Gospel Story Finder

My father’s grandmother, Bengtha Swenson, left beautiful Sweden disowned and knowing that she may never hear from her father or mother again in this life. Did they quarrel? Did she try to explain about the gospel? After whatever words had been said and she had left for Denmark to work for a year before boarding a ship set for the golden shores of America, did her mother waken in the night to weep for her daughter and for the words that had passed between them? They never had contact again.
The far and the near? Oh that we could draw nearer to heal the rifts we make with those we love!

Evan Stephens was born in Wales in 1854. By the time he was 12 years old, his family had moved to Willard, Utah, where he sang in the town choir. But when Evan learned that President Brigham Young was coming to hear the choir, he had a problem.
Evan looked down at the dusty road and dragged his feet as he walked home from choir practice. Everyone else in the Willard town choir had cheered at the invitation to sing for President Brigham Young. The men clapped each other on the back, while the women whispered excitedly from behind their books and fans. No one noticed the glum look on 12-year-old Evan’s face as he slumped down in his chair. The “Boy Alto,” as he was known, quietly slipped through the church doors and left practice by himself.
The problem wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to sing. He loved music. When his family settled in Willard, a town about 50 miles (80 km) north of Salt Lake City, he had been delighted to learn about the unusually good town choir. As the 10th child in the Stephens family, Evan had found little time between farm chores to learn much about music. In the Willard choir, he could finally learn more about it. He found himself moving in rhythm as he worked and dancing as he herded the cows. He felt music everywhere now.
No, the idea of singing for the prophet didn’t upset Evan. But choir members would need to dress in their best Sunday clothes for the performance, and Evan didn’t have any good clothes. His family didn’t have much money. He had never owned a nice coat or a pair of black Sunday shoes. He was ashamed to sing in front of the prophet while looking so shabby.
Evan looked down at his dusty feet. They were covered with dirt from the trail. He would have to scrub them hard before going to church Sunday morning. Otherwise, his feet would look black. Evan’s heart jumped at this thought. He could get black feet—really black feet—by using polish. Everyone would be looking at the faces of the singers, so no one would notice that Evan had black feet instead of black shoes.
On the day the choir was to sing to the prophet, Evan felt sweat on his forehead and the palms of his hands as he looked down at his black feet. He knew he must go—the choir needed him—but he wanted to hide so the prophet would not see him. With tears racing down his cheeks, he ran toward the bowery where the choir was going to sing.
At the bowery, Evan stopped. What if the prophet did see him? What would he think of a poor farm boy with painted black feet and no coat? Evan couldn’t let the prophet see him. Turning around, he bolted like a frightened colt. He ran right into the very man he had hoped not to see.
President Brigham Young grabbed the frightened boy by the shoulders. “Now, now, what’s this?” he asked. “What’s the matter? Why are you running away?”
Tears filled Evan’s eyes as he bowed his head and whispered, “I have no coat for the program and no shoes.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued, “I painted my feet black with polish.”
The grip on Evan’s shoulders relaxed, and he felt the prophet pat him on the head. Looking up, he was surprised to see a kind look on President Young’s face and tears in his eyes too. “Never mind that,” he told Evan. “Don’t you hesitate a moment. Go right on in.”
Relief wrapped around Evan like a soft, warm blanket. He blinked away the tears and returned the prophet’s smile with one of his own. He hurried to take his place with the choir. Happy to be accepted by the prophet, Evan sang his part perfectly.
President Young gave Evan an encouraging word and courage to do his part. This kindness influenced Evan long after the choir performance. He continued to study music and taught himself new skills.
When Evan grew up, he became director of the Tabernacle Choir. He served in that position from 1889 to 1916. Evan also wrote many sacred hymns and patriotic songs. He remained humble and always remembered the lesson he had learned from the prophet. Evan treated people like he did his music—with love. And like President Young, he listened with his heart.
Evan Stephens later wrote a hymn about courage, including the words, “Courage, for the Lord is on our side” (“Let Us All Press On,” Hymns, no. 243).

One night, my mom and I were at the store and a store employee was helping us. He said it was his last day at the store because he was moving. He said he was getting married in a month. Mom said she loved being married because “it’s being married to your best friend.” He said, “Everyone I talk to says don’t get married, so it’s good to hear that. Thank you.”
We walked past him again on our way out, and I gave him a pass-along card. Mom told him the things on the card have added a lot of joy to her marriage. He said thanks. I felt good, and I was so excited about being a missionary that it took me a long time to get to sleep that night. I felt so happy.

It was three o’clock in the morning. My dad had just nailed the final trim on the three-story dollhouse we had built for my little sisters (the trim was not quite dry and the white paint still bears several thumb prints). Mom and I placed inside all of the furniture we had made and gathered, and then sat back and looked with real pleasure on our creation. It had been a hectic three weeks of building, creating, and upholstering, but this year Christmas somehow seemed more real. The small house was beautiful. The furnishings were charming, and the tiny crocheted rugs just fit the decorating scheme we had chosen.
Since that Christmas several years ago we have made a few improvements in our dollhouse—pasted 1-by-1 1/2-inch cardboard pieces on the roof for shingles, added tiny accessories on the tables and shelves, found a potbellied stove for the upstairs bedroom—and with each passing year, and the arrival of each new niece and nephew, the dollhouse has grown in popularity; it has even become the pattern for several others as far away as Michigan.

Six-year-old Catherine sang as she followed Joseph and his plow down the long brown furrows, dropping yellow kernels of corn into the newly turned soil:
One for the cutworm,
One for the crow,
One to rot, and
One to grow.
Joseph called over his shoulder, “If Alvin doesn’t get back with some money, all that corn will go to the land agents. And from what I hear, they’re not about to share it with a cutworm or a crow or anything else.”
Catherine had heard her father talk about land agents, but she wasn’t sure just what they were. “What are land agents, Joseph?” she asked.
Her brother pulled the ox to a halt and explained, “They’re men who sell property. If there is a drought or your crops don’t sell and you can’t pay the mortgage money, they come and take the farm back.” Then he paused for a moment, remembering his father’s dawn-to-dark labor when they’d first cleared the land of trees to plant crops.
The whole family had helped tap the thousand sugar maple trees in the spring. Joseph also remembered the split-wood chairs and baskets and the straw brooms his father had made to sell to help pay for the farm. His father had even hired out as a hand for other farmers to bring in precious money. But still there wasn’t enough.
Catherine brought her brother back from his recollecting. “Are they going to take our farm, Joseph?”
“It looks like it, unless we can raise some more money. Alvin is still out on his job as a carpenter’s helper with a crew that’s building log houses, and Mother has been selling a lot of her painted oilcloth covers.”
“I’ve helped Mother sell cakes and gingerbread and root beer on public days,” Catherine said, beaming.
“Well, we’ve all helped. But it hasn’t been enough.” Joseph sighed as he slapped the reins against the rump of the ox. “I wish I could do something more.”
“You’ve been helping to clear trees and plowing and planting the corn and pumpkins. That’s a big help.”
“Sure. But we need money. And we need it right away.”
Catherine let out a deep breath and sat down on the broken black earth. “Will we have to let the land agents take our farm?” she asked.
“If we can’t pay all the mortgage money, we will. And the law backs them up. But it just doesn’t seem right after we’ve spent two years clearing trees from sixty acres of land and planting crops and building a four-room log house besides. They’d only turn around and sell it again for a heap of money, and we wouldn’t get a penny for all the improvements we’ve made.”
Catherine understood now why some folks said the land agents were really land robbers. The thought was still in her mind when a large black crow flew down and began to scratch for the newly planted corn. Her frustration erupted. Skirts flying, she chased after the bird, shaking her fist.
“Get out of here you old domineker!” she yelled as the bird flapped off in panic. “I won’t let you take our corn!”
Young Joseph had to laugh at the sight of her, and his laughter skipped across the clearing into the open window of the house. His mother was just lifting the lid on the cooking pot in the fireplace when she heard it. She smiled and felt a sudden sense of relief. How she wished she could stir some of it into the venison stew. They needed all the laughter they could get these days.
She left the stew sputtering against the pot lid as she called to her family. “Supper’s on!”
Later after supper, Joseph’s father, as always, felt for his spectacles. When his hand found the lower right-hand pocket of his vest, that was the signal for a reading from the Bible and for family prayer.
That night the family had an extra long prayer. Father Smith thanked Heavenly Father for His “mercy which endureth forever.” Then he pleaded for help in somehow obtaining the money that was needed. When all members of the family had added their amen, they sang the usual hymn:
Another day has passed and gone,
We lay our garments by—
The song was interrupted by a loud knock. Mr. Smith opened the door and invited a neighbor from down the road to come in.
“Much obliged, Joe. I came to ask if you’d let me hire one of your boys for a few days. I need to dig a well.”
Alvin was away working and young Joseph knew his father needed Hyrum to help cut trees. “I could do it, sir,” he said eagerly.
His father smiled. “Joseph’s able. He’ll give you a good day’s work for a day’s pay.”
“I know your boys are good workers. They’ve worked alongside their pa until they’re better than most men. That’s why I’m here. Young Joseph will be fine.”
Joseph was so happy that he had to take a big breath to keep from shouting out loud: The Lord is surely opening up the way. Things are going to work out. I’m sure of it. He was so sure that he wasn’t a bit surprised when Alvin arrived home a few days later with the money he had earned. Just the same, it was a tense moment when the whole family gathered to count their savings. Is it enough? they wondered.
Joseph held his breath as the cash was totaled. It was enough; they’d made it. Tears and laughter mingled as they realized that Alvin’s earnings added to what Joseph and the others had been able to raise would save their farm!
(To be continued.)

For example, a few weeks ago I slipped away from my office to find something for lunch. As I approached the entrance of a local restaurant, I noticed what appeared to be a mother and her three children entering just ahead of me. One of the little girls stayed behind. Here was this cute little three- or four-year-old in pigtails using all of her strength to keep the door open for me. I was impressed with this act of kindness and self-sacrifice and thanked her appropriately. I quickly ordered my food and sat down at a table that happened to be next to this family. The mother brought a large drink to the table and returned to the counter to wait for her food. The same little girl who held the door open for me was seated at the table with her younger brother, who was in a booster seat. The little brother was becoming increasingly upset because he could not reach the drink. His big sister, however, had no trouble reaching the drink and took a long sip that seemed to aggravate the brother even more. His displeasure lasted until the mother finally returned with his food. I found it interesting that, within minutes, this endearing little girl acted so kindly to me but was completely oblivious to the needs of her little brother.
So it is with us. We may act in holiness one moment and struggle with it the next. However, displaying flashes of holiness means we are capable of so much more. Where there is a flicker of light there can be steady radiance.

When I was young and new to the Church, I was assigned to minister to an elderly man who lived by himself. He lived on the edge of town in an old motel room that had become an extended-stay residence for those who couldn’t afford apartments. He didn’t appear to have many possessions or family in the area and lived a lonely life. During one visit, he told me about the child who was stillborn to him and his wife. I marveled that he was brought to tears by the recollection of something that must have happened at least 50 years before. It would only be a brief time before I better understood his feelings.
Two years later my wife and I drove past the scene of a car accident. I realized that no police or ambulance had arrived yet. I had just completed an emergency medical technician course, so I stopped to see if I could help. When I made my way through the crowd, I saw an overturned vehicle with a small child lying nearby on the ground. There was no one giving her any care. I kneeled beside her and began to assess her condition, which was serious.
As I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the face of a man in our ward who was less active. I realized this was his young daughter, who had attended our Primary. A nurse arrived, and we began CPR. When the ambulance crew took over, I returned to my friend’s side. I learned later that his child had ended up partially under the vehicle and others had pulled her out before my arrival. Her injuries were internal, and she did not survive.
Less than a year later, we were expecting our fourth daughter, and my wife carried her the full nine months. My wife woke me early one morning, saying her water had broken. We went to the hospital. After I parked the car, I went to her room and was told that the baby had died. I didn’t immediately understand, since we had only just arrived. When the doctor did his initial check, he couldn’t find a heartbeat. We never knew why. Instead of enjoying a newborn, we found ourselves planning for her funeral and taking down the nursery items.
Less than a year after that, a two-year-old boy in our ward was run over and killed by a service truck in the parking lot where he lived. I visited the family and spoke at his funeral. The mother mentioned he had been unusually cuddly that morning, almost as if he were saying goodbye.
Our ward had experienced the deaths of three young children in just over one year.
About a year after the death of our baby, we moved and I was assigned to minister to a young couple with two children. The older daughter had contracted an infection while in the womb and was born with a severe mental disability. Although she was nine years old at the time, she was like an infant developmentally. It was a struggle for the young family, who had limited means.
One day I received a phone call telling me she had died during the night. No member of the bishopric was available to visit just then, so I was asked to visit until they could get there. I arrived as her body was being removed, and I had a chance to talk with the father. The wife’s ministering sister arrived and did an amazing job comforting the family and taking care of the home.
I went with the father to the funeral home to make the arrangements. I suppose I was able to render some service because of my prior experiences. I don’t consider myself a great ministering brother, but I was glad I wasn’t a stranger in that home.
Many years later, one of our daughters was expecting her first child. She had married later in life and we knew from tests and exams that the child would need corrective surgery at birth. She went into early labor, but his condition apparently placed too much stress on his heart and he died before birth. We knew how she felt, but it was very difficult to see her so heartbroken.
When reflecting on these events, I wrote in my journal that I never expected to have so much to do with the death of children. The experiences, although tragic, helped me feel greater love and compassion for others because I understood what they were going through.
When I ponder what the gospel means to me, I have to say it is about relationships: those we had before, those we form in this life, and those we hope for after this life—the type of relationships and love that would cause an elderly man to mourn the loss of a child he would never know in this life.
Photograph at Oakland California Temple by Christina Smith
I don’t know how the blessings and protection of the temple reach out from the house of the Lord to touch our families, but I believe they do. Heavenly Father strengthens us according to our needs and uses us to help others in their trials. The hope and promise of priesthood ordinances and covenants are provided by a loving Father who knows our trials.

Her father chuckled. “He’d have to, to convince a constable sent to arrest him, and a hardhead like you. I’d like to hear him speak. My family and I will join you next Sunday.”
At noon on Sunday the Weston family began the long walk to the Benbow farm. Charity didn’t mind walking. She’d waited all week for this. Maybe something exciting would happen!
The meeting hall was almost filled when they arrived. She sat high on her father’s knee so that she could see over the heads of the people.
Suddenly a wave of whispering rolled through the people. Charity turned and saw two men dressed in dark suits sit down behind them.
Charity heard Father whisper to Mother, “Those are the rector’s clerks. He must have sent them to find out what is so all-fired appealing about this new preacher. I hope that they won’t cause any trouble. I have my heart set on hearing a good old-fashioned sermon.”
The audience quieted as Mr. Woodruff stood to speak. In a short time another wave flowed over the audience. This time it was the power of the Holy Ghost. Everyone sitting there could feel the truth of Mr. Woodruff’s words. They knew that he’d been sent to teach them about the Savior.
Tears rolled unchecked down her mother’s cheeks, and her father’s arm tightened around Charity as he grew more absorbed in the sermon.
When Mr. Woodruff finished speaking, he invited everyone to join the true church. Her father and mother stood up, ready to join those seeking to be baptized. Before they could move, the two clerks shouldered their way toward the pulpit.
The crowd parted as the two black-garbed men made their way to the front. Their faces were solemn, and Charity began to shiver. What would they do?
Mr. Woodruff greeted them pleasantly and waited for them to speak. With heads high, they humbly asked to join Christ’s church.
Another wave of noise filled the hall. Everyone wanted to talk about the clerks, the constable, Elder Woodruff—and their own baptisms! This was unheard of! It was an exciting time.
Father’s chuckle soothed her like the sound of water flowing over smooth rocks. “That does it for the rector,” he said and chuckled again. “He’s lost a constable and two clerks. I don’t think he’ll dare send anyone else to hear this preacher. Any good man will recognize the truth of his words. Any good person would feel the Spirit. I believe him. I’m going to be baptized into Christ’s church by someone with the authority to do so.”
Charity held onto his hand as he cleared a path to the front for his family. She felt a feeling of peace and security, and she knew that her father and mother would guide her along the right path until she, too, was old enough to be baptized.

I had heard the same story over and over again in church, the one about testimonies and planting seeds. But on fast Sunday, I usually just slumped down in my chair and thought about how boring testimony meeting was. So of course I didn’t think that a recent lesson in my Sunday School class about testimonies would affect me any differently than any of the other things I had heard, but I was wrong.
During class I was asked to read the familiar story in Alma 32:26–43, in which Alma compares faith to a seed. I had read or heard that story many times before, but for some reason, this time I couldn’t get the line that says “Because ye have tried the experiment, and planted the seed” (Alma 32:33) out of my head. I thought about the seed of my own testimony, and how I had never really “tried the experiment” to see if it would grow.
Near the end of the lesson our teacher brought out the most beautiful plant I have ever seen. It was full of bright red and orange flowers. Then she brought out another plant, except this one was brown and wilted. Our teacher explained that the flower that was beautiful and bright had been nourished and looked after, while the wilted one had been forgotten about and neglected. She then handed us a pot of dark soil and a single seed. She challenged us to nourish the seeds as a reminder to nourish our testimonies. She also challenged us to bear our testimonies often.
By the next month my seed had bloomed into a bright, flowering plant. On fast Sunday, my Sunday School teacher bore her testimony right after the bishop, and it made me think about her challenge. I also thought about my beautiful plant and how I wanted my testimony to be just as beautiful. I knew that I had a testimony, and that part of helping it grow was sharing it with others. I had butterflies in my stomach, but I finally got enough courage to stand.
As tears rolled down my face I looked down at my Sunday School teacher, and I could tell that she was proud of me. As I sat down I thought that even though my testimony didn’t seem like much right now, I knew within myself that my testimony was the beginning of the most beautiful thing I would ever grow.

I once read a story about a boy named Jack who grew up in the hills of Virginia in the United States. Every day, his family sat around the table for dinner. His father would ask each one of them, “What did you do for someone today?” The children wanted to do a good deed every day so they could tell their father they had helped someone. As they grew up, they felt a desire in their hearts to help others.
Jack became a successful doctor. Then he created more than 70 clinics across the country to help people who needed medical care. We can’t all create medical clinics, but each of us can do something to help others.

Our personal testimony usually begins with someone else’s testimony. My sister shared her testimony with me after her baptism. I felt a desire to hear more about what my sister had testified. Then missionaries came and testified about Jesus Christ, His gospel, and the restored Church. It was so powerful that it completely changed my life. In an instant, an atheist had become a believer who wished to follow the teachings and example of Christ. In the same way, our testimony can change someone else’s life. Because of our testimony, someone can come to know Christ whom they did not know before.

“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word,” Mama sang to baby Charlie. The harsh wind howled and blew red dirt through the cracks of the one-room log cabin. Rachel’s whole family couldn’t fall asleep that night. The clock hands pointed straight up to midnight as Papa got up to start a fire and Mama gazed at the dark sky out the window. Rachel closed her eyes tight and tried to fall asleep. Then she heard her mother whisper to her father.
“Look at all this dirt. I miss the green grass and pretty flowers at our old home,” she said. “Remember when I used to pin flowers to my dress? I miss that.”
Rachel missed the flowers at their old house too. Their new cabin didn’t have any flowers growing nearby. In fact, Rachel had noticed only a few little white flowers in all of southern Utah! Mama said they were called sego lilies. Maybe I can find one of those little white flowers tomorrow for Mama! she thought, just before falling asleep.
When sun shone through the window near Rachel’s bed, she knew it was time to get up. She pulled on her dress and tied a ribbon in her hair. She swept the kitchen floor without being asked.
“Thank you for your help, Rachel,” Mama said. “What would I do without you?”
While she did her chores that morning, Rachel tried to think of places she could find a flower for Mama. There has to be at least one flower out here, she thought. But I may have to look everywhere to find it.
She had just finished hanging clothes on the clothesline when she saw her friend Sarah walking toward her. Rachel told Sarah about her plan. With their bonnets tied under their chins, they searched everywhere for something beautiful.
They looked under the wagon. Nothing. They searched through the sagebrush. Nothing. They looked near the edge of the stream. Still nothing.
“Maybe we can find something over there.” Rachel pointed to the field her father was plowing.
The girls walked toward the field. Rachel ran her eyes along the edge from one sagebrush bush to the next. Suddenly she spotted a small white flower. It had three white petals and a purple center. Rachel gasped. It was a sego lily! “Look, Sarah!” she said. “Isn’t that pretty?”
Rachel gently picked the little flower from the red dirt and showed it to Sarah.
“It’s perfect!” Sarah said.
“Mama!” Rachel shouted as they ran toward the cabin. “Look what we found!”
Mama looked up from washing clothes, and Rachel gave her the flower. “Now you have a beautiful flower to pin on your dress.”
“Oh, Rachel. It is beautiful!” her mother said. As she admired the delicate sego lily, tears came to her eyes. She pulled Rachel in for a tight hug. “Let’s put it in some water to keep it fresh.”
As she finished her chores, Rachel kept glancing up at the sego lily. She felt happy every time she looked at it.
In her prayer that night, Rachel thanked Heavenly Father for creating the beautiful flower to grow in the desert. She told Him how happy she was that she found it. Then she climbed into bed. When Papa kissed her goodnight, he said, “What a wonderful surprise, Rachel. You made your mother very happy.”
Then Mama smiled and kissed Rachel on the cheek. “Thank you for finding me a beautiful flower. It reminded me that you’re the most precious gift of all.”

I learned faith and the application of faith on my mission.

My mission president had a plan to baptize each month. I believe every mission president has that plan. Implementing the plan took great faith. The only thing that changed in regards to the plan was the month and the faith of the missionaries to implement the plan.

I had not baptized for almost three months (one month in my previous area and two months in my present area). Neither did I implement the monthly plan. Finally out of desperation, I decided, as the senior companion, to implement the plan.

The plan required the missionaries to go before their ward priesthood executive committee and prophesize of success. As some of you might know, the ward priesthood executive committee was composed of the bishopric, the HPG leader, the elder’s quorum president, the young men’s president and the seventy’s president (presently known today as the ward mission leader).

The missionaries were to inform the members of the PEC that they had a family that would be presented to the ward on a particular Sunday because we were going to baptize them on the Saturday prior to that Sunday. We were to share their names, where they lived and anything about them. The last thing we were supposed to do was to tell the PEC members that sometimes our families do not get baptized for one reason or another and if the PEC could give us a back-up family. That took faith. To tell someone you’re going to baptize someone and in the same breath tell them they might not get baptize—so do you have a back-up family?

Well, it was the last Sunday in January. We attended PEC meeting. In my journal entry it reads, “This was the day that I showed my faith and went before Priesthood Executive Committee and said I have a family to present before the ward on February 19th and that family will be baptized February 18th.” We presented the name of a mother and her three-year-old daughter. I told them she was married however her husband was not interested. We told the PEC where she lived. I then asked for a back-up family from the ward. The Bishop looked at me and then turned to each member of the PEC and asked, “Do you have a back up family?” High Priest Group Leader, NO. Elder’s Quorum President, NO. Young Men’s President, NO. Seventy’s President, NO.

The Bishop then turned to me and said, “Elder Serrao, we don’t have a back up family but since this a part-member family, I will assign the Seventy’s President to assign her a home teacher.

In all my years as a leader, that has been the quickest that I have ever seen a home teacher assigned to an investigator.

Well, my companion and I left the meeting. My junior companion looked at me, his senior, and said, “What are we going to do now?” He had a legitimate question. We did not know this sister that well. We had visited her once or twice. The sister missionaries taught her at one time but we just didn’t know her that well. My junior companion had legitimate concerns.

I turned to him and told him we are going to work like we have never worked before and we did. We tracted nights and on Sundays and every chance we had. We filled our days with being busy and engaged in the Lord’s work. We saw her and her daughter every chance we could. We introduced her to the members. We made her feel comfortable in church.

We taught her on February 6th and challenged her to be baptized on February 18th. She accepted the invitation to be baptized. On February 7th, she brought her daughter to primary and met the primary presidency. On February 12th, she came to church. On February 14th, she was interviewed for baptism. On February 16th, her husband consented to her baptism. On February 18th, prophesy was fulfilled.

I was transferred out of the area. For the next 6 months, I implemented the plan for the month. I baptized each month and the wards I was in came up with a back-up family and the back-up family was baptized also. Faith became the motive cause of all action and blessings followed faith and works.

Shortly after the NCAA finals, Britton announced his decision to serve a mission. The decision came at no small sacrifice. Many people, including Utah head coach Rick Majerus, say Britton has tremendous NBA potential, but leaving the game for two years may jeopardize his pro chances. “Coach was saying everything he could to get me to stay,” recalls Britton. “I’ve been told that if I stay for all four years in a row, I’d definitely go pro.”

For the first time in his life, Britton began to question whether he should go on a mission. Majerus told the press that if Britton were to go after being benched all year, “his pro chances are null and void and his chance for a college career is really in peril. He can’t sit three years.”

In the end, Britton’s coach supported his decision. “It is with regret and sadness from a basketball standpoint that Britton departs, but I am pleased because he seems to be so at peace and happy about the decision,” said Majerus. “I’m proud to be a coach of so many young men who felt so good about a religious experience that they would want to sacrifice their basketball.”

“Where’d you get those shoes? They’re ugly!”
Callie looked up from her book. Lisa had plunked down in the bus seat across the aisle and was making a face at her shoes.
“I don’t remember—they’re just shoes.”
Lisa had a pair of brand-new boots, trimmed with brass buckles. “They look like a discount store special to me.”
The words in Callie’s book swam before her eyes. Mom probably had gotten the shoes at a discount store. Since Dad’s hours had been cut at the plant, the whole family was on a budget. She tried to ignore Lisa.
But Lisa persisted. “So where did you get them?”
“What’s it to you, Lisa? Just bug off,” Callie said angrily. She looked out the window, glad that the next stop was Lisa’s.
“OK, OK! You don’t have to get mad! I was only wondering!” Lisa smirked as she left.
Callie watched Lisa walk up the driveway, her smart leather boots swinging stylishly.
That night Callie was helping with the dishes when she asked, “Mom, did you get my shoes at a discount store?”
“Yes. You needed some for school. Don’t you like them?”
“They’re OK.”
“OK but not great, I take it.”
“They’re fine, really,” Callie said hastily. She knew her parents were doing their very best to make ends meet.
“Did somebody say something about them?” Mom was concerned.
“Lisa did, but I don’t care—she’s just stuck-up.”
“Maybe so,” Mom said, “and not everyone has been taught to be kind, as you have.”
“Lisa certainly isn’t kind!” Callie purposely missed her mother’s point.
“Maybe she’s insecure.”
“Not likely!”
“Whatever she did,” Mom said, “you can choose to forgive her and not be angry. You’ll feel better if you do.”
Callie didn’t answer out loud, but she was thinking, Hmph! If you had seen what happened, you wouldn’t say that. Who wouldn’t be angry?
She was relieved when Lisa wasn’t at school the next day. That evening her dad was rushing to get ready for a church meeting.
“Callie,” Mom asked, “would you mind helping me with the grocery shopping tonight? We’ll drop Dad off and pick him up later.”
“Sure, Mom. My homework’s done, and that sounds like fun. Can we get an ice-cream cone on the way home?”
“You bet. With your help, we should have time for one—or we can get one after we get Dad later.”
When Callie entered the grocery store, she yanked a cart free and headed for the fruit section while Mom went to choose cereal. Everyone who saw Callie carefully choosing bananas and grapes smiled at her, and she smiled back.
She was in the pasta aisle when her pleasant mood was disrupted by a woman’s harsh voice in the next aisle.
“Now what are you doing?” the voice snapped. “Put that back on the shelf and stop trying to put everything you see in our cart. I can’t take you anywhere!”
Whoever the woman was talking to made some reply, but it was too soft and short for Callie to hear.
“What did you say?” the woman responded sharply. “Stop whining everytime you can’t have your own way.”
Callie had come to the end of her aisle. She decided to pass by the next one, then come back to it later. But as she hurried by, she almost ran into Lisa! Her head was down and her cheeks were red, but she had to have seen Callie go by.
How awful for Lisa’s mother to treat her like that! Mom would never talk to me that way! Callie stared down at her list, hoping that Lisa and her mother were not moving in her direction. She didn’t want Lisa to be humiliated anymore. Then she heard Mrs. Johnson at the checkout counter, barking at Lisa to hurry up.
Monday morning, Callie sat in her usual place on the bus, determined to act as if nothing had happened. Lisa walked straight to the back. She’ll probably never speak to me again, thought Callie, and I won’t have to worry about what to say.
But on the way home from school, Lisa sat behind Callie. “Did I mention that I saw your shoes at the discount store?”
Callie was stunned. Lisa was at it again! Should she say something about what happened in the grocery store? Then she remembered how ashamed Lisa had been, and suddenly it didn’t matter what Lisa said. Turning to face her, Callie said quietly, “I’m sorry you don’t like my shoes, but I can’t do much about it. Dad’s hours have been cut at work and we’re on a tight budget.”
Lisa blushed. All she said was, “Oh.”
Callie turned back around. She could have added “at least my mother cares about me,” but she hadn’t—and she was glad. She knew now what Mom had meant when she said that she didn’t have to be angry. She could also forgive.
Callie felt someone sit down next to her. It was Lisa! “Callie,” she said timidly, “I like your shoes. There’s really nothing wrong with them.”
Callie didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” was all she could manage.
Lisa’s stop was coming up, but she obviously had something else on her mind. Finally, she faltered, “I guess you saw me and my mom at the store.”
Callie nodded.
“I know she loves me. I don’t understand why she always screams at me like that.”
Callie thought for a moment, then said softly, “Don’t worry about it, Lisa. She probably just hasn’t ever learned how to be kind—maybe no one ever taught her.”
The bus squeaked to a stop, and Lisa got up to get off. With a quavery smile she said, “Thanks, Callie. See you tomorrow?”
“You bet!”
Callie felt like singing as the bus moved on and she watched Lisa’s leather boots swing stylishly up her driveway.

I have a three year old grandson named James. My daughter had been teaching him to be careful about strangers. She was quizzing him to see how well he had listened to her and asked him, “James would you ever get into a car with a stranger?” He answered, “No.” She continued, “What if he said he would give you candy? Then would you go with him?” James thought for a minute and finally said, “I’m not telling.” My daughter became a little alarmed and said, “James, you never go with a stranger even if he has candy. It is very dangerous!” James then said, “Don’t talk to me mommy!”

As the youth learned, family history is a lot more than just looking at pedigree charts. They found out that part of genealogy is keeping journals and working on personal histories. Mandy Smith, of the Cumberland Gap Branch, is just 15, but she was the expert invited to speak about keeping scrapbooks for a personal history. As she puts clippings, certificates, and snapshots in her book, she also writes captions under each item, explaining a little about what she was feeling. Mandy pointed out, “Personal history is not just for your children someday. It can also be good for you. Lots of times when I’m feeling down or in a bad mood, I look back at the good times I have had. It helps me remember the things that are important to me.”

I would first like to tell you a little story about Elder LeGrand Richards. I choose him as my subject because he represents the qualities that I want to talk about tonight. Brother Richards was at a conference about a year ago, when he was in his ninety-fifth year. At the conference at which he reorganized a stake, he sat on the stand, and the choir sang a beautiful rendition, and he thought they were so outstanding that he turned around to the choir leader and said, “I’ll bet you could sing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ couldn’t you?”
The choir leader said, “Yes, I think we could.”
He said, “Good. I’d liked to hear it sung at the end of this conference today.”
In and of itself, that doesn’t seem like a very unusual thing, but unbeknown to Brother Richards, sitting halfway back in the audience was a man who had been inactive and who decided that he’d go to conference, and if the choir sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” he would know that it was a signal from heaven that he was supposed to be active again.
A most unusual series of events—except that isn’t where it ends. Because he was there and made the decision to become active again, when they reorganized his ward bishopric a week later, he was called to be a counselor in that bishopric. He already had his answer, and he knew what he would need to do. Then he recounted the story—this spiritual little story out of one of the many pages of Latter-day Saint stories throughout the world in which the Spirit of our Father in Heaven guides us.

“A great lesson that I learned from my parents and grandfather was to pay my tithing. Not much money was made from operating the farm; the only cash income came from selling milk. But somehow my parents worked it out so that we each had an allowance. As soon as I got my allowance, I would cross the street and pay my tithing to Grandfather, who was the bishop. There weren’t any tithing envelopes in those days, and Grandfather was his own financial clerk. When I took my tithing over, I’d sit in the office in his home, and he’d write out a receipt. As he gave me the receipt, he’d say, ‘Waldo, the Lord will bless you because you have paid your tithing.’ I always thought that I was the most important person in the world when I went into the bishop’s office.”

Our son Mitchell is serving a mission in England. In a recent letter he recounted that while standing at a bus stop, a man from Africa excitedly approached them. The man said that before moving to England he had met missionaries in Uganda so he recognized their nametags. The missionaries in Uganda had taught him twice before he moved to England. When he saw the familiar nametags on our son and his companion, he blurted out this question. "Do you have the book?" They were not quite certain what he meant. But he explained that the missionaries in Uganda had read to him from a very profound book. He knew the words in the book were true and he wanted to learn more. He was thrilled to receive his own copy of the Book of Mormon. He held the book with tenderness and reverence and promised to read it that very night.