Gospel Story Finder

On the way, there’s a perfect chance to talk about life as a Latter-day Saint.
“I love living in Florida,” says Erin Mitchell, 13, one of three Beehives in the Panama City First Ward. “It hardly ever gets cold. And because it’s a tourist area, we get lots of visitors at church.”
Erin was “born and raised here. I’ve been a member for four years. Baptized April 27.” She rolls off the date like a great anniversary or a birthday, because for her it is both.
“I was in third grade. Our baby-sitter’s son’s friend, Lisa, started talking to me about the Church, and she asked me to go with her. I introduced my mom to her mom, and my mom joined the Church.” That was April 6. Then Erin was baptized. Then her father on June 21, and her brother James on February 25 the following year.
“I’m sure glad Lisa talked to me,” Erin says. “She brought our whole family into the Church.”

For example, one young girl had great physical beauty. When she walked in a room of strangers, people stopped talking. They seemed in awe of her looks. Boys she didn’t know would stop her and ask for her telephone number. Attention and opportunities came to her just because of how she looked. She was popular and had friends. But in speaking with a Young Women leader, she confessed that her good looks sometimes made her uncomfortable. She explained that she didn’t know if people liked her for herself or because she was pretty. Sometimes friends were only friendly for a short time. She didn’t trust any of the young men who approached her because she felt they didn’t really want to get to know her; they just seemed to want to go out with her because of her looks. Instead of making her happy, her beauty made her feel insecure because she wondered if people would still like her if she weren’t beautiful.

When I graduated high school, I had my whole college life planned out. I would find my first boyfriend, make a great group of friends, and eventually get married.
Instead, I found out that dating and building friendships can be hard. I would meet people who were already in relationships or already had an exclusive friend group. I kept hitting roadblocks to my life expectations.
I quickly found myself comparing my life to those who had the relationships I wished I had. I became envious and jealous. Pretty soon, I felt lonely and depressed.
I wasn’t sure if I would ever feel satisfied with my life.
I turned to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and made some changes in my life. And I’ve found three practices that have helped me feel joy as I wait for the blessings I’m seeking:
Around this time of loneliness, one of my friends participated in a 100-day gratitude challenge where she posted something she was grateful for on social media every day. At first it seemed ridiculous to me.
But as President Russell M. Nelson recently taught: “Counting our blessings is far better than recounting our problems. No matter our situation, showing gratitude for our privileges is a fast-acting and long-lasting spiritual prescription.”1
I have always been taught that gratitude can bring happiness, but I didn’t really believe it. But if there was a chance that it could help me feel joy, then I was going to try practicing gratitude too.
At first I focused a lot on the extravagant things in my life I was grateful for. But soon I noticed everyday blessings, like my cat, good relationships, the inspirational quotes on my social media feed, and my talents.
I’m always grateful for the moments of peace I feel, and I silently thank God when I notice His mercies that often carry me through the day, reminding me that He has great things in store for me.
I remember when President Nelson invited the sisters and youth of the Church to do social media fasts. Since accepting that first invitation, I’ve fasted from social media multiple times when I’ve felt that it’s creating the “impression that everyone except [me] is leading a fun, adventurous, and exciting life.”2
Through taking much-needed breaks from social media, I’ve learned about the importance of real-life relationships and gained a greater appreciation for finding joy through hobbies and spiritual habits.
I’ve also been able to see others from a more Christlike view instead of judging them by the life highlights they post. As President Nelson added, “Social media … creates a false reality,”3 and if we take a break from it, we can better remember the things that matter most, overcome the world,4 and focus on the Spirit.
When I felt lonely during college, I always had this thought: “If I’m feeling lonely, someone else is too.” That would motivate me to reach out to a friend or acquaintance. Our conversations would always lift both of our spirits.
I’ve realized that when I focus on helping others, I’m happy. This happens every time I listen to my friends’ struggles and offer them love and support. Just as President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) said, “To find real happiness, we must seek for it in a focus outside ourselves.”5
As I continue to apply these practices to my life, I keep realizing that I do have a “best” life and I don’t have to wait on specific blessings to feel joy. Sometimes I let my unmet expectations overwhelm me, but I reorient myself to notice my blessings and remember that through trusting Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and keeping my covenants, I can find a lasting joy I can’t get any other way.
I still may not have all the blessings in life I desire right now, but I like to remember these words from Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “The day will come when you turn the final pages of your own glorious story ... and experience the fulfillment of those blessed and wonderful words: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”6
Until then, I will keep focusing on enjoying the best life I have with God’s help.

For years I had sent out packages of clothing at Christmas time to families whose need I had read about in a New York newspaper. I had also included some spiritually oriented reading material.
One holiday season my husband, Will, stopped to watch my preparations. “You’re spending a lot of money on postage,” he noted. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I drove into the city with the packages? Our station wagon would hold a lot of them.”
I was excited at the idea! If he did that, I could send heavy winter clothing, too expensive to mail, and also food. Happily I went about gathering all I could, while Will got maps of Manhattan, the Bronx, and Brooklyn, and began to locate and schedule the stops on his route.
Early the day before Christmas, Will and our teenage boys loaded the station wagon, packing it to the roof. The day was cold and grey, but the only concession to the weather Will would make was to wear a cap. He held an office job and rarely spent time out of doors, yet he was confident that he’d be warm enough.
As I watched him back the loaded car out of the driveway, I was assailed by sudden doubts. What if the car broke down? What if he got lost? Or chilled? He was going into some of the most crime-ridden sections of the city—what if he were assaulted?
Turning back toward the house, I noticed that snow was lazily drifting down—an added worry. I went into the house and knelt down to pray for Will’s safe journey. “Dear Heavenly Father,” I began, “Will has gone on an errand for me—.” Then I stopped. I had the sudden impression that I had said something wrong. The thought came, “No, he has gone on an errand for Me.”
I was taken back by the thought. I had been thinking too highly of myself in assuming that Will had gone just for me, and that his safety depended on my prayers. At that moment, I realized that delivering the packages was his service to God, and he would be protected.
I got up, determined not to worry about Will any more, and went on with my holiday preparations. The snow that had begun so lazily in the morning was a blizzard by lunch time. In the afternoon I tried to walk to a nearby store but had to turn back because of the drifts. If they were impassable here, what must the roads be like in the city?
Dinner time came. Still no word from Will. He had said that he’d call me. My resolve not to worry was getting harder and harder to maintain. In the evening, when our sons came in from shoveling snow, one of them asked, “Isn’t dad home yet? Where can he be?”
“Mom,” said the other, “he can’t still be delivering packages at this hour. No one would let him in. I don’t want to worry you, but—.”
“He’ll be all right,” I assured the boys, but I was beginning to panic in spite of myself. Resolutely I worked at wrapping gifts, trying to ignore the kitchen clock which was now creeping toward eleven P.M.
Then one of the boys yelled with relief, “Mom, dad’s car is turning into the driveway!”
Excitedly, I grabbed a coat and went to meet him. As Will got out of the car, I noticed that he wasn’t cold and exhausted as I had pictured he would be. He looked as though he had been outdoors for a pleasant half-hour, instead of just having spent fifteen hours on snow-clogged streets, driving around abandoned cars and lugging packages up unshoveled walks.
“I didn’t have a bit of trouble,” he assured me, “and I found every family.”
That evening I gave thanks for my husband’s safe journey and for my increased understanding of the Lord’s ways.

Some years ago, a client seeking my professional advice described to me the nature of his business, which involved selling secondhand furniture and household goods with his father. Their stock was acquired by attending auctions and market sales and by clearing unwanted items from homes. They were careful to only buy items they could sell for a profit.
On one occasion, the son had contracted to clear the contents of a home following the death of an elderly occupant. Hanging in one of the rooms was a painting. Pausing to examine it, he considered the possibility that one day he would discover an antique or painting of far greater value than the previous owner had realized. But concluding that this painting was not in that category, he carried it to his vehicle and put it among the other items.
Later, as he and his father were unloading the vehicle, the father picked up the artwork and said, “I wish I knew more about paintings and how to tell if they are valuable.” The son responded that he was sure this one was not valuable. Nevertheless, the father felt it would be worth having the painting checked by a friend of his who managed an art gallery.
Several days later, the father’s friend informed him that the painting probably had a value of at least £12,000 (almost $29,000 U.S. in the early 1970s). Excited by the news, the father and son pick up the painting. This time they carefully wrapped the work of art in a blanket, and the son held it securely in his arms as they returned to the shop. The painting sold at auction for £12,500.
In telling this story, my client concluded by saying, “I can’t imagine why anyone would be prepared to pay so much for such an ordinary painting.”
I have often reflected on the response of the young man. He had no interest in the painting. He judged it to be of little or no value.

Lately I have been falling into a “spiritual slump.” I had not been saying my prayers or reading the scriptures like I should. I was also letting some of the negative attitudes from school affect how I was treating my family and how I judged things. Then, in the New Era, I saw the scripture Doctrine and Covenants 19:28: “Thou shalt pray vocally as well as in thy heart; yea, before the world as well as in secret, in public as well as in private.” I was curious why we should pray vocally. I had always known I should have a prayer in my heart, but I had never heard of praying vocally besides at church or during family prayers.
I was curious, and something told me I should pray out loud. The next day, when everyone else was gone from the house and I was alone, I went up to my room to try it. I cleaned my area of the room so I could kneel down and think of the Savior and my Father in Heaven. I started my prayer by thanking Heavenly Father for my blessings. Praying out loud was kind of awkward at first, so I stumbled over my words and felt a little silly, only hearing my voice.
I repented for the little things and then opened my mind a little more and started repenting for being disrespectful to my parents sometimes. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew I hadn’t obeyed the Lord and was not keeping His commandments to the best of my abilities. I opened my mouth and prayed for forgiveness more earnestly than I had ever done before. I asked to be forgiven for all the times I had not said my prayers because “I was too tired” or “it was too late at night,” for the times I hadn’t read my scriptures for the very same reasons, for not keeping my mind and my heart clean so I could be worthy to be an example to others, and for not being as kind and loving to my family as they are to me. Realizing all I had done, I began to cry. I felt warm inside. I knew the Lord had forgiven me, I knew He loves me, and I knew that He wants to comfort me and have me feel of His love.
I continued my vocal prayer and thanked Him for the many blessings He has given me. I had realized just how important the Atonement of our Savior Jesus Christ is. It is in His name that we communicate with our Heavenly Father as much as we want (see 3 Nephi 18:18–20). We can turn to Him whenever we need guidance, help, or comfort.
I know that my Father in Heaven loves me and wants me to return to Him. And I can—as long as I just hold on.

This is not easy, and we often fall short. Let me tell you, as some of you know, about our attempt at this a few weeks ago. We tried to have a Zion home in the month of July when we were tending 5 grandchildren, ages 1-7. We began with a Family Home Evening lesson on 3 important gospel principles, taught memorably with 3 simple Primary songs. The first principle was kindness, using the song, “I want to be kind to everyone, for that is right you see.” The next one was helpfulness. We sang, “When we’re helping we’re happy and we sing as we go.” And finally, obedience. “When my mother calls me, quickly I obey.” Be kind, be helpful, and be obedient. At the end of the week, we found we had not become perfect in those principles, so we taught the same lesson again. (Has that ever happened to you?)

I saw it in action with three of our 7-year-old granddaughters. They were making sugar cookies and being very creative. One of them said, “I am making a mermaid.” The next one said, “Oh I want to make a mermaid too.” “No!” snapped the first one. I had the idea first.” And the argument continued. I said, “Girls, let’s be kind and try to understand how each person is feeling.” Then the third granddaughter piped in, “When someone copies your idea, it is really a compliment. It means they think you are very clever, and it is a way of showing how much they love and admire you.” And those were the kind words that burst the jealous, competitive bubble that had been building, creating a Zion moment. Can we use kind words and love to dispel envy and jealousy among roommates, among colleagues, among each other?

My mom joined a softball team this summer. “It’ll be good exercise,” she said when she first told us at dinner one night. “Maybe it’ll get me out of my rut.” If saying things like “Eat all your brussels sprouts, Scott, or no dessert,” was being in a rut, I was glad to see her getting out of it.
“Way to go, Mom,” I said, I didn’t think it had anything to do with me.
I was wrong. The next thing I knew, she had bought a glove and some cleats and was after me to practice with her. Between school and my soccer team and hanging out with my friends, I didn’t have much time to play catch with my mother, but I tried.
She wasn’t very good. She spent a lot of time chasing after balls she didn’t catch, and I stayed busy running down her wild throws. At least when I’m playing with my friends, I can yell things like, “Get a net,” but you can’t do that to your mother.
“I can tell the coach hates having to play me,” she told us at dinner one night. I knew she was upset—she forgot to fix garlic bread to go with the spaghetti.
“Give yourself a chance,” Dad said. “You’re getting better all the time—isn’t she, Scott?”
I nodded, since I’m not supposed to talk with my mouth full.
After that, Mom was after me even more to practice with her. It reminded me a little bit of when I started playing soccer. I was only seven, and I kept falling because I’d get my feet tangled up with the ball.
“You just have to get up one more time than you fall down,” she always told me. “You’re getting better every day.” That kind of thing.
So I tried to encourage her too. “You almost got that one, Mom!” “Try holding your glove like this.” That kind of thing.
She was really discouraged after one particular game. She had been in right field, where she says the coach puts her because hardly anything ever comes there. In that game something did come there, but Mom didn’t catch it, and by the time she’d chased it down, the other team had scored three runs. Her team lost by two runs, and she felt personally responsible, especially since she struck out every time she got up to bat.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” she said that night. We were having hamburgers for dinner, and she had forgotten the french fries. “They all try to be nice to me, but I know that they’d be relieved if I’d quit. It’s hard, knowing that I’m the team’s least valuable player.”
“Don’t punish yourself,” Dad said. “If you’re not having fun, quit.”
My jaw fell open. “Hey!” I protested. “That isn’t what I heard when I wanted to quit soccer. You both told me, ‘Don’t be a quitter,’ and ‘What do you think we’ll do with that soccer ball and uniform we bought?’”
“But, Scott,” Dad said, “we were right, weren’t we? You just needed to get over the rough spots. Look how much you’ve enjoyed it since then. You’re the high scorer on your team now.”
“Yes,” Mom chimed in. “Look what you’d have missed. If you had quit while you were down, you’d have had a sour feeling about it for the rest of your life.”
“That’s what I mean,” I argued. “The rest of your life may not be as long as the rest of mine, but do you want to feel sour about softball for the rest of it? Could I have another hamburger?”
I guess Mom thought about what I said. Or maybe about how much she had spent on the glove and cleats. Anyway, she didn’t quit. And she did get better. I’m not talking about a miracle. But before the season was over, she was sometimes getting hits and sometimes catching what came her way out in right field. She must have stopped feeling sour about it, too, because the meals got back to normal at our house.

When I turned 12 years old, I went on my first overnight campout with the Scouts. With eager hands I packed my hand-me-down camping gear and headed to the mountains with the troop. I ended up sleeping in a large tent with several other boys, including my older brother. Being the newest and youngest Scout, I felt somewhat intimidated by it all. It was nice to have my older brother with me. He was big and strong and older than most of the other Scouts.

As we all prepared for bed, I quietly climbed out of my sleeping bag and knelt down to say my nightly prayer. As I was praying, I could hear some of the other boys laughing at what I was doing. I was embarrassed and stopped.

My older brother came to my rescue. Responding to the teasing boys, he said in a loud voice, “If my little brother wants to pray, he’s going to pray. Anybody object?”

Not a word was said, and I went back to my prayer. I have often thought of this experience, and I’m thankful for my brother who taught me not to be ashamed to pray regardless of where we are.

For example, my full name is Clarence Weldon Tom Collins III, but I go by Tom. Every once in a while, especially at the beginning of school while teachers are still figuring out their rolls, someone will laugh and say, “Ha! Your name is Clarence!”
Now I could get upset about it, but that wouldn’t stop the teasing. So I just say, “Clarence means bright. What does your name mean?” They find out it’s something I’m not ashamed of and won’t be teased about, and they end up respecting me.

It was a banner day for the Bakersfield California Stake in more ways than one. A special Young Women conference was held to celebrate the anniversary of the organization of the Young Women program, and the young Latter-day Saints and their leaders took the opportunity to highlight the heritage of their hometown.
Walking into the stake center on that special day, participants were greeted by row after row of colorful banners. In preparation for the celebration, each girl in the stake had been asked to make a 2-by-5-foot banner depicting some important concept of her life. The banners were displayed in the cultural hall during the day, and that night at the Grand Ball, each girl, dressed in white, marched and carried her banner in an impressive formation.
During the conference, the stake Young Women learned about the history of Bakersfield. They enjoyed listening to the curator of the local pioneer museum. Even the centerpieces on the tables were antique dolls and toys. As a special speaker, Ruth May Peterson shared stories from the life of her grandmother, Ruth May Fox, who served for nearly 50 years as the general president of the Young Women. A booklet of Sister Fox’s poetry was given to each girl.
To provide a fun insight into the changes in fashion that have taken place since the Young Women organization was organized over one hundred years ago, a fashion show with dresses from 1869 to the present was part of the event. From a private collection, the dresses were modeled by the Young Women advisers as lunch was served.
As part of the celebration, the stake president made a special presentation to the girls who had completed their Young Womanhood medallion award requirements.

Shelly sat on the front steps with her big pink elephant. “Remember when we went to Mr. Bin’s farm?” she asked. “He let us ride the pony, and you were scared. I was a little bit scared, too, but not really.”
“Hello, Shelly,” called her neighbor Mrs. Lee. “Are you talking to your toy elephant? I remember how I used to talk to my doll when I was your age.”
“I’m talking to Jojo,” Shelly replied.
“Jojo’s a nice name for an elephant.”
“He’s not an elephant! He’s a boy,” Shelly explained.
Mrs. Lee smiled and nodded her head. “Whatever you say, dear.”
Shelly watched Mrs. Lee drive away in her car. She giggled. “She thought you were an elephant.”
The mailman came up the walk. “Are you and your elephant having a nice chat on this beautiful day?” he asked.
“He can’t talk,” Shelly said.
“No, but you can talk to him. I remember talking to a teddy bear when I was little.”
“I was talking to Jojo,” Shelly said. “But he doesn’t talk much to me.”
The mailman looked around. “Jojo, eh?” he chuckled. “No, I’d guess he wouldn’t have much more to say than the elephant does. What’s your elephant’s name?”
“Just elephant,” Shelly replied.
The mailman chuckled again. “Well, have a good day.”
“You have a good day too,” Shelly said.
Shelly set the elephant down on the step. “I’ll be back,” she promised, “after I take the mail to Mom.”
When she returned Shelly sat down beside the pink elephant and flipped its trunk up and down. “Mom baked a chocolate cake. Pretty soon we can have cake and milk. Ummm, I can taste it already.”
She got on her knees and watched an ant crawling along the sidewalk. “Wow, that tiny little ant is dragging something bigger than it is. Ants are fun to watch, you know. Hey, look at that. Wow! There’re millions of them I bet.”
Billy Hale skidded to a stop. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Looking at some ants,” Shelly answered.
Billy got off his bike and came to look. “You think those ants understand what you’re saying?”
Shelly snorted. “I wasn’t talking to the ants.”
“Yeah? Who were you talking to then?” Billy slung a leg over his bike.
“Jojo,” Shelly replied.
Billy looked all around. “Jojo? Oh, the toy elephant.”
“No, silly. Jojo is a boy.”
Billy laughed and shook his head. “Oh, Shelly! You’re something else.” He rode away laughing.
“What’s the matter with him?” Shelly sputtered.
“Milk and cake!” Mother called.
Shelly’s cousin Jojo, who had come last night for a visit, crawled out from under the porch. His face and hands were covered with dirt. His hair was full of cobwebs.
“Did you find it?” Shelly asked.
The boy raised his left hand, holding a red ball.
“Oh, thank you, Jojo,” Shelly said. “I thought sure it was lost.”
Jojo smiled and said, “Let’s go get that milk and cake!”

But in the palm of my hand I hold another indelible reminder, a glaring scar, one which resulted from a different motive, an act not so pleasant to remember.
I recall—though not in exact detail—that when I was nine years of age my mother sent me with a glass bottle to a nearby store for some milk. She cautioned me, along with other instructions, “Please do not run, because it is dangerous while carrying a glass bottle in your hands.”
Now, what do you suppose I did? I did exactly what my mother told me not to do. I ran, and when I was almost home I stumbled. As I fell my hand landed on the bulk of the broken bottle, leaving a large gash. As a result, today I have a scar on my right hand, and each time I see it or touch it, it reminds me of the experience of a disobedient child.

I have a good friend who told me of a personal rescue that she holds close to her heart. She was a college student like you, but she attended that red-and-white institution to the north. (Some of you might think that was the source of her problems.) It was near the end of her senior year, and things were not falling together as she had hoped. She had applied to graduate school but wasn’t sure about taking that next step in her education. She was very involved in student affairs and recognized that these experiences that she loved were coming to an end. She was dating the missionary for whom she’d waited for two years, but she was also dating his best friend and had been for most of the time the missionary was gone. You get the picture. At that moment, her journey was a nightmare.

It was a Friday afternoon, and she was particularly downhearted. She hadn’t heard from any graduate schools. She was juggling dates for the weekend with both men. She had papers to write and projects to finish. Her little ten-year-old brother was the only one home, and he was begging her to play a game with him. She couldn’t stand to deal with life, so she left. She walked out the front door and up the street, and then she turned and began to walk toward the freeway. As she walked she heard a crunch on the gravel behind her, and turning she saw her little brother. He looked at her face streaked with tears and then asked, “Where ya going?”

She replied in a voice most dramatic, “I don’t know.”

For a minute he looked at her, not sure what to do, and then he said, “Do you want to go to Skaggs?”

He was a rescuer that day. A little ten-year-old chasing a lost-looking sister around the corner and up the street. He knew something was wrong, didn’t know what, and yet he was the only one there. He made her laugh, and they went to Skaggs. She’ll never forget that day he saved her. He more than made her day.

Before Richard had left for his mission, a university professor had tried to dissuade him from going; he would be ruining a promising career, the man said. A few weeks after returning from Uruguay, Richard was invited to be interviewed by Captain (later Admiral) Hyman G. Rickover for a job on a top-secret military project involving nuclear energy.
The interview didn’t seem to go very well for Richard. In response to one question, he mentioned his mission. “What mission?” Captain Rickover demanded. “And what do I care about your mission?”
Richard reacted to that, because his mission had been such a precious time in his life. “Everything I really appreciate began to mature in the mission field,” he says. “So I decided to respond vigorously to every question.”
Then the captain asked, “What was the last book you read?”
“The Book of Mormon,” he responded.
At the conclusion of the interview, and feeling that he had no chance for the job, Richard got up to leave. “Just a minute,” said the captain. “I’ve been testing you to see if you could stand up for what you believe. This is not going to be an easy project. We need people who can work with confidence.” Richard got the job working on the design of the nuclear reactor for the Nautilus, the first nuclear-powered submarine.
Later, while checking personnel records, he discovered the name of the professor who had urged him not to go on a mission; the man was now working under Richard’s direction, about three administrative levels down.

Having determined to become a bookkeeper, I immediately began to work to reach this goal. I well remember the amusement I furnished my fellow students. One remarked when looking at my books, “What is it; hen tracks?” Another said, “Has lightning struck an ink bottle?”

These remarks and others, while not made to hurt my feelings but in good-natured fun, nevertheless affected me deeply and aroused within me a spirit of determination. I resolved to live to provide an example for penmanship for all who attended the university, and to be the teacher of penmanship and bookkeeping in that institution. Having a purpose and also “the will to labor,” and agreeing with Lord Lytton that, “In the bright lexicon of youth there’s no such word as fail,” I commenced to use my spare time to practice penmanship, continuing year after year until I was referred to as “the greatest scribbler on earth.”

The result was that some years later, I got a job as bookkeeper and policy clerk in an insurance office. Although at fifteen, I wrote very well and it was all that was needed to satisfactorily fill the position which I then held, yet I was not fully satisfied but continued to dream and “scribble,” when not other wise occupied. I worked in the front of A. W. White and Company’s bank, and, when not busy, volunteered to assist with the bank work, and to do anything and everything I could to employ my time, never thinking whether I was to be paid for it or not, but having only a desire to work and learn.

Mr. Morf, the bookkeeper in the bank, wrote well, and took time and effort to assist me in my efforts to become proficient as a penman. I learned to write so well that I often earned more before and after office hours by writing cards, invitations, etc., and making maps, than the amount of my regular salary. Some years later, a diploma at the Territorial Fair was awarded me for the finest penmanship in Utah.

When I engaged in business for myself, there was a vacancy at the university in the position of teacher of penmanship and bookkeeping, and to fulfill the promise to myself, made when a youth of twelve or thirteen, that I would some day teach these subjects I applied for the position. My application was accepted, and my obligation to myself was thus fulfilled.

Some time back a small, bent, elderly woman came to my office. For the purpose of this talk I shall call her Mary Olsen, although that is not her name and she would not wish her identity disclosed. She said she had just come over from the temple. She took from her purse her checkbook. She said that she had been a widow for many years, that life had not been easy for her. She had a great love for the Lord and his Church. She had faithfully paid her tithing all her life. She felt she would not live much longer. Now, she said, she felt she ought to be doing more to help than she had done. In a hand shaky with age, she wrote a check for $5,000. She handed it to me. I noted the address where she lived. It was in a poor neighborhood. I confess that as I looked at that check tears came into my eyes. I have held many larger checks than that in my hands. But as I held the check of this widow woman, I was almost overcome by her faith and the seriousness of the trust that was mine in the expenditure of her consecrated contribution.

My dear young friends, we—you and I—are trustees of that which has been given to the Lord by Mary Olsen and thousands like her whose devotion is as great and whose sacrifice is as certain. This beautiful campus, with its many programs, is a consumer of a very substantial portion of the widow’s contribution. She gives her offering to the Lord, and she is then released from responsibility. The responsibility then becomes mine—and yours!

After a meeting with a group of students recently one young man waited to ask a question. “Elder Hanks,” he said, “what are your goals? What do you want to accomplish?” I observed his seriousness of purpose and answered in the same spirit that my strongest desire is to qualify to be a friend of Christ.
I had not responded to such a question just that way before, but the answer did put into words the deep yearnings of my heart.
In ancient times Abraham was called the “friend of God.” Jesus, shortly before his crucifixion, said to his disciples, “Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you. Henceforth I call you not servants … but I have called you friends. …” (John 15:14–15.)
In 1832, to a group of elders returning from missionary service, he repeated the message: “… from henceforth I shall call you friends. …” (D&C 84:77.)
Today I would like to speak of one lesson among many that he taught us and that you and I must learn if we are to merit his friendship.
Christ’s love was so pure that he gave his life for us: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13.) But there was another gift he bestowed while he was on the cross, a gift that further measured the magnitude of his great love: he forgave, and asked his Father to forgive, those who persecuted and crucified him.
Was this act of forgiveness less difficult than sacrificing his mortal life? Was it less a test of his love? I do not know the answer. But I have felt that the ultimate form of love for God and men is forgiveness.
He met the test. What of us? Perhaps we shall not be called upon to give our lives for our friends or our faith (though perhaps some shall), but it is certain that every one of us has and will have occasion to confront the other challenge. What will we do with it? What are we doing with it?
Someone has written: “… the withholding of love is the negation of the spirit of Christ, the proof that we never knew him, that for us he lived in vain. It means that he suggested nothing in all our thoughts, that he inspired nothing in all our lives, that we were not once near enough to him to be seized with the spell of his compassion for the world.”
Christ’s example and instructions to his friends are clear. He forgave, and he said: “… Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” (Matt. 5:44.)
What is our response when we are offended, misunderstood, unfairly or unkindly treated, or sinned against, made an offender for a word, falsely accused, passed over, hurt by those we love, our offerings rejected? Do we resent, become bitter, hold a grudge? Or do we resolve the problem if we can, forgive, and rid ourselves of the burden?
The nature of our response to such situations may well determine the nature and quality of our lives, here and eternally. A courageous friend, her faith refined by many afflictions, said to me only hours ago, “Humiliation must come before exaltation.”
It is required of us to forgive. Our salvation depends upon it. In a revelation given in 1831 the Lord said:
“My disciples, in days of old, sought occasion against one another and forgave not one another in their hearts; and for this evil they were afflicted and sorely chastened.
“Wherefore, I say unto you, that ye ought to forgive one another; for he that forgiveth not his brother his trespasses standeth condemned before the Lord; for there remaineth in him the greater sin.
“I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men.” (D&C 64:8–10.)
Therefore, Jesus taught us to pray, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” (See Matt. 6:14–15.)
Does it not seem a supreme impudence to ask and expect God to forgive when we do not forgive?—openly? and “in our hearts”?
The Lord affirms in the Book of Mormon that we bring ourselves under condemnation if we do not forgive. (See Mosiah 26:30–31.)
But not only our eternal salvation depends upon our willingness and capacity to forgive wrongs committed against us. Our joy and satisfaction in this life, and our true freedom, depend upon our doing so. When Christ bade us turn the other cheek, walk the second mile, give our cloak to him who takes our coat, was it to be chiefly out of consideration for the bully, the brute, the thief? Or was it to relieve the one aggrieved of the destructive burden that resentment and anger lay upon us?
Paul wrote to the Romans that nothing “shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Rom. 8:39.)
I am sure this is true. I bear testimony that this is true. But it is also true that we can separate ourselves from his spirit. In Isaiah it is written: “… your iniquities have separated between you and your God. …” (Isa. 59:2.) Again, “… they have rewarded evil unto themselves.” (Isa. 3:9.)
Through Helaman we learn that “whosoever doeth iniquity, doeth it unto himself …” (Hel. 14:30); and from Benjamin, “… ye do withdraw yourselves from the Spirit of the Lord. …” (Mosiah 2:36.)
In every case of sin this is true. Envy, arrogance, unrighteous dominion—these canker the soul of one who is guilty of them. It is true also if we fail to forgive. Even if it appears that another may be deserving of our resentment or hatred, none of us can afford to pay the price of resenting or hating, because of what it does to us. If we have felt the gnawing, mordant inroads of these emotions, we know the harm we suffer.
So Paul taught the Corinthians that they must “see that none render evil for evil unto any man. …” (1 Thes. 5:15.)
It is reported that President Brigham Young once said that he who takes offense when no offense was intended is a fool, and he who takes offense when offense was intended is usually a fool. It was then explained that there are two courses of action to follow when one is bitten by a rattlesnake. One may, in anger, fear, or vengefulness, pursue the creature and kill it. Or he may make full haste to get the venom out of his system. If we pursue the latter course we will likely survive, but if we attempt to follow the former, we may not be around long enough to finish it.
Years ago on Temple Square I heard a boy pour out the anguish of his troubled heart and make a commitment to God. He had been living in a spirit of hatred toward a man who had criminally taken the life of his father. Nearly bereft of his senses with grief, he had been overcome with bitterness.
On that Sabbath morning when others and I heard him, he had been touched by the Spirit of the Lord, and in that hour through the pouring in of that spirit had flooded out the hostility that had filled his heart. He tearfully declared his determined intent to leave vengeance to the Lord and justice to the law. He would no longer hate the one who had caused the grievous loss. He would forgive and would not for another hour permit the corrosive spirit of vengefulness to fill his heart.
Sometime later, touched with the remembrance of that moving Sabbath morning, I told the story to a group of people in another city. Before I left that small community the next day I had a visit from a man who had heard the message and understood it. Later a letter came from him. He had gone home that night and prayed and prepared himself and had then made a visit to the place of a man in his community who had years before imposed upon the sanctity of his home. There had been animosity and revenge in his heart and threats made. That evening when it was made known that he was at the door, his frightened neighbor appeared with a weapon in his hand. The man quickly explained the reasons for his visit, that he had come to say that he was sorry, that he did not want hatred to continue to consume his life. He offered forgiveness and sought forgiveness and went his way in tears, a free man for the first time in years. He left a former adversary also in tears, shaken and repentant.
The next day the same man went to the home of a relative in the town. He said, “I came to ask your forgiveness. I don’t even remember why we have been so long angry, but I have come to tell you that I am sorry and to beg your pardon and to say that I have learned how foolish I have been.” He was invited in to join the family at their table, and was reunited with his kin.
When I heard his story I knew again the importance of qualifying ourselves for the forgiveness of Christ by forgiving.
Robert Louis Stevenson wrote: “The truth of Christ’s teaching seems to be this: In our own person and fortune, we should be ready to accept and pardon all; it is our cheek we are to turn and our coat we are to give to the man who has taken our cloak. But when another’s face is buffeted, perhaps a little of the lion will become us best. That we are to suffer others to be injured and stand by, is not conceivable and surely not desirable.”
So there are times when, in defense of others and principle, we must act. But of ourselves, if we suffer injury or unkindness, we must pray for the strength to forbear.
Christ gave his life on a cross; and on that cross he fully, freely forgave. It is a worthy goal to seek to qualify for the friendship of such a one.
More than 250 years ago Joseph Addison printed in The Spectator a paragraph of sobering thoughtfulness:
“When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow; when I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great Day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together.”
God help us to rid ourselves of resentment and pettiness and foolish pride; to love, and to forgive, in order that we may be friends with ourselves, with others, and with the Lord.
“… even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.” (Col. 3:13.)
In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Cristina looked longingly at the red dress in the window. Four hundred cruzeiros! It might as well have been all the money in Brazil. Her father had to work a week to earn that much. Her mother earned even less, sewing in a shop in downtown Rio de Janeiro.
Her friend Angela was going to dance in the Carnaval (festival like Mardi Gras) parade this year, and Cristina wanted to be with her.
“Can’t you save up the money?” Angela asked hopefully as the two girls walked toward the beach. “Carnaval is still two months away.”
“Save what? I don’t get any pocket money. Anyway, Papa is far away, working in Curitiba, so I can’t ask him.”
“Maybe something will happen.”
“Maybe,” murmured Cristina. But she couldn’t imagine what could happen.
“Oh, look! There’s an old vulture.” Angela ran laughing down the beach to chase the big black bird. Soon she came running back. “Let’s go borrow Juca’s vulture kite.”
“I can’t, Angela. I’m sorry. I have to do my chores.”
At home, Cristina swept the one room, cleaned the ashes out of the stove, fetched water from the faucet in the street, then set rice and beans to cook over a new fire.
When Mama came home, she looked so tired that Cristina could not bring herself to speak of the costume. She thought about Carnaval a lot, though. It always began on a Saturday and ended on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. How she loved the costumes in the giant parade! And how she liked to dance to the fast samba drum music. There were always women in satin ball gowns of scarlet and glossy blue and dancers wearing splendid gold pantaloons or glittering silver skirts. Some wore wonderful hats topped with ostrich plumes. The thick, creamy plumes dipped and swayed with the dancers.
An idea popped into Cristina’s head: There might be a way I could get a costume!
After school the next day she rushed to the shop where her mother worked, and found Senhor Luis, the owner.
“Senhor Luis,” Cristina said, “could I work for you after school? I would work very hard.”
Senhor Luis thought a bit. “Well,” he said, “you could run errands and help keep the shop tidy. But I can only afford to pay you forty cruzeiros a week.”
In her head Cristina multiplied: forty cruzeiros times eight weeks are three hundred twenty cruzeiros. Perhaps Mama can lend me the rest.
“Thank you, Senhor Luis. I will do it.”
Week after week Cristina ran errands, swept the shop, folded shirts. She carefully put away her money. There was no time anymore to play with Angela, who would say, “Let’s watch television in the store window” or “Let’s pick green coconuts in Carlo’s backyard.”
One day Cristina stopped again to look at the red dress in the window. It was gone! Cristina rushed inside the store. Quickly she pushed aside the dresses on the racks; then she saw it. Will the shopkeeper sell it before I have all the money? she wondered. She had two hundred cruzeiros already. There were just three weeks left, and she still had to ask Mama to lend her eighty cruzeiros.
As Cristina helped at the shop, she noticed how her mother’s feet constantly rocked back and forth on the sewing machine treadle. All of Senhor Luis’s machines were operated that way, because he couldn’t afford to have electricity.
One day Clara, who worked beside Cristina’s mother, cried out, “My legs! Oh, my legs!” and she began to frantically rub them.
Cristina’s mother dropped her work and bent quickly to massage Clara’s legs. “Cristina,” she called, “help me.”
Cristina ran over and rubbed Clara’s legs, too, as hard as she could.
“Thank you,” Clara said a few minutes later. “I am better now.”
But Cristina was upset. She remembered the many times her mother rubbed her own legs when she got home from work. “Mama,” she whispered, “let’s invite Dona Clara to supper tonight.”
“What a good idea!” Her mother smiled, then suddenly looked worried. “But what will we have to eat?”
“I will think of something, Mama.”
At the butcher shop Cristina stood clutching her money in her pocket. “One pound of sausage, please,” she said, counting out sixty cruzeiros. Passing mounds of ripe yellow papayas and heaps of fragrant, purple mangoes at the grocer’s, she selected three beautiful, large oranges. Another ten cruzeiros gone! She bought some bananas and manioc meal too. All together she spent one hundred cruzeiros of her savings.
When her mother came home with Clara, there were marvelous smells coming from the stove. “What are you cooking, Cristina?”
“Sausage with beans, Mama. I bought it with some of my money. I got some fruit, too—see the lovely bananas and oranges?”
Mama smiled and hugged her. “Your father would be proud of you.”
“Come and sit, Mama and Dona Clara.” Cristina dished out the tasty beans, divided up the sausage, then added rice to each plate. The manioc meal went on top of the gravy. They had the fruit for dessert. Cristina saw how much her mother and Clara were enjoying their special supper, but she herself could hardly eat.
“It was delicious!” Clara said with a sigh when she had finished eating. “I feel much better now. Thank you, Cristina. You are a good girl.”
Clara lingered to chat with Mama, and Cristina heard their soft voices in front of the house as she washed the dishes. Soon afterward she went to bed and, despite her sadness, fell asleep quickly.
“Now you’ll never get your costume!” Angela cried the next day when she learned what Cristina had done.
“I felt sorry for Dona Clara, Angela. And my mother works so hard too.”
Her mother was waiting for her when Cristina went to work that afternoon. “Look!” she told Cristina excitedly.
Cristina saw a glowing, shimmering dress hanging on a rack. “A costume!” she whispered, not daring to speak louder for fear it would vanish.
Clara and Senhor Luis laughed. Clara said, “This morning I asked Senhor Luis for some remnants, and he gave me this beautiful material instead. Your mother and I made it into this costume for you.”
Senhor Luis beamed. “You have worked hard, child,” he said. “You deserve it.”
Cristina held the dress against herself. Its silky green material glinted and moved with her body, the rich skirt of many layers swirling about her knees. Soon, Cristina knew, it would be flashing among the other dancers’ costumes.

For example, I was having a hard time getting the children to cooperate. They would fight with each other, ignore my request to help with small jobs until I became insistent or angry, and act up or show off at the most inconvenient times. Alma’s interviews with his sons in Alma 36–42 made me realize how well he knew each one as an individual and how crucial a personal relationship with each child is. My husband, Douglas, and I began holding interviews periodically with each child and doing things alone with each one. It helped to set aside special days or times with each child and make bedtime less hectic and more personal. We found that by treating our children as individuals, they felt less need to seek our attention in negative ways. As they became more sure of themselves and their place in the family, they became more cooperative.