Gospel Story Finder

Another new member is Rocío Flores Rojas, 15. “Elder and Sister de la Cruz taught and baptized my mother,” she says. “At first I didn’t want to be baptized. But they kept coming and talking to me about the word of God. And they treated me so well—like they do all the people. I came to know that their message was true and was baptized last Sunday. More than anything, we would like them to stay with us forever. But when they have completed their mission, they have a right to return to their family.”

It was one of those days that start out bad and only get worse. I sat on my bed wondering if I should do nothing but feel depressed or do something to cheer myself up. Cheering myself up seemed like too much for me to even try, so I did the easiest thing I could think of and picked up my scriptures. I looked under the heading “depressed” in the Index, and there I found the answer I had been searching for.
I turned to Alma 26:27 and started reading: “Now when our hearts were depressed, and we were about to turn back, behold, the Lord comforted us, and said: Go amongst thy brethren, the Lamanites, and bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success.”
As I repeatedly read that scripture, I began to feel my depression disappear. I realized that if I could bear my afflictions with patience, God would grant me success. It was almost like a bright light at the end of a darkened tunnel.
Since that day, that particular scripture in Alma has become a treasured jewel in my life. I have memorized it, posted it in my room, and repeated it often when feelings of depression have again crept up on me. It reminds me that Heavenly Father is there when I need him, to comfort and to love me. Although I may not always realize just how much Heavenly Father loves me, reading these words brings me closer to him and helps me keep an eternal perspective.

Not even a week until Christmas and still no sign of snow. But that was the least of my worries. My mom and dad had separated, and divorce was looming in the wings. I suspected they would announce it as soon as the tinsel was put away so as not to put a damper on the holidays.
Too late.
And now my mom had informed me that I would have to make some heavy revisions to my Christmas wish list. My brothers and sister and I would get only a few presents.
I was sulking over my list when Mrs. Rollins [names have been changed] and her four children appeared on our doorstep. Why were they standing on our porch? They were in our ward but had never been to church. We were mere acquaintances.
The oldest boy, Gary, and I were in the same grade, but I carefully avoided him and his tough-guy buddies. He didn’t look so tough now as he stared at his shoelaces. Brett and Allison, both in elementary school, didn’t make eye contact with me either. But Robbie, four, looked straight at me with wide, clear eyes.
“We ran away,” he said.
I ushered them in, and the suspense and drama unfolded right in my living room. Mrs. Rollins had snatched up her kids and left her husband, vowing she’d never let him lay a hand on them again. Her firm jaw testified of her resolve, though her eyes brimmed with tears.
By this time, my mom and brothers and sister were standing at attention in the living room. Mrs. Rollins told my mom that she didn’t know where else to go and didn’t think her husband would find her and the children at our house. She pleaded with my mom to let her stay for a few days until she could figure something out, but her pleading was unnecessary because already we were caught up in something much bigger than ourselves.
While we played games and ate popcorn with the kids, my mom made some phone calls. She contacted the bishop and the Relief Society president. Meals were brought in, and a deposit and first month’s rent were paid on a small rental house in our ward boundaries. The only catch was that the house needed some work.
“Some work!” I gasped, when I saw the house a few days later with my brothers. The whole place was grimy and filthy. For three days my mom loaded us up with cleansers, disinfectants, and scrubbing brushes. Together with Mrs. Rollins’s four children, we scrubbed toilets, floors, windows, and walls. But we also laughed as we worked. And we marveled as ward members poured in bearing food and secondhand furniture and clothing.
On December 23, we were just finishing our cleaning when we heard screams of delight from the living room. We all rushed in to find Allison’s nose pressed against the living room window. Outside three men were lifting a Christmas tree from the back of a truck. Their wives followed them into the house with decorations for the tree.
“I didn’t think we were going to get a Christmas tree this year,” Allison beamed.
Back at our house that night we spread sleeping bags and pillows all around the lighted Christmas tree in the family room. For our last night together, we watched the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. Mrs. Rollins’s family had never seen it.
Mrs. Rollins kept thanking my mom for all we had done and saying the Lord must have sent her to us. I remember thinking that we hadn’t done much. It was the whole ward who had given of their time and money and belongings. And then I thought of what Mrs. Rollins and her children had given all of us. A purpose. A sense of unity and usefulness. They had helped us forget our own problems and focus outside ourselves. Maybe the Lord had sent them to us.
Before we dropped off to sleep, my mom gathered us together and asked if we would be willing to give up half our Christmas money so Mrs. Rollins and her children would have gifts to open on Christmas morning. None of us had to think twice. We gave Mom our re-revised lists and set out shopping with her the next day. My mom wandered off looking for our gifts, while my siblings and I scattered throughout the store to find just the right presents for our new friends. It was amazing to witness my younger brothers and sister hunting down gifts and comparing prices, asking each other for opinions. How had this happened? Weren’t we supposed to be complaining and moping about how unfortunate we were?
That night was Christmas Eve. With our ward, we filled small paper bags with sand and lighted candles and placed them along the sidewalks of our neighborhood, illuminating the dark, nippy night with a toasty glow. To me that Christmas was outlined with that same warm glow. It should have been impossible. My parents were on the verge of divorce, and I received so few gifts. And yet it didn’t bother me at all when I returned to school after Christmas vacation wearing the same old clothes. I’ll always remember what I received for Christmas that year. It’s something I now put on my Christmas wish list every year—the spirit of Christmas.

Our little blue Volkswagen rolled down the country road, carrying us farther and farther away from the home we had grown to love so much during the past five years. Mom was driving the car that contained my two younger sisters and me, and Dad was ahead in a borrowed truck that was loaded high with beds and tables; our old upright piano; and boxes of dishes, dresses, and collected memories. Leaving our little town of Potlatch, Idaho (population 880), for the big city of Lewiston, Idaho (population 26,000), was traumatic. I was 12 years old, and I knew that the sidewalks, drive-ins, and paper mill of this strange new place I was moving to could never replace the fresh country air and close friendships I was leaving behind. I was sure the best part of life was over, and I tried to resign myself to my fate.

After we were settled in our new little home, I spent most of the hot summer days lying on my bed listening to records, reading, and writing letters to my friends. Yet, as August drew to a close, I began to get more excited about attending this big junior high school that had almost as many people as the whole town of Potlatch.

With a new dress and a nervous smile, I entered the building that September and went to first period English. I took a seat near the front of the room and was delighted when the girl in front of me turned around and introduced herself.

As the days continued, I found that, miracle of miracles, the students here were really not so different from my other friends. They also liked the Monkees, hamburgers with mustard, and football games. They also weren’t too excited about math tests, cold weather, or the rival junior high school. I began to feel a part of things and even quit plotting to return to Potlatch for my senior year. I played the clarinet in the school band and quickly found that being in that organization offered me the security of belonging to a group. I didn’t know then that there was an even greater group that was soon to enter my life.

Although I was a member of the Church, when we lived in Potlatch I had usually attended a Protestant church located just behind my house. (There was at that time no branch in Potlatch, and our family seldom traveled the half-hour distance to the nearest ward.) When we moved to Lewiston, however, we began attending Sunday School at the LDS church. It was large, and the people seemed quite friendly—I couldn’t believe how welcome they made me feel! I became good friends with a girl named Teresa, and one day she invited me to come to Mutual. I had no idea what that was, and even after she explained it to me, I figured it must be something like 4-H. What a surprise to find that both boys and girls attended and that we had interesting classes and fun activities! I became involved in Church activities and hardly ever missed Mutual. Mutual was the place where I felt the greatest warmth and acceptance. I didn’t have a testimony of the Church at that time, and the reason I attended was because of the love and friendship extended to me by my friends and leaders. I could feel a warmth there that influenced my life in a very positive manner.

Today when I hear the names of inactive boys or girls, I try to remember that each of them is a potential active member. I am grateful to Teresa, a wonderful friend who kept inviting me to Mutual until I came, and for those open-hearted people in my ward who loved me into activity. I am grateful they did not say, “Oh, well, another inactive girl. I wonder what her problem is?” I’m glad that instead, they thought, “I wonder what her strengths are? We need her.”

Mutual gave me so much—firesides, girls’ camp, slumber parties, eternal friends. And perhaps most important, it gave me the beginnings of a testimony of the gospel and the understanding of what a tremendous influence Mutual can be in the lives of young men and women. For many years I was one of the many inactive little girls throughout the Church; how grateful I am that I wasn’t allowed to remain one forever! I wonder how many inactive members are waiting for us to invite them back into the Church? President Harold B. Lee once said, “What you have to give just may be enough.” From personal experience I know that sometimes that doesn’t have to be very much at all.

Let me tell you of one last example of another young man. We’ll also call him Raymond. I think the family of this young man exemplifies the love, confidence, and trust that must exist in family relationships.

Raymond found himself quite ill as he was serving his mission in a distant land. He had many digestive problems and the mission president was considering sending him home due to his poor health. To compound his problems, one day, while out walking, he found himself with a severe pain in his left foot. He couldn’t even walk to the discussion he and his companion had planned. They went to the doctor who said, “It’s just arthritis caused by the damp weather. If you’ll stay off your foot for two or three days the pain will pass.”

The young man did so. He also had a priesthood blessing, but nothing happened. He was a district leader at the time, and his district had just begun to baptize in a city where there had not been baptisms for some time. He could not understand how the Lord could allow him to remain down for those days when his district was just beginning to have success.

A week went by, two weeks, three weeks, a month in bed. He was still incapacitated with no change in the pain in his foot. Finally, he was taken to the mission home in the capital city where more suitable medical facilities were found.

An X-ray was taken. One of the bones in his foot had been fractured or broken and had then grown back together incorrectly. The doctors talked of either breaking the bone again or giving him some special electrical treatments that were supposed to fuse the bone correctly, but it would take another month. He was down again, going for treatments twice a day. The treatments didn’t make any difference. This problem, on top of his other medical problems, had him somewhat discouraged, and again the consideration came to send him home.

One morning, after nearly three months, he stepped out of bed to find absolutely no pain in his foot. He stepped on the foot gently, then stamped on it, then ran with his companion for a mile that morning, totally healed. With great joy he returned immediately to the field to work.

Two more weeks went by. A letter arrived from home that said, “Dear son,” and then followed a paragraph or two of chastisement for not having told his family about his ailments in the mission field. They indicated that they had learned of his problems from another missionary, a friend of his, who had written home. In great love they wrote, “We have begun a fast and constant prayer for you as a family. We also have placed your name on the temple prayer list and hope that it might be of help to you.”

As he tearfully read the letter and examined his journal, he found that the day that he had risen from his bed healed was the very day the letter had been written, the very day his family began praying and exercising faith for their distant son.

How could that be, across 7,000 miles? I suppose no man knows, but the reality of the power of faith cannot be denied.

Not long after my ordination as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to serve as president of the quorum. Our adviser, Harold, was interested in us, and we knew it. One day he said to me, “Tom, you enjoy raising pigeons, don’t you?”
I responded with a warm, “Yes.”
Then he proffered, “How would you like me to give you a pair of purebred Birmingham Roller pigeons?”
This time I answered, “Yes, Sir!” You see, the pigeons I had were just the common variety, trapped on the roof of the Grant Elementary School.
He invited me to come to his home the next evening. The following day was one of the longest in my young life. I was awaiting my adviser’s return from work an hour before he arrived home. He took me to his pigeon loft, which was in the upper area of a small barn located at the rear of his yard. As I looked at the most beautiful pigeons I had yet seen, he said, “Select any male, and I will give you a female which is different from any other pigeon in the world.” I made my selection. He then placed in my hand a tiny hen pigeon. I asked what made her so different. He responded, “Look carefully, and you’ll notice that she has but one eye.” Sure enough, one eye was missing, a cat having done the damage. “Take them home to your loft,” he counseled. “Keep them in for about 10 days, and then turn them out to see if they will remain at your place.”
I followed Harold’s instructions. Upon his release, the male pigeon strutted about the roof of the loft, then returned inside to eat. But the one-eyed female was gone in an instant. I called Harold and asked, “Did that one-eyed pigeon return to your loft?”
“Come on over,” he said, “and we’ll have a look.”
As we walked from his kitchen door to the loft, my adviser commented, “Tom, you are the president of the teachers quorum.” This, of course, I already knew. Then he added, “What are you going to do to activate Bob, who is a member of your quorum?”
I answered, “I’ll have him at quorum meeting this week.”
Then he reached up to a special nest and handed me the one-eyed pigeon. “Keep her in a few more days and try again.” This I did, and once more she disappeared. Again the experience: “Come on over, and we’ll see if she returned home.” Came the comment as we walked to the loft, “Congratulations on getting Bob to priesthood meeting. Now what are you and Bob going to do to activate Bill?”
“We’ll have him there next week,” I volunteered.
This experience was repeated over and over again. I was a grown man before I fully realized that indeed Harold, my adviser, had given me a special pigeon, the only pigeon in his loft he knew would return every time she was released. It was his inspired way of having an ideal personal priesthood interview with the president of the teachers quorum every two weeks. I owe a lot to that one-eyed pigeon. I owe more to that quorum adviser. He had the patience and the skill to help me prepare for the responsibilities which lay ahead.

At a very practical level, I love the advice that Henry Eyring, the father of President Eyring, received from his father a couple of days before he left for the University of Arizona to begin his study of Mining Engineering. Young Henry and his father had spent the day haying on their farm in southern Arizona. His father said,

"Henry, we've ridden on the range, and we've farmed together. I think we understand each other. Well, I want to say this to you: I'm convinced that the Lord used the Prophet Joseph Smith to restore His Church. For me that is a reality. I haven't any doubt about it. Now, there are a lot of other matters which are much less clear to me. But in this Church you don't have to believe anything that isn't true."

He then continued, "You go over to the University of Arizona and learn everything you can, and whatever is true is part of the gospel. The Lord is actually running this universe. I'm convinced that he inspired the Prophet Joseph Smith. And I want to tell you something else: If you go to the University and are not profane, if you'll live in such a way that you'll feel comfortable in the company of good people, and if you go to church and do the other things that we've always done, I don't worry about your getting away from the Lord"

What wonderful advice from a loving father concerning what we should learn. His son went on to earn not only a bachelor's degree but a PhD and to become one of the great scientists of the twentieth century. And he never forgot what his father had taught him concerning the learning of truth and how it fits in the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

A few months ago word reached some of our missionaries in a remote South Pacific island that I would soon be visiting there for two or three days. When I arrived, the missionaries were waiting anxiously to share with me some anti-Mormon literature that was being circulated in their area. They were disturbed by the accusations and were eager to plan retaliation.
The elders sat on the edge of their chairs as I read the slander and false declarations issued by a minister who apparently felt threatened by their presence and successes. As I read the pamphlet containing the malicious and ridiculous statements, I actually smiled, much to the surprise of my young associates. When I finished, they asked, “What do we do now? How can we best counteract such lies?”
I answered, “To the author of these words, we do nothing. We have no time for contention. We only have time to be about our Father’s business. Contend with no man. Conduct yourselves as gentlemen with calmness and conviction and I promise you success.”

You know, conference is a great time for spiritual uplift, for association, and for wise counsel. With all the counsel I’ve been hearing, I couldn’t help but reminisce a little bit about the young athlete who attempted most all sports but had never tried skydiving. And so he took several theoretical courses in how to jump.
When the day came for the solo flight, he became a little fearful, so he approached his instructor and said, “I’m not sure I want to go through with this.”
The instructor said, “Don’t worry. We’ll protect you by putting two added parachutes on you.”
The plane took off and arrived at the three thousand foot level. With some fear and trepidation he was pushed out.
On the way down, at about two thousand feet, he remembered that that’s when you pull the rip cord. He did so, and the chute didn’t open. He pulled the second, and it didn’t open. He pulled the third, and it didn’t open.
To his amazement, at about that time he met in the air, coming up from the ground, another man. They passed on the way. The young parachutist shouted to his new friend, “Pardon me,” he said, “do you know anything about parachutes?”
“No,” his friend shouted back, “what do you know about Coleman lanterns?”
I suppose it seems all of us are in need of good counsel.

A passage from the novel Les misérables illustrates how priesthood holders can treat those individuals viewed as strangers. Jean Valjean had just been released as a prisoner. Exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst, he arrives in a small town seeking a place to find food and shelter for the night. When the news of his arrival spreads, one by one all the inhabitants close their doors to him. Not the hotel, not the inn, not even the prison would invite him in. He is rejected, driven away, banished. Finally, with no strength left, he collapses at the front door of the town’s bishop.
The good clergyman is entirely aware of Valjean’s background, but he invites the vagabond into his home with these compassionate words:
“‘This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. … What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me [your name], you had one which I knew.’
“[Valjean] opened his eyes in astonishment.
“‘Really? You knew what I was called?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the Bishop, ‘you are called my brother.’”7

Feeling the influence of the Spirit is what the gospel means to many members in Otavalo—people like Lauro Yamverla and his wife, Lucila. In the beginning, he made it hard for the missionaries to teach him, Brother Yamverla recalls. But when the Spirit bore witness that their message was true, “I set a goal that if I was going to be baptized, I was going to follow the gospel’s teachings strictly.” When he began closing his grocery store on Sundays, he worried at first about losing business, but it actually got better.
Brother and Sister Yamverla have been deeply involved in service since they came into the Church. As ward Relief Society president, Sister Yamverla is concerned with helping sisters in her area learn practical things, such as cooking and other basic homemaking skills. But even more important is teaching them “to convey the love of Christ to others.”

At the end of World War II, I was seated in my office in Salt Lake and received a telephone call from a man in New York, a multimillionaire who had made 30 million dollars by the time he was 30 years of age. He had a son in a military camp just outside Salt Lake City. This boy had expected to be shipped overseas, as many others had been. Then the war ended and so they were crowded into that camp, like sardines in a can. This boy was discouraged, and his father was worried about him. So he called and said, "Would you please call him on the telephone and see if you can cheer him up a bit?" I said, "Of course, I’d be happy to." And I called him and said, "Would you like to come into the office for a little visit?" And he said, "I sure would." He was a bit delayed in coming, and I was just ready to leave for home when he arrived.
I said, "Would you like to go out to the house with me and eat with the family? My wife doesn’t know you’re coming, but you’ll be welcome." So he said, "I can’t imagine anything I’d rather do tonight than that." So we went out, and we had our dinner, and we had our prayer. We gathered around the piano afterwards and enjoyed ourselves with some singing. Then after we visited for awhile, I drove him down to his bus. In a few days I got a letter from his father, and you know, you’d have thought I’d saved that boy’s life. The father quoted a letter from his son in which the son had said, "Father, I didn’t know there were any people in this world who lived like that." Yes, we take it all for granted. Here was a man worth millions of dollars—could buy his son anything that dollars could buy and never miss the money—and yet this simple thing of prayer and devotion in the home had passed him by.

William’s heart beat a little faster. He knew it was wrong to tease the old blind shoemaker, but at the same time, it was exciting being out after dark with his friends. Even the fear of getting caught was not enough to make him turn back. William watched as the kerosene lamps were turned low inside the houses that lined the main street of their small town. The lights flickered and went out, but in one house a lamp continued to burn.
Wilhelm Dithmer sat on his front porch playing his clarinet.
William reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of pebbles. His bare feet padded quietly through the dirt along the side of the road, and he and his friends approached the house that was Wilhelm Dithmer’s home and shoe shop.
William let his small stones fly and watched as the man jumped at the sound of the rocks raining above his head onto the tin roof.
“Stop! Come back!” Wilhelm stood and waved his fist into the air.
The boys laughed and darted away. “See you tomorrow,” William called to his friends as he headed for home.
In the light of early morning, William lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. The thrill seeking of the night before was haunting in daylight. What was it his father had said about the shoemaker—something about him going blind because he had the measles when he was a boy? And had he really been an orphan in Denmark?
The day seemed longer to William than usual. What was this uncomfortable feeling? Still, after school he agreed to meet with his friends again that night.
As he crept up the street watching for the lights to dim, William heard the sounds of Wilhelm’s clarinet. The melody was high and mournful. William stopped a moment to listen. Every night, Wilhelm closed up the shoe shop and then sat on his porch to play his music. It had become almost a ritual, but tonight the notes ended abruptly. William listened, but the only noise was the croaking of the bullfrogs.
William drew back his arm to throw the stones in his hand, but suddenly someone grabbed his arm.
“Help!” William cried, but the other boys ran away. “Let me go!” William struggled to loose himself from Wilhelm’s grasp.
“I only want to show you something,” Wilhelm said.
William stopped squirming, curious why the man did not scold him or call out for the authorities. “What?” William asked.
“I want to play a song for you on my clarinet,” Wilhelm said. “But first, promise me that you will not run away.”
William didn’t know what to say. “I guess,” he said at last.
“No,” Wilhelm said. “Promise.”
“All right,” William said. “I promise.”
Wilhelm relaxed his hold. He led William to his front porch and sat down in his chair. William watched as Wilhelm took a deep breath and began to play his clarinet. The melody lifted soft and sweet into the night air.
William sat still and listened. What must it have been like to grow up alone in Copenhagen? How hard would it be to lose both a father and a mother? He couldn’t imagine leaving his home and traveling across the ocean by himself to a strange land where no one understood the language he spoke. All the heartache of Wilhelm’s life seemed to be played out in the notes that came from the clarinet.
Wilhelm finished. He placed the clarinet across his knees and waited for William to respond, but the boy was silent.
“What is your name?” Wilhelm asked.
William hesitated. He wanted to reach out and touch the clarinet, but if he told the man his name, he would surely get into trouble. Still, there were not many musical instruments in the town.
“My name is William,” he said. “Almost like yours.”
“Well then, William,” Wilhelm said with his strong Danish accent. “Would you like me to teach you how to play my clarinet?”
“You would teach me how to play?” William asked.
“I will teach you to play my clarinet. If you practice very hard and learn to play well, I may even help you buy one of these for yourself. Maybe we could start a band.”
“A real band?” William asked. “Like the ones that play at dances?” This wasn’t at all what he had expected.
Wilhelm nodded. “But you must stop raining pebbles on my roof. And you must come every day after school to practice.”
William did learn to play, and so did his friends. They played for high school dances. They played when the town put on their Christmas plays. They played in the outdoor pavilion on warm summer nights. Long after their school days ended, the band stayed together.
For years, Wilhelm gave free music lessons in the evening after working all day in his shop. When Wilhelm died, many of his students played music at his funeral. William, now a grown man, was one of them.

As strange as it seems, it was during the Vietnam War that I discovered the great secret to a peaceful, happy life. I had been in sustained combat for two months, and the experience was taking its toll upon my physical and spiritual strength. Mail from home was seldom delivered to the battle front; neither were there sacrament meetings nor Sunday services to boost my spirit each week. My only resource was my own prayers. I felt isolated and alone.
Little by little, the daily grind of combat and the constant scenes of death were wearing me down and hardening my heart. I found myself becoming almost like the Nephite warriors—thirsting for the blood of the enemy (see Morm. 3:9).
On 9 July 1972, after a day-long tactical march, my battalion settled into a tiny deserted hamlet that had only recently been attacked. The huts lay smoldering in the last rays of sunlight. In an adjacent field, we found the body of a young North Vietnamese soldier. As we searched his clothing for intelligence information, I looked upon this enemy with cold eyes.
Papers were found on the fallen soldier and taken to the commander. My interest was kindled when I heard that the papers did not contain intelligence information—but that they were a diary. I marveled that this enemy soldier had taken time to keep a journal, and I wondered what his last recorded thoughts might have been.
That evening, I obtained a rough translation of the diary. I read it by the flickering light of my small cooking fire.
“I do not know where we are,” it read. “Our officers say that we are fighting bravely against American imperialists who have invaded our homeland. We fight bravely, but we are poorly supplied. I am lonely. I miss my family far away. I wonder how they are doing. I miss my home and wish to be back in the mountains and walk in the forests. I wish to see again the flowers, the birds, and the animals of home.”
I stared at the paper, stunned by the words. These were not the words of an enemy. These were the words of a kindred spirit! His people and mine had met as foes, glaring at each other over a seemingly unbridgeable gulf of cultural, ethnic, and political differences. But we were not really enemies in spirit. In other circumstances, we could have been brothers.
Suddenly, I understood that Vietnam was not the real war and that my comrades and I were not the real warriors. The real war was waged first in heaven by Lucifer. On earth, the real enemy was not the North Vietnamese, nor any people, but the unseen forces of evil that wage a war of ignorance and spiritual bondage against all mankind.
The real warriors fight under the banner of Jesus Christ. These warriors do not kill or destroy, but rather heal and offer life—eternal life —through the merits of Jesus Christ and a knowledge of his restored gospel.
That day in Vietnam, as I sat by the fire, I discovered that happiness and peace come from understanding the worth of a human soul regardless of race, creed, or political views, and from knowing that we are all children of our Father in Heaven. To know this is to love all people, even those who may appear to be the enemy.

On the day of my baptism, I was a 22-year-old college student. I was part of a small group that assembled at a swimming pool in Brussels, Belgium. We didn’t have a chapel at that time. There was no baptismal font, no bishop, just two missionaries and a few branch members to support us. I had no family members with me. I had a sure testimony of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer; of Joseph Smith, a prophet; of the Book of Mormon; and of the Church, the only true one.
Three months passed before I was interviewed and ordained a deacon. That Sunday morning I stood in front of the sacrament table to distribute the emblems of the atonement of the Lord Jesus Christ. I still remember the surroundings: the dining room of a home had been transformed into a meeting hall for sacrament meetings that were attended by a few members. It was my first opportunity to magnify my priesthood calling. Nine months later, I was ordained a teacher and learned how to teach and to watch over the few members of the branch.
Another four months passed, and I was ordained a priest. Now I stood on the other side of the sacrament table. The decor was the same, but I felt different. It impressed me that now I was blessing the emblems of the Atonement and memorizing “that they may eat in remembrance of the body of thy Son, and witness unto thee, … and always remember him and keep his commandments … ; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).
Two years passed after my baptism, and the day arrived for me to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood and to be ordained an elder. The mission president once again laid his hands upon my head. The higher authority and power to act in the name of the Lord were given.
The Church is a divine institution led by the authority of the priesthood. I testify that Jesus lives, that this is the only true church, that the priesthood of the Son of God is vested herein, and that the prophets, seers, and revelators who preside over this church are appointed to preserve the pure doctrine of Jesus Christ and the authority of his priesthood for the salvation of his people.

Bringing the Bible to life with yoga! This uncommon pairing of the Bible and yoga has probably not come to mind during Bible study sessions in the past. However, for one lady, this is what happened.
Like many, Naomi, a children’s yoga teacher, was affected by the pandemic. Mostly working in schools, Naomi was a full-time yoga teacher running classes to improve the physical and mental well-being of students of all ages. However, after the pandemic struck and schools in the United Kingdom closed, Naomi lost a great deal of work.
While seeking comfort and guidance from the scriptures, an idea came to her as she read one of the many stories within its pages. It was the story of the Nativity. A story of love, suspense, adventure, sacrifice, unique characters, and twists in plots.
It was clear to her that such a story could underpin a fantastic yoga adventure, while also giving children the opportunity to act out a much-loved story that they perhaps could not do in the same way now that schools were closed.
Turning her spare room into a yoga studio, Naomi began to bring the Nativity to life with movements to match the different characters and events. She posted the finished adventure online for all to enjoy for free.
Since then, many more Bible stories have been brought to life through yoga. Children can now help Jonah as he is swallowed by the whale, join Noah on the ark with the animals, and learn how to be like the good Samaritan.
It is well known, now more than ever, that children’s wellbeing is paramount. By bringing Bible stories to life using yoga, the videos help children focus on mindful movements, breathing techniques, relaxation, positive affirmations, and visualisations. They do all this whilst experiencing fun, interactive adventures.
The videos, created from a passion for mindful yoga and love of gospel stories, have been a big hit and brought to many children joy, happiness, and a sense of adventure from the comfort of their living room. They are also a great missionary tool!
Naomi hopes to continue spreading these little rays of sunshine as she makes her way through the many Bible adventures, helping children to let their light shine in dark times.

I am reminded of an experience I had with a fine old Christian gentleman—a great Constitutional lawyer—named John D. Miller during an evening he spent in our home in Washington, D.C. After an hour of visiting in the living room, Sister Benson and the daughters who had been preparing the dinner announced that it was ready. We went into the dining room, and the children started preparing chairs for family prayer. And so I said to Judge Miller, “Judge, it’s customary in our home to have family prayer, daily devotion, morning and evening. Would you care to join us?” He said, “Yes, I would.” Then he watched the children to see what they did, and then knelt at his chair. We called on our oldest daughter, who was then probably eight or nine years of age, to lead the prayer. She is now the mother of five children, the wife of a stake president. Barbara offered a sweet, lovely prayer, and then she added, “And Heavenly Father, bless Judge Miller that he will enjoy his visit with us and return safely to his hotel.” That was all.

We drove the judge down to his hotel. Nothing was said of the incident.

About six months later this man was host to some 25 or 30 industrial, business, labor, and agricultural leaders at his winter home in Florida. After the dinner they were seated in the large living room talking about problems facing the nation, and as often happens-more often I think than we realize—the subject turned to things of the spirit—to religion. And then John D. Miller, this fine Christian gentleman, not a member of the Church, told of this little incident that had happened in our home—this simple thing of family prayer. And he said, “Gentlemen, I went to my hotel that night feeling that I had not fully measured up as a father. We had never had devotion in our home with my children.” And then he went on to tell of the power he felt must be in the lives of children reared in a home where there is spirituality.

We take it for granted as Latter-day Saints. I presume we don’t think it’s anything particularly special.

“Maybe you’re right. My cousin used to make sack lunches for her dad. He rode to work in a car pool, and the other men liked his lunches—she always put a little extra treat inside or wrote him a note. Pretty soon she was making lunches for everyone in the car pool, and they each paid her. Maybe we could do something like that,” Tom said. He was starting to catch Jim’s excitement, but Jim issued a friendly word of caution.
“We might have to get a license if we start a restaurant business,” he grinned.
“Even for a lemonade stand?” Tom shot back. They both laughed.
The situation Tom and Jim faced is typical. Many teenagers have a hard time finding a summer job, especially if they put off worrying about it until school is over. For those who haven’t yet arranged for employment, the time to start thinking about it is immediately. Even those who figure they’re too young to get anything but a “try again next year” response from prospective employers would do well to begin brainstorming now about ways to invest their time away from school. Perhaps they’ll decide to follow Tom and Jim’s example and hire themselves this summer. It’s a viable alternative to teenage unemployment.
It would be wise, however, to keep in mind that going into business means assuming responsibility. Many communities have laws requiring licensing, payment of taxes, business permits, food-handling permits, work permits, liability insurance, and inspection of facilities, regardless of the age of the proprietor.
In the United States, state offices of the U.S. Department of Labor can furnish guidelines concerning both agricultural and nonagricultural labor laws governing youth employment. Most states also have a state Division of Labor or similar agency that will gladly furnish a copy of youth employment regulations. Many other countries have ministries of labor or other governmental agencies that provide information about labor laws for those under a prescribed age, usually 18. Most of the work ideas mentioned in this story require no special permit or license and are legal when conducted on a neighborhood basis, but regulations vary, and it’s a good idea to double check the law if there are any questions.
There are many ways to learn new talents, earn the respect of friends and neighbors, provide service, and gain some income at the same time. Perhaps the following list will generate additional ideas.
Take care of things during summer that people normally put off until the last minute. For example, if you know how to use and have access to a camera and a darkroom, make photo Christmas cards ahead of time. Ask for help if necessary. Then make up some samples to exhibit. Take pictures while there is sunshine and good weather to pose them in; then deliver the cards early in the fall so customers have three months to address and mail them.
Summer’s a good time for cleaning rain gutters, changing air filters on furnaces, or cleaning out fireplace ash traps, before winter storms make the chores miserable.
Even people who do plan ahead often forget things when they come down to the wire. Why not combine a wake-up telephone agency with a reminder service? People might pay to have a cheery greeting reminding them to get out of bed on time, and they would certainly be glad to know they could depend on someone to remind them about birthdays, anniversaries, or critical business appointments.
Advance preparation includes storing up reserves. Help prepare fruits and vegetables for canning and learn valuable homemaking skills at the same time. Or chop and bundle firewood, including tree branches pruned and discarded by neighborhood gardeners. One group of teenagers spent the Christmas holidays stockpiling unwanted Christmas trees, then spent the summer trimming off the branches and sawing the trunks into logs so they could sell firewood in the fall.
By now you should be catching on to the job discovery method the same way Tom did when Jim started discussing garbage cans. Just think of things other people would be willing to pay to have done. Here are more ideas:
Wash and brush pet dogs and take them out for a walk; polish silverware; establish a mending service to sew on buttons and repair torn sleeves; help neighbors haul trash to the dump; wash shower curtains and repair their torn eyelets; form an oven-cleaning brigade that will also make refrigerators and sinks sparkle, for a modest fee; form a garage cleaning troupe. Two high school football players talked their fathers into lending them the money to purchase some wrecked cars and a piece of ground to store them on. They built a shed for an office, removed serviceable parts from the cars, inventoried them, and established a solid reputation for providing dependable used parts. When school reconvened, they sold their business at a profit.
Keep thinking, now. Try doing things people can’t do, don’t know how to do, or don’t like to do. Help a summer school teacher record grades or correct papers. Write letters for someone. Or stencil or etch identification codes on property to discourage burglars. Make puppets or sew doll clothes. One group of enterprising young people spent their summer making maps showing points of interest in their community. They were able to make a little money and also learned a lot about their town.
Be careful learning new skills, though. Several BYU students started their own worm farm and met with great success, but a young California man took up beekeeping only to find his insects were pollinating eucalyptus trees, producing honey that tasted like cough syrup!
Lots of people would like to do thoughtful things but don’t find time. Why not run a “Dial-a-Smile” company. Anonymous services could include birthday cakes, singing telegrams, running errands, or cooking dinners.
People also run out of time for certain tasks. Help them fight procrastination by regularly vacuuming and chlorinating their swimming pool; watering all the plants in an office building; sorting, labeling, and organizing old photos and papers; making an official scrapbook for a civic club; or conducting a garage sale.
Build on creative ideas and talents. Prepare visual aids and bulletin boards; make signs, posters, or greeting cards; have a bedtime story service for young children; organize neighborhood puppet shows, art lessons, or informal concerts for younger kids (they’d be glad for the change of pace from regular babysitting, and you and your friends would get a chance to practice before an audience); offer to plan birthday parties, picnics, or dinner dates for brothers, sisters, neighbors, or friends and supply all food and entertainment; make and sell your own cookbook (without plagiarizing, of course); or organize an advertising agency for all the other kids who need publicity (run off handbills on a mimeograph machine and distribute them).
Save others money by doing things less expensively. It may not be feasible to run a copy center, for example, but how about organizing a center specializing in collating, hole punching, and stapling after photocopies are made; or one that addresses and stamps envelopes for large companies, freeing secretaries for work requiring more technical skill. If your friends are brave, they might even hire you to give them a haircut! Or save money yourself by becoming a car washer who specializes in house calls, using the customer’s water instead of your own.
Some jobs, of course, are traditional, but if you approach them from a new angle, they can be modified from mundane chores into exciting, or at least profitable, endeavors. Try specializing: One fellow was earning money repairing flat bicycle tires when he also discovered he could use the same kit to patch the elementary school’s punctured playground balls. Now he has a regular agreement with the school to maintain their playground equipment.
Take youngsters you baby-sit to a park, museum, playground, or play. Make sure, though, to keep them under control and to obtain parental permission before going. Instead of just regular cleaning, specialize in one or two things: become a chrome polisher for cars (most car washers fail to remove rust and tar from bumpers and hubcaps); instead of just painting, become a whitewashing or a trim expert; learn how to sharpen and repair garden tools; study cement work; plant trees. Governmental forest services in several countries hire local residents near forests to plant and thin trees, but with this and other jobs involving formal organizations, it may be necessary to obtain a work permit, generally issued only to those 16 years old or older, and to contract ahead of time for a specific number of acres. Contact regional foresters for details.
A specialist in cleaning and repainting small boats could readily establish a clientele. Or concentrate on polishing furniture. Rather than just taking care of someone’s yard, become involved in planning what will be planted, perhaps studying enough to know which plants will ripen when. In doing yard work, vary the routine to add some spice by forming a partnership with a friend and alternating tasks. Besides painting house numbers on sidewalks, clean, repair, and paint mailboxes.
One other idea—anything you know how to do, you can teach to others. Many young women spend summers teaching younger children how to do everything from macrame to horseback riding. A high school auto mechanic spent part of one summer teaching ladies in his neighborhood how to change flat tires, measure the battery fluid level, change oil, check tire pressure, and do other minor maintenance on their cars.
Your brain gears should be well warmed-up and cranking by now. If ideas are flowing, take a moment now to write them down. Don’t worry about how silly they seem at first; judge them later. When the brainstorming list is finalized, however, it might be wise to review it, keeping in mind some of the following suggestions:
1. It’s a lot more enjoyable to do something fun. Enthusiasm will shine through, sometimes securing a job that otherwise would have gotten away.
2. In order to do a job immediately, it’s vital to already possess required skills and manpower. It may be necessary to wait until some training is completed.
3. Do you have the necessary tools and money to get started?
4. Can parents or friends lend help and advice if you get in a jam? Do you have your family’s support?
5. Once the enterprise is on its feet, let people know about it. Word-of-mouth will help, of course, but so will small classified ads or inexpensive handbills. Don’t overdo it. Do some work free for friends so that they will generate publicity.
6. If others are working with or for you, are they reliable? Your reputation may depend on them. Will supervision be required?
7. Some jobs require transportation. Not having a car, truck, or license may limit efforts to particular types of employment and may also reduce marketing area.
8. It’s hard to compete with real professionals. You’re selling comparatively amateur services, even though conscientiousness, honesty, and lower costs are generally on your side. Be frank about what can and can’t be done.
A summer job can be one of the most enjoyable parts of the school vacation, opening up the opportunity to develop new skills, eliminate boredom, and bolster self-confidence. Even if the employment market seems grim, there are lots of things to do around the neighborhood that will display resourcefulness. It’s not important to use the ideas listed here. Careful thinking adapted to local situations will generate others perhaps more practical for your area. Whatever works in a specific locality is fine. The point is, with so many things that can be done by hiring yourself, work is attainable.
Also, keep in mind the stepping-stone theory. The way your time is spent during junior high and high school summers may affect your potential for both future summer work and later, full-time employment. Mentally probe the future to see where what you’re doing will lead.
The real secret to finding a summertime job is to get busy long before vacations arrive. It’s too late to do that for this summer, but it isn’t too early to lay plans for next year. Here are some articles previously published in the New Era that offer valuable guidelines about steps to follow in applying for work:
“You Can Make It in the Summer Job Market,” by Jon M. Taylor, May 1972, p. 46.
“Summer Jobs: Keeping the One You Have or Creating a New One,” by Jon M. Taylor, June 1972, p. 42.
“What to Consider When Choosing a Vacation Job,” by Brian Kelly, April 1971, p. 40.
“Finding What Is Available,” by Robert Ghoslin, April 1971, p. 42.
“Canadian Jobs,” by Brian Woodford, April 1971, p. 43.
“How to Get That Vacation Job,” by Lynn Eric Johnson, April 1971, p. 44.
“What to Do If You’re Going Away to Work,” by Charlie L. Stewart, May 1971, p. 5.
“What About Summer Work?” Policies and Procedures, May 1971, p. 39.

Yet it was not the first time that a Soviet leader had taken grave political risks to prevent nuclear war. During the Cuban Missile Crisis of October 1962, the world was saved widespread destruction and perhaps annihilation by the bravery of a single Soviet military officer.

Many people know something of the Cuban Missile Crisis, a tense, thirteen-day standoff between the United Sates and the Soviet Union. The crisis was triggered by the discovery that the Soviets had placed nuclear missiles in Cuba, close enough to destroy many of the largest U.S. cities. In fairness, it should be noted that U.S. missiles in Turkey posed a similar threat to the Soviet Union.

The story of tense and ultimately successful negotiations between President John F. Kennedy and Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev is well known. Both leaders rose above their own immediate political interests, as well as pressures from their respective military advisers, to save the world from nuclear devastation.

But it was forty years before historians learned of a similarly heroic decision, made in the moment by one Soviet sailor under hard-to-imagine pressure. [17] Vasili Arkhipov, son of Russian peasants, was aboard a submarine armed with a nuclear torpedo when, during the Cuban missile crisis, his sub was discovered by U.S. warships. An aircraft carrier and 11 destroyers collaborated in trying to capture Vasili’s submarine. The U.S. vessels dropped explosive depth charges meant to disable the sub, or at least terrify the crew to the point of surrendering. A crew member later likened the bombardment to “sitting in a metal barrel, which somebody is constantly blasting with a sledgehammer.” [18]

The captain and his crew had not received any communication from Moscow for several days. Moreover, in an attempt to avoid capture, they had dived to a depth that prevented receiving news from U.S. commercial radio stations, which they had been monitoring during the escalating crisis. As far as they knew, war had broken out.

The Soviet captain and a ranking officer agreed that they should launch their nuclear torpedo against the U.S. warships. Ordinarily, agreement by these two leaders would have been enough to take this action. But Vasili, a fleet officer, happened to be aboard that sub. Because of his status, firing a nuclear weapon required his approval as well.

Fortunately, Vasili knew firsthand the deadly effects of nuclear radiation. Just a year earlier, he had been an officer on a nuclear submarine when the reactor that powered it developed a coolant leak and threatened to melt down. To prevent that catastrophe, which would have killed everyone aboard, the captain ordered the seven members of his engineering crew to enter the reactor compartment and make a temporary fix to the cooling system. They succeeded, but at the cost of their lives: within a month all seven men were dead, having suffered unimaginably. In the ensuing two years, fifteen more sailors on that sub died of radiation poisoning. Vasili himself felt the effects of irradiation, though he did not immediately die from it.

In that awful moment of truth in the depths of the ocean near Cuba, with the lives of his fellow sailors at risk and his military career likely to be ruined for apparent cowardice, Vasili brought his providential personal experience to bear. His mental faculties were, like those of everyone aboard the submarine, compromised by temperatures of 120 degrees and a buildup of carbon dioxide due to the failure of the air conditioning system. After four hours of this torture, Vasili’s fellow sailors were passing out. [19]

But Vasili had seen worse conditions. He no doubt recalled the deaths of his fellow sailors the year before. He likely imagined a world poisoned by radiation, with only the luckier victims dying immediately, and with generations suffering various degrees of poisoning.

Providentially, Vasili prevailed. The submarine surfaced on what proved to be the very day, October 27, when President John F. Kennedy and Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev agreed to the removal of their nuclear missiles from Turkey and Cuba, respectively. Nuclear war was averted. The projected deaths of one-third of humanity did not occur. The world continued on its increasingly peaceful and prosperous trajectory.

I conclude with just one of many illustrative experiences from President Monson's life--one that he shared recently in general conference:

On one occasion many years ago, I was swimming laps at the [gym] when I felt the inspiration to go to the University Hospital to visit a good friend of mine who had lost the use of his lower limbs. ... I immediately left the pool, dressed, and was soon on my way to see this good man.

When I arrived at his room, I found that it was empty. Upon inquiry I learned I would probably find him in the swimming pool area of the hospital, an area which was used for physical therapy. Such turned out to be the case. He had guided himself there in his wheelchair and was the only occupant of the room. He was on the far side of the pool, near the deep end. I called to him, and he maneuvered his wheelchair over to greet me. We had an enjoyable visit, and I accompanied him back to his hospital room, where I gave him a blessing.

I learned later from my friend that he had been utterly despondent that day and had been contemplating taking his own life. He had prayed for relief but began to feel that his prayers had gone unanswered. He went to the pool with the thought that this would be a way to end his misery--by guiding his wheelchair into the deep end of the pool. I had arrived at a critical moment, in response to what I know was inspiration from on high.

President Monson concluded:

My friend was able to live many more years--years filled with happiness and gratitude. How pleased I am to have been an instrument in the Lord's hands on that critical day at the swimming pool.[31]