Gospel Story Finder

Natalie thinks that it’s great to be sixteen and to go on dates. But I’m only seven, and I went on a date! Your girl-friend Melissa took me to a movie. She said that you wouldn’t mind. When we got home, Kelly’s car was at our house. I saw her outside with Mom, but Melissa didn’t. I told Melissa that I’d buy her an ice-cream cone, and we walked to the ice-cream store. That was a close call! I think that having girl-friends is hard work!

While I share the next story, please reflect on your present experience at BYU-Idaho. President Russell M. Nelson states, “Your mind is precious! It is sacred. Therefore, the education of one’s mind is also sacred. Indeed, education is a religious responsibility.”

This is a shared responsibility. As rewarding as it is to see students succeed, there is concern when things do not go well. I refer to the next student by the pseudonym of John. I could count on John being to my class every time. He was pleasant, attentive, and got along well with others. But there was a problem: John did not complete any of his assignments. Fearing I would have to ultimately give him a failing grade, I invited him to come to my office for a consultation. I worried about how to handle the situation as I welcomed him in and we began to talk. I reminded him of his missing assignments and suggested he withdraw while the opportunity prevailed to receive a W on his transcript rather than an F at the end of the term.

John was shocked at the prospects. “I don’t want to withdraw,” he said. “This is my favorite class.”

As I looked at John, I sensed his sincerity. Instead of talking about the coursework, the Spirit prompted me to talk of my family and of my own journey as a non-traditional student. I explained I knew education could be hard and inconvenient—I had attended courses at night while juggling family, full-time employment, and Church callings for some 13 years to achieve the diplomas on what I call “my gratitude wall.” I shared with John that to me education is an opportunity. I told him my hardworking, skilled father only had an 8 th grade education. His service in WWII included being the company barber, a skill he enjoyed even after his release but was not licensed to practice and for which he could not charge. Years later he sought entrance into barber school, but my father was denied the opportunity for even technical education because of his lack of a high school degree. In contrast, my diplomas are a symbol of opportunity, and a humble testament of joyful blessings. I told John how as a parent I had worried about my five children, and I shared with John their success. Each had graduated from this campus and went onto earn additional degrees, one like him in communication, two as educators, and two as physicians. Then I asked John a question: “Who is sacrificing to give you the opportunity to be at BYU-Idaho?”

Tears filled John’s eyes to overflowing as he responded, “My mother, and I hope someday she will be as proud of me as you are of your children.”

It was sensing his mother’s love and sacrifice that helped John create his own “sixteen stones.” He started not only showing up in class but skillfully fulfilling his assignments. He worked diligently to make up his past negligence. Through his efforts he began to see the Lord’s hand in his life as he successfully completed the course. Faith became an action word. As we find in the scriptures:

Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone. . . . I will shew thee my faith by my works.

A few semesters later, I happened to see John waiting for entrance to the Testing Center. I stopped and asked him how he was doing. He glowed with confidence and joy as he reported, “Great.” Then pointing to the radiant woman sitting by his side, he said, “And she is making sure I stay that way.”

When I was a boy living in Salt Lake City, most homes were heated with coal stoves. Black smoke belched forth from almost every chimney. As winter came to a close, black soot and grime were everywhere, both inside and outside of the house.
There was a ritual through which we passed each year—not a very pleasant one, as we viewed it. It involved every member of the family. It was known as spring cleaning. When the weather warmed after the long winter, a week or so was [declared to be] cleanup time. It was usually when there was a holiday and included two Saturdays.
My mother ran the show. All of the curtains were taken down and laundered. Then they were carefully ironed. The windows were washed inside and out, and oh, what a job that was in that big two-story house.
Wallpaper was on all of the walls, and Father would bring home numerous cans of wallpaper cleaner. It was like bread dough, but it was a pretty pink in color when the container was opened. It had an interesting smell, a pleasant, refreshing kind of smell. We all pitched in. We would knead some of the cleaning dough in our hands, climb a ladder, and begin on the high ceiling, and then work down the walls. The dough was soon black from the dirt it lifted from the paper. It was a terrible task, very tiring, but the results were like magic. We would stand back and compare the dirty surface with the clean surface. It was amazing to us how much better the clean walls looked.
All of the carpets were taken up and dragged out to the backyard, where they were hung over the clothesline, one by one. Each of us boys would have what we called a carpet beater, a device made of light steel rods with a wooden handle. As we beat the carpet, the dust would fly, and we would have to keep going until there was no dust left.
We detested that work. But when all of it was done, and everything was back in place, the result was wonderful. The house was clean, our spirits renewed. The whole world looked better.

By the time my companion and I started teaching Corina Aguilar, she had already expressed a desire to come to church. After learning about the Restoration of the gospel and reading and praying about the Book of Mormon, she felt that the Church was true. There was just one thing holding her back: her husband, Manuel.
Corina would not attend church by herself—she was determined that her entire family learn about the gospel together. However, Manuel was busy working long hours, and when he came home, the last thing he wanted to do was listen to a couple of missionaries.
Corina began praying that Manuel would have a desire to meet with us, but weeks passed with no change in his attitude. Then, one day at the end of a lesson, Corina asked us about fasting. We were late for another appointment, so we briefly explained that when we fast, we go without food or drink for two consecutive meals. During that time we pray to Heavenly Father for help and guidance for ourselves or for others. With a promise that we would teach her more during our next visit, we hurriedly left.
A few days later we visited Corina again. During the lesson she surprised us when she said sadly, “I don’t think I can fast.” She explained that since our last visit, she had been fasting. She would go through the day without breakfast or lunch and would then eat dinner. Following that meal, she would start again, not eating anything until the next day’s dinner. This pattern continued for three days. “I tried really hard,” she told us, “but it was so difficult.”
Amazed at her faith, we quickly explained that normally a person fasts for only one day. Then, curious to know the motive for such sacrifice, we asked, “Corina, can we ask what you were fasting for?”
“For my husband,” she responded.
We were impressed by her desire to follow the commandments of the Lord and seek blessings for her family. Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin (1917–2008) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught, “Often when we fast, our righteous prayers and petitions have greater power.”1 So it was with Corina. The next week Manuel agreed to meet with us. Although skeptical, after learning about the plan of salvation, he too began to pray and even kept a copy of the Book of Mormon in his truck to read during his break at work. Eventually Corina, Manuel, and their three children began attending church together.

In high school I ran cross-country and distance track. I was never very good, but I enjoyed running and worked hard. One day my team was scheduled for a cross-country meet that took place on a particularly hilly course. I’d been practicing hard, so as we lined up in our starting positions, I said a silent prayer to Heavenly Father to ask if He would bless me with success in accordance to my hard work.
The gunshot sounded, and we were off. The first mile was flat and I was feeling pretty well, so I began to run even faster. Surely this was going to be my finest race! Then came the first hill. I ran up as fast as I could and came tearing down the other side. But then there was another hill. This one was even steeper, and I quickly lost my momentum. I started feeling like I might fall down the other side. I held it together, but when I came around the next corner, I saw multiple hills to come. Before long I became very tired. By mile two, other runners continually passed me. I became frustrated with myself for taking the first part of the race so fast, using all the energy that I needed now. I wanted to give up and walk off the course.
I decided to say another silent prayer. I asked my Father in Heaven to bless me with the ability to finish the race. Then the thought came, “Sometimes life gets hard, and it’s all you can do to keep running, but in the end you’ll be glad you didn’t give up and walk.” I was able to finish the race, and while I didn’t run the amazing race I’d wanted to, I gained something that has helped me ever since—a sense for how it may feel to endure to the end.

Home, family, and personal enrichment meeting is a wonderful place to socialize and establish the sisterhood necessary to create a sense of belonging among members of Relief Society and visitors. This is exemplified in an enrichment meeting held in Benidorm, Spain—a resort town where travelers are constantly coming and going. One evening sisters from Ecuador, Peru, Colombia, Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, England, Scotland, and Spain meet together for an enrichment meeting. On this particular night the sisters from Switzerland teach the others how to make greeting cards that can be used for various occasions. It is a simple design, easily mastered while the sisters visit and strengthen friendships.
As the sisters work together, their friendliness and sincerity soon overcome language barriers. The sister missionaries have brought some investigators who are chatting happily with the others. When these investigators visit the little branch again on Sunday, they already feel they belong to the group.
It is a simple activity, but this enrichment meeting accomplishes the goals of learning, serving, and socializing. Some of the sisters might have thought, “I don’t need to go. I have plenty of greeting cards.” But the greeting cards are only a small part of the benefit of attending enrichment meeting this night. Sometimes we attend to get something out of it. Other times we’re there to give to others, if only a listening ear, a word of encouragement, or a welcoming hand of friendship.

Three months after I arrived in Vietnam, just about dusk one evening, a radio call came in to the operations office requesting a patient pickup at an insecure landing zone (meaning our forces were still in contact with the enemy).
As our helicopter followed a river through the Tuy Hoa Valley into a mountain pass, we were enveloped in torrential rain. It was extremely difficult to locate the landing area. Soldiers on the ground directed us with a flashlight beam.
We wanted to land up the slope from the casualty to allow those transporting him more clearance from the rotor blade. Turbulent winds whipped across the uneven terrain, causing the chopper to fishtail wildly and aborting our first landing attempt. This also meant the enemy had seen our landing spot and would be preparing to fire on us. A lull in the wind allowed us to land, and enemy tracers ripped like fiery baseballs through the night.
Our friendly forces returned fire. We made a hasty pick-up of the wounded and asked for flares to be shot into the sky to illuminate the surrounding mountains as we departed through lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. A few bursts of enemy ground fire bid us farewell.
As a result of this action, I was recommended for a DFC. But the recommendation was reviewed and downgraded to an Air Medal with a “V” for valor. I was disappointed, but remembered my promise to the Lord and was satisfied that my life had been spared.

I once learned a great lesson about how being overly realistic can inhibit the workings of the Spirit.
I had been on my mission in Germany about a year when I was assigned to train a brand new missionary named Elder Keeler. One day when I was away at a leadership meeting, he and another new elder met a pleasant woman at the door but they didn’t know enough German to talk with her. Yet, he said he felt a strong spiritual impression that she would someday join the Church. In fact, he was so excited about her that he forgot to write down her name—or her address. He knew only that her apartment was on the fifth floor—somewhere in the middle of our huge, high-rise tracting area. He was sure he’d recognize her name next to the doorbell, so the next day we dashed up and down polished staircases for hours, but couldn’t find her. When I said we needed to go back to work, his lower lip began to tremble. He said, “but the Spirit really spoke to me about that woman.” I muttered that maybe the Spirit was telling him to write down the name and address. Well, to teach him a lesson, I raced him up some more staircases. And then, about an hour later, we found her -- Renate Wolfart. Forty years later, Marie and I were with Renate, her husband Friedrich, and all four of their children and spouses in the Frankfurt Temple. Friedrich, now a temple sealer, sealed their youngest daughter and her husband. That’s a lesson I can never forget: never erase that outer “ideal” circle.

One morning shortly after being called as a Relief Society president, I received a phone call from the mother of a family in our ward. She disclosed the loss of her employment, medical issues, and other challenges. It was clear the family had used the last of their resources. As I listened, I silently prayed that the Holy Ghost would guide and direct my words and actions.
I assured this sister that I would contact our bishop and would reach out later that day. I felt an urgency to help this family, especially the children within the home. After making multiple phone calls, however, I discovered that the entire bishopric and elders quorum presidency were out of town. Being new to my calling, I was unsure what to do.
After kneeling in prayer and asking for help, I decided to go grocery shopping for the family and work out things with the bishop upon his return. I also decided to donate some needed items. As I prepared to leave in my car, I had a clear and unmistakable impression: “Wait.” I followed the prompting and got out of my car. An hour later, a knock came at my front door.
Outside stood a widow from our ward. She handed me two large grocery sacks of food and said, “Sister Smith, I know you will know what to do with these.” Then she hurried down our porch steps to her car.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude and tender feelings from the Spirit. The Lord had answered my prayer. I was reminded of Nephi, who was led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand what he should do (see 1 Nephi 4:6).
When we pray and follow small, quiet promptings, we have this assurance from the Lord: “It shall be given you in the very hour, yea, in the very moment, what ye shall say” (Doctrine and Covenants 100:6)—and sometimes what we should do. The Lord knew this family’s pressing and immediate needs before I did. I was blessed to witness a tender mercy of the Lord as this widow provided an offering that fed a family in their very hour of need.

When Ashlee Broadbent and Carolyn Betz found out that two of their special-needs friends, Claudia and Liz, would be attending the school’s spring prom, they wanted to help. They helped Claudia and Liz design their own prom dresses, which were custom-made by a friend. Then they organized a group of 20 friends and rented a bus to travel to the dance together. The night of the prom, Carolyn’s sister gave Claudia and Liz a full-blown makeover, doing their hair, nails, and make-up. Ashlee took photos and waved good-bye as Carolyn, Claudia, and Liz left for dinner and the dance with the rest of the group. At age 15, Ashlee wasn’t yet old enough to date.
“We wanted to give them an extra special time. It started out as a simple project,” Carolyn says. “We came away with two new friends.”

President George Albert Smith told the story of a time when he was seriously ill and had traveled to St. George, Utah, to see if it would improve his health. He became so weak that he could scarcely move. In his account he recalled: “One day, under these conditions, I lost consciousness of my surroundings and thought I had passed to the Other Side. I found myself standing with my back to a large and beautiful lake, facing a great forest of trees. … I realized, or seemed to realize, that I had finished my work in mortality and had gone home. I began to look around, to see if I could not find someone. There was no evidence of anyone living there, just those great, beautiful trees in front of me and the wonderful lake behind me.

“I began to explore, and soon I found a trail through the woods which seemed to have been used very little, and which was almost obscured by grass. I followed this trail, and after I had walked for some time and had traveled a considerable distance through the forest, I saw a man coming towards me. I became aware that he was a very large man, and I hurried my steps to reach him, because I recognized him as my grandfather. … I remember how happy I was to see him coming. I had been given his name and had always been proud of it.

“When Grandfather came within a few feet of me, he stopped. His stopping was an invitation for me to stop. Then—and this I would like the boys and girls and young people never to forget—he looked at me very earnestly and said:

“‘I would like to know what you have done with my name.’

“Everything I had ever done passed before me as though it were a flying picture on a screen—everything I had done. Quickly this vivid retrospect came down to the very time I was standing there. My whole life had passed before me. I smiled and looked at my grandfather and said:

“‘I have never done anything with your name of which you need be ashamed.’

“He stepped forward and took me in his arms, and as he did so, I became conscious again of my earthly surroundings. My pillow was as wet as though water had been poured on it—wet with tears of gratitude that I could answer unashamed.”

President Smith continued to say, “I have thought of this many times, and I want to tell you that I have been trying, more than ever since that time, to take care of that name. So I want to say to the boys and girls, to the young men and women, to the youth of the Church and of all the world: Honor your fathers and your mothers. Honor the names that you bear, because some day you will have the privilege and the obligation of reporting to them (and to your Father in heaven) what you have done with their name.” (George Albert Smith, Sharing the Gospel with Others, Deseret Book Company, 1948, pp. 111–12.)

“Come on, Rory!” Greg muttered impatiently. “I want the milk too!”
I poured some over my cereal, then passed the carton to him.
“Greg, Rory,” Mom said as she packed our school lunches. “Listen up, you two. I’ll be leaving to get your father at the airport before you get home from school. They are predicting more snow, so I don’t know if his flight will arrive on time, or how the roads will be. Don’t worry if we’re late. I made a potpie for dinner. The first one home is to pop it into the oven at 350° for about forty minutes. There are homemade doughnuts for dessert. Then,” she continued as she shoved our sandwiches into brown bags, “get the Christmas tree down and set it up. If there’s time, check the light strings and put them on too. That would be a tremendous help! I know it was a big disappointment to not have our traditional tree-trimming family home evening this week, but it couldn’t be helped, and with Christmas only two days away, we just can’t wait any longer to get it up.”
“Mom,” Greg complained, “it’s Friday—the Mutual activity starts at 6:00 so that we can get to the senior citizens’ center early.”
Mom put the lunchmeat and cheese back into the refrigerator. “That gives you more than two hours between the time you get home from school and when you are expected at the meetinghouse, Greg! I don’t want to overwhelm your dad as soon as he gets home—there’s no need to with you two strong boys in the family. Remember, 350° for forty minutes—got that?”
Greg sighed loudly. “Got it.”
Mom kissed us both, then hurried into the hall. As she slipped into her coat, she called, “I’m off to help Grandma. Have a good day, you two, and if you need anything, call!”
“Yeah, yeah! Be careful driving!” Greg called.
“Yeah, Mom—be careful!” I echoed.
She waved and was gone, leaving us staring across the kitchen table at each other. Greg ate glumly, like he was mad. I ate my cereal quickly and quietly—I didn’t want him snapping at me.
After school, my friend Eric and I trudged home through the snow. “Can you come over?” he asked with frosted breath.
I shook my head. “Nope—I have to put our Christmas tree up.”
“Oh.” He kicked at a clump of snow. “Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, sure.” I waved and turned in at our snow-covered driveway. I cleared the walk and went inside.
I slid the potpie into the oven, then went upstairs and changed my clothes before climbing to the attic. The Christmas tree box lay on the floor in a corner under the eaves. As I dragged it out to the middle of the floor, I heard a car. I looked out the window, hoping it was Greg, but the car continued slowly down the street.
As I tugged at the sturdy cardboard box, it opened and artificial pine boughs spilled onto the floor. I dug around the box and found the aluminum stem, the spreader ring, and the stand. I had to be real careful not to scratch the walls as I took them down to the living room, but I made it.
Then I went to check the potpie—it was starting to smell good. Greg still wasn’t home, so I pulled the sofa away from the picture window and set up the tree stand and the stem. By the time he finally got home, I had the tree set up, branches and all, and was in the attic, getting the decorations.
“Ho!” he shouted.
“What took you so long?” I bristled. “I made a thousand trips up and down!”
He rubbed his hands briskly, then grabbed a box of Christmas lights and decorations and lugged them down the steps. “Some kid’s car got stuck in the snow at school, and I helped get him out—that’s what took me so long! Come on, Rory, shake a leg. The potpie smells like it’s done!”
We sat down and said a blessing on the food, then ate so fast that Mom would have yelled. I got stuck putting the dishes into the dishwasher while Greg tested the lights. “Well, all the lights are good, and I’m gone!” he announced.
“Mom said we’re both supposed to do this, and it’s only 5:20—you can get to the ward in ten minutes!”
He was already putting on his jacket. “Not when the roads are bad! Besides, I helped, so quit complaining!” Ten seconds later, he was gone.
I sat on the floor to untangle the strings of lights. I was glad that Mom and Dad didn’t walk in right then and see the mess. Everyone’s in a rush, I thought as I threaded a string of lights through the branches, and I’m stuck with the work. This is fun when everyone helps. It’s notmy fault that Dad was sent out of town for a few weeks and things got behind. With drooping shoulders I reached for one string after another. Greg gladly helps everyone except his little brother. When Mom and Dad get home, I’ll tell them how little he helped. He’ll get hollered at but good, and he deserves it!
The clock was striking eight when I knelt and pushed in the plug. The room suddenly glowed—it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. It didn’t take as long to hang the colored balls and other ornaments. By the time Mom and Dad got home, the tree was trimmed, except for the icicles. When I heard our car in the driveway, I shoved all the empty storage boxes into one corner, then collapsed onto a chair and tried to look relaxed.
“It’s wonderful to be home,” Dad said, as they came inside and gazed around, smiling. “Everything looks great!”
“You boys did a super job,” Mom added with a grateful smile.
“You certainly did,” Dad agreed, giving me a bear hug.
That was my chance—except I didn’t feel angry at Greg any more. He was right to help someone in trouble, and putting up the Christmas tree alone hadn’t been really awful—just lonesome. Besides, I decided, it is the season of peace on earth. So I just said, “Thanks, Mom, Dad. But the icicles aren’t on yet, and I can’t find the tree skirt.”
Mom smiled. “I know where it is, honey. I’ll take care of that.”
Dad sat in his recliner. “And after I get a couple of your mom’s doughnuts in me, I’ll help you put the icicles on. It surely feels good to know that your family comes through when your plans are upset. With this much done, there won’t be any obstacles for our traditional Christmas Eve gathering with your grandparents and cousins. And Mom and I will make sure that our first-family-council-of-the-new-year will include some extra family events especially of interest to you boys. We’re really proud of you.”
Later, as I was reading in my room, Greg appeared at the door. “Mom and Dad thanked me for helping with the tree,” he said meekly. “I guess you didn’t tell them how little I helped.”
I shrugged. “The tree’s up, so it doesn’t matter much who put it up—no big deal.”
He tapped the doorframe with the palm of his hand. “It is to me,” he said. “Thanks, little brother. I’ll make it up to you—and I won’t treat you like that again, honest.”
As he turned away, I smiled and closed my book. I turned off my light, said my prayers, then crawled under the covers and grinned at the ceiling. It’s funny how good keeping the peace can make you feel.

My father’s name is Jean de Dieu Nsanzurwimimo. He was born in Rwanda’s Western Province. He married my mom, Emmeline Mukamusonera, in 1981, after they met in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital city.
My parents came from very different backgrounds; my father was a member of Rwanda’s majority ruling Hutu tribe, and my mother is from the Tutsi tribe. In Rwanda when they were growing up, there was an extended civil war and a long-simmering conflict between the two tribes. This animosity led extremist groups of Hutus to promote the ideology that all the Tutsi people living in Rwanda should be killed.
I was born in 1994, just four months before a series of events led to a catastrophic genocide of Rwanda’s Tutsi population, led by Hutu extremists who took over the government. During a 100-­day period from April 7 until mid-­July, nearly one million Rwandans were brutally killed, including as many as 70% of the Tutsi population.
Even before the 1994 Tutsi genocide, many leaders of the Hutu tribe taught that a Hutu man married to a Tutsi woman should be required to kill her and all her family to show his allegiance to his tribe. Because of those teachings, and to better protect his family, my father moved his wife and children to a small village near Cyangugu, in the far southwestern corner of Rwanda. Even in that small village, the majority of Hutu villagers spurned and rejected my mother because she was a Tutsi. But my father continued to protect us. In 1993, when the tension and genocide ideology increased, she was pregnant with me and caring for my three older sisters. Because it was known that she was a Tutsi, our family didn’t have many friends and it was dangerous every time she had to fetch water or go to the market. It was a very difficult time for her, but always my father was on her side, protecting her and taking care of his family.
During this time, there were constant meetings in the community where the locals were given machetes and guns and trained on how to kill the Tutsis. Every week they had a community meeting. In March 1994, my father attended a town meeting where it was announced that Hutu men married to a Tutsi woman would be required to kill her and all their children. It was a hard time for them. Some of the men and some of the women who were Hutus did kill their children.
In a meeting in early April, my father was ordered to kill my mother and his four daughters. When he came home from the meeting around 6:00 p.m., it was very dark because there were no street lights at the time. He immediately took us to a small island located in the southern part of Lac Kivu, a large lake dividing Rwanda and Congo. He told my mom that the villagers had determined that we were supposed to die, so we should hide in that place; he was going back home to find a safe place for us. He told her that if she saw any boats, she should ask them if they would carry us over to Congo, where we would be safe from the Rwandan genocide. She was able to find someone willing to take us across to Congo, where we spent the next five months, until peace was restored in Rwanda and it was safe to return.
All the while in Congo, and after we came home, we didn’t know what had happened to my father. When we came back we didn’t see anything; they didn’t allow us to enter the house where we had lived, and we were told everything that belonged to my father had been sold. It was a very hard time for my mom. We didn’t have a house to stay in. We didn’t have anything to eat. We went to the Seventh-­Day Adventist chapel, where we slept for a whole week. After that my mother carried all of us to town where she learned we could get small help from the new government.
In 2003, nine years after the violence ended, the government created a reconciliation program called “Gacaca” to help resolve the hard feelings from the killings. As part of the process, people who had killed others during the genocide confessed and asked for forgiveness. Through gacaca, we came to know that my father’s family members, after they looked everywhere for us and could not find us, had killed him. My mother and my eldest sister attended the hearing where my father’s family asked for our forgiveness, and they forgave them. They told my mother that they had thrown his body into the river after killing him, so we were never able to locate his body. Because I was so young at the time he saved us, I have no recollections of my father; I don’t know his face.

The crew has arrived at the studio ready for another taping. With an air of knowing exactly what needs to be done, they quickly arrange the furniture on the set. Chris and Allen pull cables out of the way of their cameras. Martin clips the tiny microphones to their guests’ lapels. Mike is seated at the switching board, giving instructions over his headset.
Suddenly someone yells, “Quiet.” Bill counts down with the fingers of one hand. “Five … four … three … two … we’re on the air.”

Lynn hurried up the street to investigate a large box on the ground next to Grandma Cooper’s gate. Shiny red material hung over the rim of the box, and a sign in Grandma’s handwriting said:
FREE
HELP YOURSELF
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Lynn gasped as she began to pull the fabric from the box. She stretched on her tiptoes until both arms were straight above her head and the material billowed around her. Grandma’s drapes! Lynn thought, hugging the cloth to her. I guess she won’t need them in her new apartment. I can use them to make something wonderful!
Lynn stuffed the drapes back into the box and gave it a tug. It didn’t move. Using both hands, she gave the box another tug. It scraped along the ground a few inches. Lynn squeezed in between the fence and the box and, bracing herself, gave a mighty shove.
“What are you doing?”
Lynn spotted the skateboard under Kenny’s arm. “Hi, Kenny,” she said with a big smile. “Would you help me, please?”
Kenny looked from Lynn to the big box and back at Lynn. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“If I could get these beautiful drapes home, I just know I could make something wonderful,” she told him. “Could we put the box on your skateboard and push it to my house?”
Kenny knelt beside the box for a closer look. “My house is closer,” he said thoughtfully. “We could make a tepee.”
“No!” Lynn wailed. “You’ll use all of it, and I want to make something wonderful.”
“No, I won’t, Lynn, honest,” Kenny promised. “Besides you can play in the tepee too. And I’ll let you borrow my wagon to take the rest of the drapes home.”
“Well, OK,” Lynn agreed.
Together Kenny and Lynn managed to get the box up onto the skateboard. They had pushed it almost to Kenny’s house when Patty rode up on her bike.
“What’s in the box?” she asked.
“Grandma Cooper’s old curtains,” Lynn told her. “We’re going to make a tepee at Kenny’s, and I’m going to take what’s left of them home and make something wonderful!”
“Wow!” Patty peered into the box. “Could I have some to make curtains for my stage?” she asked.
Lynn started to shake her head, then stopped and said, “OK, if you’ll help us make the tepee first.”
Later, when the three children stood back to look, the tall red tepee seemed to glow in the sun. Patty broke the spell. “Come on, Lynn. Now let’s go to my house.”
“Thanks, Lynn,” said Kenny as they tied his wagon to Patty’s bike. “Come over tomorrow and we’ll play in the tepee. You, too, Patty.”
The girls were going through the gate at Patty’s house when Mrs. Whistler walked by with her baby. “Hi, girls,” she called. “You look busy. What are you pulling in the wagon?”
Patty beamed. “My stage is going to have real curtains. Lynn is giving me the material for them.”
Mrs. Whistler reached into the box and ran her fingers over the fabric. “What beautiful material,” she said. “It would make a gorgeous party dress.”
Patty and Lynn looked at each other. Mrs. Whistler couldn’t afford many pretty things.
“If you’ll help us make the curtains for the stage, Mrs. Whistler, you can have some material for a dress,” Lynn offered.
“Really? Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed. “But I’d be glad to help you, anyway.”
That evening Lynn sat on the floor of her room, looking at a single piece of shiny red cloth. When her mother walked by the open door, she stopped and asked, “Where did you get that pretty material, honey?”
“Grandma Cooper gave it away,” Lynn said. “It isn’t very big. But do you think there’s enough to make something wonderful?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Mother. “How about a doll dress or a heart-shaped pillow?” She hesitated, then turned the empty box upside down and spread the cloth over it. “How about a tablecloth for a party?”
Lynn clapped her hands. “Oh, yes! Let’s do that. And let’s invite Grandma Cooper to the party!”

“Me?” I asked, looking at the Young Women president in utter shock.
“Yes,” she said. “You’d only have to play one hymn each week for opening exercises. You can tell us ahead of time which one you choose, and practice during the week. Besides, it’s only for Young Women. You’re all friends anyway.”
“Well, I guess so. But I’m not making any promises,” was my response.
For as long as I could remember, my mother had been teaching me how to play the piano. But I was only to the point where I could study a piece of music one measure at a time and eventually memorize it.
For that first Sunday, I chose a piece in the key of C that looked fairly simple. I began practicing it, and it turned out to be quite a chore. But by the end of the week I had memorized the hymn and felt ready for Sunday. Unfortunately, with 20 girls singing and a director setting the pace, I was lost within the first three measures. I tried with all my might to catch up, but the song dragged on—a capella.
When the song ended, I buried my head into my folded arms through the opening prayer. At its conclusion I took a seat by my best friend who greeted me with a sympathetic pat on the back. I also received an affirmative thumbs up and a smile of encouragement from our Young Women president.
After class, she came over to talk to me. I figured she had realized her mistake and was going to let me sing each week rather than play. “So, what song will it be next week?” she asked. Silent groan.
The next week I spent every free second playing “Come Follow Me.” I was not going to make a fool of myself again. All this practicing did was slowly cause me to dislike the piano and dread the quickly approaching Sunday. However, I managed to master the hymn, and even practiced with my mom leading and my little sister singing. I was prepared.
Sunday came, and by the time we got to the part of the song “… the Savior said,” I was lost. Tears were forming in my eyes. I tried with all my might to blink them away, but couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. I had worked so hard—and for what? More embarrassment.
I finally decided there was only one thing to do. I looked very closely at the final measure through my tears. I wanted to play the last chord of the song, and I carefully placed my shaking fingers on each key while the young women warbled on without me. “With God’s own loved, begotten Son.” I attacked that last chord with all the power I could muster, then confidently bowed my head for the prayer.
Unfortunately, the prayer was delayed until everyone stopped laughing. I can see the humor in it now, but at the time I decided to never touch another piano key for the rest of my life.
Thankfully, I stuck with the weekly chore. As the Sundays went by, playing became easier. I used most of my free time to practice the piano, which helped me learn how to play without having to memorize the piece.
I still play a hymn each week and usually hit a few sour chords. Every day I sit down at the old piano and play all sorts of music. I have gained a talent that I love, but almost missed.
I’m so thankful that after my first catastrophic experience, I was convinced to stick with it and not give up. I think about the friendly smile from my supportive president, and realize my assignment to play each week was a blessing in disguise.

I sat down with my own children several years ago after a tragedy occurred locally. I felt compelled to share with them that through Jesus Christ, there is always a way forward. There is nothing they could do, or fail to do, that would make suicide the answer. At their tender age, I had no reason to think they were at risk, but I knew there was more I could be doing to prepare my children for handling dangerous, potentially suicidal thoughts.
Immediately after I discussed suicide with my own children, my nine-year-old son asked if he could speak to me privately. He told me about times he had imagined taking his own life, complete with how he would do it. I never could have dreamed he was having these thoughts. I hugged him, thanked him for his bravery in telling me, and told him that no matter what he ever did or ever thought, he was treasured and needed in our family. And I committed to myself to watch him for any further signs of suicidal ideation or mental illness.

Arthur Berry, the jewel thief who gained notoriety by stealing jewels from the royal family, was interviewed toward the end of his life. The reporter asked him what was his largest theft. Berry replied, “When I was young, I had all the advantages—intelligence, education, and financial means. I could have become anything I desired; I could’ve gone anywhere. But rather, I chose a life of crime. So when you write, don’t say, ‘Arthur Berry robbed the queen’s jewels.’ Put the biggest theft at the top. Simply say, ‘Arthur Berry robbed Arthur Berry!”

The heat rose in dizzy waves before us as we sped along the freeway. “It must be very hot outside,” I thought as the air conditioner hissed away in our station wagon. I had heard how difficult it was for the first settlers to even enter the St. George Valley in southern Utah, let alone survive there. This was almost impossible to comprehend as we drove easily along through rocky volcanic barriers on a ribbon of asphalt.
We rapidly ascended into the Virgin River Valley, and the little community of St. George stood out against the scorching sandstone cliffs.
A barrage of bright signs beckoned us with “Enter,” “Vacancy,” “Color TV,” “Sauna,” “Pool.” When I rolled down the window, a blast of hot air reminded me that I would soon be refreshed by a swim in the blue waters of a motel pool.
The heat from the hot pavement penetrated the soles of my gym shoes as we walked the few blocks from our motel to the old St. George Tabernacle.
Hewn from native red-orange sandstone, the thick rock walls showed countless small markings from the pioneer stonecutters’ hand-held instruments. Directly under the stately spire was a tablet with the inscription “Commenced 1863—Completed 1871.”
While my little sisters played under a shade tree on the Tabernacle grounds, I walked around the building for closer inspection. The doors were locked, but by shading my eyes, I could just make out through the old window panes the beautiful circular wooden staircases.
My mother pointed out some of the old buildings surrounding the tabernacle and told us that these were at one time part of the old Dixie Academy—later Dixie Junior College. The new Dixie College campus is now located clear across town.
As I peered into one of the old vacant classrooms where biology had once been taught, I could hear my young sister Terressa protesting crossly, “I’m tired and bored, and I don’t want to see any more old buildings.”
A morning of tennis and sight-seeing left me weary. I lay by the pool, and the perspiration trickled freely. It was then I realized I was more than just a sun-warmed visitor. I felt at home here, as if somehow I belonged. My passing feet had disturbed shadows in the sand—reminders of a life-style long since gone. And yet it was as if I had discovered a golden chain in those sands—a chain of people linked together by time and love—my family.

Last year around Thanksgiving, my family and I were sitting around the table, about ready to stuff ourselves full of warm, flavourful food. Starting our Thanksgiving tradition, my mom said, “Before we start to eat, let’s go around the table and say five things we’re grateful for. Don, would you like to start?”
“Sure thing,” my dad replied. “I’m grateful for you guys and your mom and that you’re always there for me even when work gets tough. I’m grateful for our home and that we’re all healthy and happy.” He turned to me. “What about you, Alison?”
“Um …” I said, thinking about how the year had flown by. It seemed like just yesterday that I was at last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, struggling to find five solid things for which I was grateful.
I thanked everyone in my family for being so loving and for each of their unique contributions in my life. This lifted my spirits for a few hours, but I soon felt like the gesture seemed inauthentic. Unsatisfied, I made a commitment to myself that I’d try to find reasons to be grateful every week instead of just around Thanksgiving.
This seemingly small decision made a huge difference in my life. I’m not sure how or if I’ve made a difference to my parents or siblings by being more grateful toward them, but I know I’ve been blessed. By committing to being more grateful in my life, I’ve been able to develop a stronger relationship with both my family and my Heavenly Father—something definitely worth feeling grateful for.