Gospel Story Finder

After sacrament meeting the bishop called me into his office for a talk. Here it comes, I thought. I’m going to be the new teachers quorum president, I’ll bet. I was filled with pride and excitement. Wow, is the ward ever going to heap handshakes on me. Mom will be so proud!
I sat in the big chair across from the bishop. He was a pleasant man, smiling as always, but I felt that even so, this conversation was going to be an important one.
“Steve, we have an assignment for you,” he said. My heart raced.
“This is a special ‘good neighbor’ assignment. We’re concerned about Hasty McFarlan. He’s a pretty sad old man, you know. He needs someone to befriend him. He’s not a member of the Church, but God’s love reaches to all people, and we as members of his church have the responsibility to show it. Maybe I should say we have the privilege of showing that love.”
I guess I must have looked stunned.
“You know Hasty, don’t you, Steve?” asked the bishop.
My memory jumped back a couple of weeks to when some friends and I had made fun of the old man by singing jingles and shouting the jokes we had made up about him.
“Yes, I know him,” I said, choking down my disappointment and guilt. “He’s the old hermit who lives outside of town.”
“Right,” said the bishop. “I would like for you to go out and visit him two or three times a week.”
“Okay,” was the only answer I could manage.
The bishop must have detected my crestfallenness, because he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me carefully.
“Now, if this assignment will be too much, don’t be afraid to say so.”
I sighed. “Oh, I’ll do it, sir,” I said.
“Good,” said the bishop with a smile, and before I could catch my breath, he went on. “You can chop wood for the fire and get him food, blankets—whatever he needs to help him feel wanted. Be a friend. Your father is aware of the assignment, and he told me he would help you. Your Heavenly Father will be prompting you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was 15 years old then, and there were other things I would rather do—play football, hunt, fish, or just do the things my friends were doing. But I had told the bishop I would carry out the assignment, and I knew it wasn’t good to go back on my word.
Hasty lived in a little log cabin at the foot of a mountain, just outside the Idaho farming community I grew up in. On the long hike to his cabin after school that first afternoon, it seemed to me that every pine along the trail whispered Hasty’s loneliness.
Once a year at Christmas the old man got a free bath at the hotel, compliments of the sheriff. Probably, we all thought, it was the only bath he got all year. We used to say he looked like a pirate with that growth on the side of his head and his black eyepatch. Most of the kids and even some of the townspeople had the habit of making unkind remarks or doing something “clever” whenever Hasty was around. Would he remember me as one of the tricksters? By the time I reached the cabin, I was genuinely frightened.
I knocked, No answer. I knocked again. I knew he had to be in there. Where else could he go?
“Hasty?” My voice broke halfway through the word. I don’t know how long I must have stood there before I decided to go inside. The thick oaken door creaked as I pushed it open.
“Hasty?” I called again. “Hasty, are you there?”
Hearing a rustling, I poked my head in as far as I dared and peeked around the door. It was cold in Hasty’s cabin and very dark. I could just make out the figure of a man on the bed. Hasty was all slouched down, but not like he’d been asleep, or even like he’d been thinking. He looked like he was slouching because there was no reason to do anything else. I noticed that the soiled, mildewed blanket he was sitting on was more hole than blanket.
My heart was beating in my throat. I swallowed hard.
“Hasty, is there anything I can do for you?” I managed to blurt out.
I told him my name and that the bishop from the LDS Church had sent me to see how he was doing and to help out. He said nothing. The silent, staring troll was freezing my nerves.
“Hasty, your fire is out.”
No reply.
“Can I chop some wood?”
No reply.
I went outside, found an axe and some stacked stumps, and began chopping kindling. With every strike of the axe my brain pounded. What am I doing out here? Why me? Why?
“Quit grumbling,” a voice inside me said. “The old man is cold and lonely, and you can help him.”
I got a fire going and tried to talk to him, but after a few minutes I decided he wasn’t really listening. He needed a new blanket, so I told him I would get a thick, clean, comfortable one, and the next day I did. After that I came every other day. Slowly, over the next several weeks, he began talking.
One day after we had talked some he said, “Boy, why do you come? I’m sure a kid your age can find better things to do than visit a sick old varmint like me. But I’m glad you come.” And then he smiled.
At Thanksgiving I invited Hasty to our house for dinner. He didn’t come, but our family took part of the dinner to him. There were tears in his eyes as he tried to thank us.
I discovered as our visits continued that Hasty had been a sheepherder. Once he had had a wife and children, but they had gotten a terrible fever and died of it.
Feeling in his grief that his life had been shattered, Hasty wandered the whole country as a vagabond. A diseased growth on the side of his face made one eye blind. And the teasing and practical joking had begun.
But to me the old man didn’t seem as ugly and frightening anymore. In fact, after school I hurried to his cabin to help him and to listen to his stories.
When Christmas arrived, we invited him to dinner once again. This time he came, and what’s more, he came in a suit, all cleaned and handsome. He looked great. A smile curved his lips. Hasty was happy because we showed him he was needed.
As we finished dinner, the old man bowed his head for a second, and then raised it and said, “You people sure are wonderful. My life has been a shambles for a long time, but the love you’ve shown is making me a different person. I’m very grateful.”
As he said that, I could feel a little fire in my chest getting big. It felt good.

For example: At first, we may be drawn to the Savior’s gospel and Church because we are impressed by the friendly members or by the kind bishop or the clean looks of the chapel. These circumstances are certainly important to grow the Church.
Nevertheless, if the roots of our testimony never grow deeper than that, what will happen when we move to a ward that meets in a less impressive building, with members who aren’t so friendly, and the bishop says something that offends us?

Danielle P., age 8, from Cebu, Philippines, wanted to give food to people without homes. “I want to feed them so they can be happy and sleep with a full stomach,” she says. When her family has extra food from their business, they drive around and give it to people who are hungry.

“Wash your hands for supper,” Mother called from the kitchen. “Our home teachers are coming tonight. They’ll be here at seven o’clock.”
Ryan liked their home teachers to come. One—Brother Toft—was a real jet fighter pilot and told awesome stories. Ryan lived near the Air Force base. Every time an airplane zoomed overhead, he and his sister, Becky, rushed outside to wave, just in case Brother Toft was in it.
Ryan had a lot on his mind these days. Soon he was to have open-heart surgery. He wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he had been in several hospitals and had seen many doctors. Looking at his soapy hands in the running water, he remembered a doctor’s hands in see-through gloves. “This won’t hurt you,” the doctor had promised. “The gloves just keep my hands clean so that I don’t give you any germs.” Ryan thought now, Maybe if I got see-through gloves, I wouldn’t have to wash up so much!
Dessert was the best part of supper. Mother served scoops of ice cream; then Becky stuck a chocolate sandwich cookie into the top of Ryan’s treat and teased, “Here’s your favorite.”
He did enjoy cookies! The last time he stayed in the hospital, a nurse had asked, “What would you like?” Ryan didn’t know that she was offering him a drink, and when he’d answered, “I like cookies,” she smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” She came back with two cookies in a plastic bag. Ryan had been too ill to eat them, but he’d held onto them until his stomach felt better.
“Bring your dishes over, Ryan,” Mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “Hurry—let’s get the kitchen cleaned up before the home teachers come.”
Ryan carried his dishes to the sink, then skipped to the front window and looked down the hillside. “I’ll watch for their car!”
“I hope they come in Brother Odahlan’s cute pumpkin beetle car,” Becky said.
Ryan hoped so too. He wondered what it would be like to ride in the little orange car all the way to Primary Children’s Medical Center. It would take all the next day to make that trip in Daddy’s big car, he knew. “Here they come! I see the pumpkin car.”
Becky and Ryan met the home teachers at the door. Entering in Sunday suits, Brother Toft and young Brother Odahlan looked like missionaries. Ryan’s brother, Rick, was on a mission to Greece. Ryan didn’t know where Greece was, but he had watched Rick climb onto a huge airplane to fly to the “other side of the world.” I hope I live to be a missionary, Ryan thought.
Brother Toft carried a brown paper bag. It looked heavy. “We have a special message for Ryan tonight,” he began. “Would you sit here between us?”
Ryan eagerly climbed up on the sofa between his home teachers.
“Now, Ryan, tonight’s lesson is for you, but is it all right if the rest of your family listens too?” Ryan having grinned permission, Brother Toft opened his scriptures. “The Book of Mormon tells us about a time when Jesus Christ came to our continent.”
Brother Odahlan said, “While he was here, he did many good things. For example, he taught the people to pray always and that anytime anyone needed help, he could ask Heavenly Father for it. Do you know how to pray?”
Ryan nodded.
“Jesus called the sick to him and blessed each of them,” Brother Toft added. “He also called all the children to him and blessed them. Ryan, did you know that the same priesthood power Jesus used is in this room tonight?” Brother Toft pointed to Ryan’s father. “Your dad holds this priesthood power.”
Ryan smiled at Dad. He wanted to be just like Dad. He hoped that he would grow up and hold the priesthood, too, someday.
Brother Toft assisted as Dad gave Ryan a blessing. In it, Heavenly Father promised that Ryan would have a good heart surgery and would get better. Ryan knew that it was true. He felt happy.
After a family prayer, the home teachers had a surprise. Ryan watched Brother Odahlan open the large brown paper bag and take out gifts. “These are for you, Ryan. Do you want to open them in the car on your way to Utah, in the hospital, or right now?”
That wasn’t a hard decision! Everyone watched as Ryan opened gift after gift. There were toys and games and books and crayons—even a bucket of animal cookies to eat on the way to the hospital in Salt Lake City.
Finally there was one present left. Brother Toft held it up high. “This one is different,” he said. “This one is for you to give to Becky.”
Willingly Ryan handed it over and watched Becky unwrap it. Thirty colorful candy sticks were tied with a pretty ribbon.
“That is a candy calendar, Becky.” Brother Odahlan explained. “You can eat one candy stick each day that your mother and Ryan are gone.”
“Our home teachers think of everything,” Mother said.
“My young companion helps me,” Brother Toft admitted. “He came up with the idea for this lesson.”
That night Ryan packed his treasures for the trip. “I’m glad that Jesus sends us home teachers,” he whispered when Mother tucked him into bed that night. “I think that, in a way, they’re going with me, and I’m glad.”

The first is to state what I believe is the basic attitude of Church leaders toward creative writing by Church members. A few months ago a young college sophomore came to my office very frustrated and upset. He was troubled, he said, because his keenest desire in life was to write, but he was convinced that the Church discourages free creative writing, and therefore he was wondering whether he should suppress his desire to write and channel his creative energy in other directions—or possibly even pull away from the Church. I told him what I now say here: undoubtedly there are many leaders in the Church who are distressed, as I am, by the rawness and negativism of some things that are currently being published; but, even so, creativity in the Church is strongly encouraged, not discouraged, and creativity with a great deal of freedom. A writer must feel free, and Church leaders know this, to explore subject matter and technique without restrictions or apprehensions that would smother or discourage artistic creativity. Young people in the Church today may well be the finest, the most promising the world has ever known; and the desire of all Church leaders is to have you talented young people grow up strong in the faith, including those, of you who are creatively gifted. The Church needs you just as much as you need the Church. And there is a marvelous opportunity to tell the story of the restored gospel to the world in a way that it has never been told—likewise, and equally important, to explore contemporary problems and issues with insights that are special to membership in the church of Jesus Christ.

When the magnificent ocean liner Lusitania plunged to the bottom of the Atlantic, many lives were lost with the vessel. Unknown are many deeds of valor performed by those who perished. One man who went down with the Lusitania gave his life preserver to a woman, though he could not swim a stroke. It didn’t really matter that he was Alfred Vanderbilt, the American multimillionaire. He did not give of worldly treasure; he gave his life. Said Emerson, “Rings and other jewels are not gifts, but apologies for gifts. The only gift is a portion of thyself.” (“Gifts,” in The Complete Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson, New York: Wm. H. Wise and Co., 1929, p. 286.)

I was called to the Ghana Accra Mission, speaking English instead of my native Portuguese. I was so nervous about learning English! I couldn’t believe I was going to have to speak such an impossible language.
But during our first class in the MTC, my teacher wrote the words “Believe it” on the board—meaning believe that we can do all things with Christ (see Philippians 4:13).
I believed this, but I didn’t think it extended to my ability to learn a new language in just six weeks. I had no idea how I was supposed to do something that seemed so impossible!
After that first day of class, I knelt in prayer in my room. I told Heavenly Father that I would trust Him, and even though I wasn’t positive about my ability to learn English, I would act in faith as much as I could. I told Him I would choose to believe that with the Savior’s help I could do this.
And as the weeks went by, I slowly but surely felt myself learning this impossible language.
It was a miracle.
Since learning about Jesus Christ, I have always believed in Him. But believing in what He and Heavenly Father can help us accomplish is something different and something I had to work on. Without faith, miracles can look like mere coincidences. But as I chose to have faith in Christ and combined that with my efforts to learn, I felt Him magnifying my abilities and capacity.

In his first general conference talk, he revealed a charming self-deprecation that won friends immediately: “I am reminded of a statement made by my first missionary companion when I received a letter of transfer to the European Mission office. After I had read it, I turned it over to him. He read it, and then said: ‘Well, you must have helped an old lady across the street in the pre-existence. This has not come because of anything you’ve done here.’” Despite his high profile as a Church leader for nearly four decades, President Hinckley thinks of himself as an ordinary man who has been given extraordinary opportunities. After 13 years in the First Presidency, he still refers to himself as “Brother Hinckley.”

As a full-time missionary, I receive a copy of Liahona (Spanish). I read most of it on my preparation day, with added reading during breakfast, lunch, and study hour. The articles in the magazine strengthen me in my mission and give me ideas for activating the less active.
Now I am collecting all of the back issues I can so that when I go home I can let my nonmember parents read them. Eventually, I hope to use them to help teach my own family.
Elder PataniParaguay Asunción Mission

John and his two-year-old brother lived with their mother in Trondheim, Norway. After Father’s death they had moved from Froya to a small apartment on Steensbakken (Steen’s Hill). The two little boys and their mother often looked out over the beautiful old city on the outermost island off the coast of Norway. They could also see how the harbor and the fjord zigzagged toward the ocean.
Running up and down the hill helped to wear out John’s shoes. One day his mother asked a neighbor to recommend someone to repair them. The neighbor, a ship’s captain, said he knew just the right person to suggest. In fact, the captain said, this shoemaker’s son would soon deliver some shoes to him, and then he could take back those of John’s that needed repairing.
A few days later the boy brought back John’s shoes neatly mended. A strange little pamphlet was inside each one.
Sometime later John’s mother wrapped another pair of shoes into a package, tucked it under her arm, and set out on the half-hour walk to the shoemaker’s shop. She was restless, had a strange look when she returned, and seemed to be unusually quiet and thoughtful.
When the shoemaker’s son delivered the second pair of shoes, new pamphlets were carefully tucked into each shoe. The next Sunday John’s mother arranged for someone to be with the boys while she went to a meeting at the shoemaker’s sturdy log house.
It was not until some years later that she told John what the shoemaker had said when she went to his shop with the second pair of shoes to be repaired and to ask him about the pamphlets he had put in the shoes. They were words she could never forget.
“You may be surprised,” he answered, “to hear me say that I can give you something of more value than soles for your child’s shoes. I can teach you, as you have never known it before, the love of God for His children on earth.”
The pamphlets were missionary tracts of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because of them John, his mother, and his brother became members of the Church. Forty-two years later John A. Widtsoe, who was then president of the University of Utah, was called to be a member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles.
Just as he promised, the shoemaker in Trondheim, Norway, did give to John A. Widtsoe’s mother and her family something of far more value than soles for a worn pair of shoes!

I am Brooke Ellis. When I was six, my dad went over to meet the neighbors, who were just moving in. They had a minivan, and it was filled with kids. He noticed that there was a girl who was just about my age. Her name was Clarissa Shinn. He brought me over to meet her. At first we were kind of shy with each other. But one day while my mom was still at Girls Camp with the Young Women, Clarissa and I were running over to my house and I glanced down and saw something gold and green on her finger. I stopped and so did she, and I noticed it was a CTR ring. I said, “Clarissa, are you LDS?” She said, “Yeah.” I told her that I was, too. I later found out when my mom got home that she had been fasting and praying for a girl my age who was also a Latter-day Saint to move into one of the three houses that were empty in our block. Clarissa and I are still great friends, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers.
Clarissa Shinn and Brooke Ellis, ages 9 and 10West Lafayette, Indiana

I join in welcoming all the new Brethren, including Elder Richard Scott to the Council of the Twelve.
Years ago, Elder Scott was called as a mission president. The distinguished admiral for whom he worked was puzzled and even upset that Elder Scott accepted that call. Later, that same admiral, a distinguished public servant, wrote a book called Why Not the Best? I suggest the admiral’s question concerning that call is answered in the title of his book, which has some applicability today as well, as the Lord has called one of “the best.”

The desire to help another, the quest for the lost sheep, may not always yield success at once. On occasion progress is slow—even indiscernible. Such was the experience of my longtime friend Gil Warner. He was serving as a newly called bishop when “Douglas,” a member of his ward, transgressed and was deprived of his Church membership. Father was saddened; Mother was totally devastated. Douglas soon thereafter moved from the state. The years hurried by, but Bishop Warner, now a member of a high council, never ceased to wonder what had become of Douglas.
In 1975, I attended the stake conference of the Parleys stake and held a priesthood leadership meeting early on the Sunday morning. I spoke of the Church discipline system and the need to labor earnestly and lovingly to rescue any who had strayed. Gil Warner asked to speak and then outlined the story of Douglas. He concluded with the question, “Who has the responsibility to work with Douglas and bring him back to Church membership?” Gil advised me later that my response to his question was direct and given without hesitation: “It is your responsibility, Gil, for you were his bishop, and he knew you cared.”
Unbeknownst to Gil Warner, Douglas’s mother had, the previous week, fasted and prayed that a man would be raised up to help save her son. Gil discovered this when he felt prompted to call her to report his determination to be of help.
Gil began his odyssey of redemption. Douglas was contacted by him. Old times, happy times, were remembered. Testimony was expressed, love was conveyed, and confidence instilled. The pace was excruciatingly slow. Discouragement frequently entered the scene; but, step by step, Douglas made headway. At long last prayers were answered, efforts rewarded, and victory attained. Douglas was approved for baptism.
The baptismal date was set, family members gathered, and former bishop Gil Warner flew to Seattle for the occasion. Can we appreciate the supreme joy felt by Bishop Warner as he, dressed in white, stood with Douglas in water waist deep and, raising his right arm to the square, repeated those sacred words, “Having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (D&C 20:73).
He that was lost was found. A 26-year mission, marked by love and pursued with determination, had been successfully completed. Gil Warner said to me, “This was one of the greatest days of my life. I know the joy promised by the Lord when He declared, ‘And if it so be that you should labor all your days … and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!’” (D&C 18:15).
Were the Lord to say to Gil Warner today, as He said to Adam’s son long years ago, “Where is Douglas, thy brother?” Bishop Warner could reply, “I am my brother’s keeper, Lord. Behold Douglas, Thy son.”

The late John R. Burt, with whom I served for many years in ward and stake positions, told of an experience when as a boy he went home teaching with a devout and outspoken high priest—without warning—to a less-active family. They had come at a bad time. A poker game was under way in a smoke-filled living room. As the home teachers viewed the room, the high priest senior companion turned to young Brother Burt and exclaimed, “This congregation needs repentance! Please lead us in singing a hymn.”
Instead, the junior companion said, “I think we had best leave and come back another night.”

Tavita started learning patience when he was a young boy. He needed a direction in his life, and when he was thirteen years old, a good friend got him into weight lifting. By the age of fourteen, Tavita could lift almost twice his own weight.
“People thought that I was twenty years old when I was only fourteen because of the way I acted and the way I looked. I had the body of an adult. Even so, I still loved to play and watch cartoons on television.”
In the following years Tavita continued to grow in both strength and size. He entered and won weight lifting competitions around the country. At the age of fifteen Tavita traveled to Little Rock, Arkansas, where he was recognized as the strongest 14–17 year-old in the United States. For five years he won national titles. By the time he was eighteen years old, he could squat-lift 412 kilos.

I also thought in youth conference those weeks ago about my mother-in-law. She was born with an enormous amount of musical talent. That led to a strong childhood desire to be a dancer on Broadway or in the movies. Being from a small farm town and born into a family with an average income, she was never able to find a way to make that dream reality.

Following high school in the early 1940s, Mom went to San Francisco to work, always harboring a secret desire to find the opportunity of her heart.

During a particular time of homesickness, she prayed. The Holy Ghost taught her that she could be what she wanted to be, but that she should always try to be like the Savior. It was then that she decided to pursue special traits like thoughtfulness, kindness, affection, and compassion. Those traits had always been there and they had been used periodically in adolescence. Now they would become a way of life for her.

It was never easy for any of them. Bob has worked hard in his service as a stake president. Paul has worked diligently to be a good young father. Mom has dealt with many crises in her life. They all have tried to face their obstacles in a Christlike way. Pain, hurt, and dread have been a part of their lives. It was part of Christ’s life, too!

Bob doesn’t fly jets anymore. He is now serving as a mission president. Paul is now a stake missionary. Mom has never danced professionally, though she has used her musical talents on numerous occasions. She is now serving a full-time mission with her husband. Each has lived a good and faithful life.

George Staples (pictured as an adult)

George Staples left his home and family in England to travel to Utah. When he was 16, he joined a company of Saints in the United States, but as they crossed the plains, George was separated from the group. The company had to keep moving or risk running into warring Sioux Indians. As the story goes, he stayed behind.

George later joined a Sioux tribe and lived as an honorary Sioux for years.

People in the Salt Lake Valley heard about a white boy living as a Sioux. Eventually, a group came looking for him. As the group neared the tribe, George recognized someone. With a wild whoop, he ran to his father. They were thrilled to see each other, but George’s Sioux mother was devastated to lose her adopted son. So, before leaving with his father, George promised to return and visit his Sioux family. He kept his promise.2

The old pages
perfume the basement with age,
Brown on the edges,
crumbling at the touch,
the paper holds more than calculated ink.
The water heater whistles
as I stand there staring.
Some light swims in from the underground window
and it dances with the dust particles which I breathe.
My skin erases the filmy age
when my fingertips kiss the cracked leather binding.
My eyes feast on the newfound antiquities
waiting for me in my grandfather’s basement.

“Did you really make a pro-and-con list?” The question my teenage son asked in an amazed tone referred to a list he found in one of my journals. It wasn’t just any old pro-and-con list; it was the list I had made 30 years ago, before I proposed to his mother. I don’t know how many men make a list like mine, but when I pondered the idea of marriage as a 24-year-old college student, it just seemed the right thing to do.
I don’t remember any other questions that day from my son about our courtship; he was too fixated on the list. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, yelling to his siblings, “Dad made a list about Mom! Come see it!” However, as I look back, I can think of many questions he could have asked.
Didn’t you love her? This question should have been his first. My answer would have been yes; that is why I made the list. I really did love her, and I desired more than anything for her to be happy. The list was more about seeing if I could make her happy than it was about whether or not I loved her.
Didn’t you have fun together? Again, my answer would have been yes; that is why I made the list. It was a way to see if my hope that she would always have fun with me could become reality.
Didn’t you think she was the right one? Perhaps this is the most intriguing question of all. I would have answered yes; I did believe she was “the one,” but I wanted to make sure my belief would inspire action on my part to make things work.
I don’t think I fully realized at the time the impact my mission president’s teachings on faith and its components of desire, belief, and hope were having on my courtship. With a clearer view from the passage of time, I am very grateful to President F. Ray Hawkins for his influence on me. I still have the notes I took as a 20-year-old missionary as my young mission president opened the scriptures and explained the elements of faith that would later figure into making the most important decision of my life.
Having the desire particle of faith, I needed belief and hope to complete my faith, and I needed to take action by asking Rosalie to marry me. The list—my manifestation of desire, belief, and hope—was important in giving me the courage to take the action necessary to complete my faith. James taught that faith without works is dead (see James 2:17). No amount of desire, belief, or hope would have helped me find the greater happiness and peace I have found in marriage if those particles hadn’t led me to ask the big question. (Sadly, the first time I proposed, Rosalie’s answer was no, but that is a story for another time. In such circumstances—when things don’t go according to our plan or timing—faith still plays an integral role in our lives.) It took some perseverance and patience for both of us, and we did later marry on a snowy day in December 1982.

My father was the bishop of our ward at the time of its announcement to the Church in April general conference of 1936. The world was struggling in the Great Depression. So many of the fathers of our ward were unemployed. In those days a dime for admission to a school activity would prevent many of my friends from attending because their parents could not afford even that small amount for their children’s enjoyment.
Because of my father’s calling as a bishop, I was able to gain an appreciation of the welfare program from its very beginning as I watched him administer to the needs of the poor in his ward with great love and tenderness. How often I raced home from school anticipating a planned activity. As I would round the corner of our home, there I would see sacks of flour, sugar, and other commodities. My heart would fall, as I knew it would be another evening out with Father as he delivered these commodities to those in need. The planned activity would have to be cancelled for that evening.
When he arrived home, I was always enlisted to help him put the commodities in the car and travel with him to make the deliveries. Sometimes I would grumble under my breath for having been so put upon, but then I would have the remarkable experience of watching the light come back into the eyes of a depressed family as food was brought into their home. I always returned home from those experiences with an exhilarated feeling of watching the Church in action as it was caring for its poor and its needy through fast offerings and good, kind priesthood leaders.