the frightened horse stopped, Marlene had scrambled up and run down the street and into her house. I assumed she was all right and went on home.
The next evening Mother said, “Doctor Meeks has been at Marlene’s house. He had to set her broken arm. When Father gets home, he and I have something to say to you.”
While I waited for Father, I learned that the break was just below the elbow and that Doctor Meeks had said it would probably heal as good as new. He’d had to pull the bones back in place before putting on a cast, though, and she’d cried hard.
Father came home and said, “Adam, do you know that what you did was wrong?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have tried to do the snatch-up trick with her.”
“I will pay the doctor. What do you think that you should do?”
“Well, she said she’d do the trick with me, and it wasn’t my fault the horse shied.”
“While you are thinking about what you did not do, and about what you need to do to make amends, you are not to get on a horse—yours or anyone else’s—until Marlene’s arm is well. You are not to accept rides on wagons or buggies, either. In other words, wherever you need to go, you will walk!”
So I walked. I walked for more than eight weeks. When my friends found out what happened, they made sure to ride by me on their horses and say things like, “Adam, are you practicing to be a foot soldier?”
I also had to get up much earlier in the morning to get to the fields to work, and I got home long after everyone else, usually to a supper of cold leftovers, like tonight. I started to avoid people and went out of my way when I saw someone coming who I was sure would ask, “Adam, how much longer are you going to be walking?” And I started to think about why I was in this fix. I had made a mistake, and someone else had been hurt. Each step I took seemed to pound that fact more firmly in my head. I started to pray as I walked—for Marlene and for me.
Last week Doctor Meeks passed me in his buggy. I waved him to a stop and asked, “Doctor, how much longer do you think it will be until Marlene’s arm will be better?”
“Well,” he said, “we set it right, and she’s been careful. She was given a priesthood blessing of healing by her father, so I haven’t worried about her. Usually six weeks is long enough for that bone to heal, but we didn’t get hers set until the next day, remember, so it may take at least two more weeks. Then it should be as good as new, and she’ll probably forget all about it, except when she sees you.”
Doc reached over and tousled my hair. “Be careful, Adam. No more trick riding. I have enough sick people to take care of without you helping to make more.”
He clicked to his horse and went on down the road, leaving me to walk on alone.
When the two weeks had passed, I started looking forward to church so I could see if Marlene had the cast off her arm. She still had it on last Sunday, and it had been a few days more than eight weeks since the fall. The past three nights I had walked by her house, hoping to see her without the cast. I was sure people were saying, “There is that Adam. Let him walk and let it be a lesson to him.”
I was feeling pretty bad tonight as I came to our street. Then I remembered that my Uncle Milton’s advice was not just to say “please” and “thank you” but also “I’m sorry” and “It was my fault.”
I hurried past our house and went up to Marlene’s door and knocked. She called out, “Just a minute, please.”
It was a long minute before she answered the door. I just stood there looking down at my dusty shoes. Then I looked up at her. Her arm was still in the cast, and it was a bit soiled. I looked her in the eye. “Marlene … I’m sorry. Really! It was all my fault. I hope sometime you can forgive me.”
She let me stand there a moment longer. Then she said, “I’m glad you came, Adam. Your mother said that you would probably remember to come and say you were sorry for what happened before the doctor took the cast off. You made it—it comes off tomorrow.” She smiled. “Last night I prayed you would come today.”
“And you’ll forgive me?” I asked.
“Yes, I forgive you.”
I felt so warm inside as I walked home that I didn’t even mind the idea of one more cold supper.

Recently, I had a phone call with one of my close friends. It went like most of our conversations do—we laughed, joked, and talked about our lives.
But my heart sunk as it became clear to me that this friend, one of my very favorite people in the whole world, was no longer living in accordance with the gospel of Jesus Christ. I remained neutral and kind during our call but hung up feeling disappointed. I was sad that this friend and I no longer shared the same values.
I wondered if I should have said more. Should I have stood up for what I still believed in? I didn’t agree with the decisions my friend was making, but I also didn’t want her to feel like I was trying to condemn her. And I certainly didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship.
Five different points have helped me as I’ve pondered this situation.
Standing for God’s law while still loving and supporting those who live differently from us can seem complicated. Sometimes it feels like remaining loyal to God and His commandments means appearing judgmental if we disagree with someone’s choices.
I’ve often felt confused about how to balance law and love.
President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, spoke on this very topic at a worldwide devotional for young adults, saying: “I have previously referred to our ‘continually [trying] to balance the dual commandments of love and law,’ but I now believe that goal to be better expressed as trying to live both of these commandments in a more complete way.”1
In other words, law and love are actually interconnected and inseparable. The apostle Paul wrote, “Love is the fulfilling of the law” (Romans 13:9–10).
And Heavenly Father expects us to love everyone—including those who disagree with us. In the New Testament, the Savior taught His followers to love even their enemies (see Luke 6:27–28).
Love is God’s law, not its opposite. We should never stop loving someone in the name of following Him.
This can be a hard pill to swallow, especially when our motives for “judging” seem to come from a good place—I want my friends and family to understand the peace and joy that come from living the gospel. I want them to feel gratitude for the Savior and for what He’s done for us.
But I have to remember that I can’t force anyone to believe in the gospel or practice a certain principle. Each person has their agency.
President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, provided clear counsel when he said: “We simply have to stop judging others and replace judgmental thoughts and feelings with a heart full of love for God and His children. … I will even quote a bumper sticker I recently saw. … It read, “Don’t judge me because I sin differently than you.”2
We are all imperfect and all in need of forgiveness (see Romans 3:23). I’m humbled when I remember this fact.
Jesus Christ taught that the first commandment is to love God and the second is to love our neighbor (see Matthew 22:37–39).
Like me, perhaps you know individuals who believe they must leave the Church to better love, respect, and include all people. This has sometimes made me wonder if it’s really possible to love God and love others simultaneously. The world certainly doesn’t think so.
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles offered a helpful perspective when he explained that “ignoring the first commandment, or reversing the order of the first and second commandments, risks a loss of balance in life and destructive deviations from the path of happiness and truth.”3
He provided four ways we can “put the first commandment first” so we can love others while remaining close to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ:
Keep the commandments
Serve one another and help others come unto Christ
Pray and study the scriptures
Live with accountability to God4
It’s comforting to know that I can’t go wrong if I love God first. Following His law and staying close to Him and my Savior will forever help me love my neighbors, even when their beliefs and choices differ from mine.
Now, going back to the phone call with my friend. Should I have said something more to her?
President Oaks offered helpful counsel when he said: “Whenever possible we will refrain from judging people and only judge situations. … We can set and act upon high standards for ourselves or our homes without condemning those who do otherwise.”5
When I find myself in conversations over a situation I may not agree with, I’ve decided to seek the guidance of the Holy Ghost to know how to respond. Sometimes I may feel that the right thing is to share my opinion; sometimes I may feel guided to share less. But in all cases, it is important to follow the Savior and not judge unrighteously.
My friend and I still talk about the gospel, and our openness with one another has helped deepen our relationship. Even though I don’t try to convince her of my beliefs, I still try to be an example of a disciple of Christ. Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Each time you bear vocal witness or demonstrate through your actions your commitment to follow Jesus Christ, you invite others to ‘come unto Christ.’”6
I know that it is possible to love those whose choices we don’t agree with—it’s one of the core principles of the gospel. By following the example of Jesus Christ, I know I can love God and His children, even when it’s difficult. And I believe these same things for you too.

Hamilton (Montana) Ward
Last June, 46 young men and women of the Hamilton Ward made a trip to the Cardston Alberta Temple to do baptisms for the dead. It was the largest youth temple turnout in ward history. On their way to the temple, they stopped at Glacier National Park, and in Cardston they visited the Remington-Alberta Carriage Centre, home to the largest collection of horse-drawn vehicles in North America.
But the real reason for the trip was the temple. The youth performed more than 300 baptisms for the dead, with all the names prepared for temple ordinances and provided by Hamilton Ward members.
In the several months leading up to the trip, the ward held classes and activities to assist the youth in learning about family history.

Johnny slowed his bike before turning into Mrs. Jones’s driveway. It was the day before Easter, and it was time for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt.
“I knew it,” he thought. “There’s Randy Mills. He’ll get the prize. He always does. I’ll have to listen to him brag for another year.”
“Hey, come on, slowpoke!” Randy yelled.
“I’m coming.”
Randy laughed. “Why are you frowning? Afraid you’ll get beat again?”
“Come line up, children,” Mrs. Jones called. “When I say, ‘Go,’ the smaller children will run to the backyard. When I say it again, the older children will follow.”
A few minutes into the hunt, Randy ran up to Johnny. “How many eggs have you found?”
“Nine.”
“Me too. Maybe we’ll tie for the prize.” He ran off to find more.
Johnny poked about here and there. He sure hoped to find another egg and beat Randy. He was looking under an already-searched bush when he heard a small sniff. A little girl was standing behind the bush crying. It was Laurie, Johnny’s neighbor.
“Hi, Laurie. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t have any eggs!” Laurie sobbed. “If I could find just one egg …” Laurie was much younger than most of the children, and she was crying as if her heart would break.
“Children, I believe all the eggs have been found. Let’s count up,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Now I’ll never find one.” Tears ran down Laurie’s face.
Johnny felt very bad for the little girl. As he looked at his full basket, an idea hit him. He quickly slipped his prettiest egg under the bush. “Laurie, did you look really well under here?”
“I think so.” She came around to his side of the bush, her eyes searching everywhere. Suddenly her face lit up. “Ooooh! Look at the pretty egg!”
Randy walked up and pounded Johnny on the back. “Well, we tied for first prize with nine eggs apiece.”
“I only have eight,” Johnny said quietly.
“I thought you said you had nine.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Wow! The prize is mine. Say, you’d better learn to count better, Johnny.” He laughed over his shoulder.
Johnny watched Randy claim the prize. He would have to listen to Randy brag for another year, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He smiled, remembering Laurie’s face as she found just one egg.

I think of two other friends of about the same vintage, a boy and a girl. I knew them in the years of high school and university. He was a boy from a country town, plain in appearance, without money or apparent promise. He had grown up on a farm, and if he had any quality that was attractive it was the capacity to work. He carried bologna sandwiches in a brown paper bag for his lunch and swept the school floors to pay his tuition. But with all of his rustic appearance, he had a smile and a personality that seemed to sing of goodness. She was a city girl who had come out of a comfortable home, but she would never have qualified for a beauty contest. Her face was freckled, but she made the most of what she had in the quiet but attractive manner of her dressing and in the way she fixed her hair.

Something of magic took place between them. They fell in love. No one could understand why. There were far more promising boys for her and far more beautiful girls who might have interested him. But these two laughed and danced and studied together through those years. They married when people wondered how they could ever earn enough to stay alive. He struggled through his professional school and came out near the top of his class. She scrimped and saved and worked and prayed. She encouraged and sustained and when things were really tough she said quietly, “Somehow we’ll make it.” Buoyed by her faith in him, he kept going through those difficult years. Their children came, and together they loved them and nourished them and gave them the security that came of their own example of love for and loyalty to one another. Now forty-five years and more have passed. Their children are grown and are a credit to them, to the Church, and to the communities in which they live.

Recently, while riding a plane from New York, I walked down the aisle in the semi-darkness of the cabin and saw a woman, white-haired, her head on her husband’s shoulder as she dozed and his hand clasped warmly about hers. He was awake and recognized me. She awakened when we began to talk. They, too, were returning from New York, where he had delivered a paper before one of the great learned societies of the nation. He said little about it, but she proudly spoke of the honors accorded him. Forty-five years ago people without understanding had asked what he saw in her and what she saw in him.

I thought of that as I returned to my seat on the plane. And I said to myself, their friends of those days saw only a farm boy from the country and a smiling girl with freckles on her nose. But these two saw in each other love, loyalty, peace, faith, and the future. Call it chemistry if you will; maybe there was a little of that, but there was much more. There was rather a flowering of something divine, planted there by that Father who is our God. In their school days they had lived worthy of that flowering. They had lived with virtue and faith, with appreciation and respect for self and one another. In the years of their difficult professional and economic struggles, they had found their greatest earthly strength in their companionship. Now in age they were finding their peace, their quiet satisfaction together. And beyond that they were assured of an eternity of joyful association under covenants long since made and promises long since given in the house of the Lord.