Gospel Story Finder

Brothers and Sisters we have a prophet today that has a life full of practicing serving others. The lesson of service came early to President Monson. As told by Elder Holland,
President Monson was a Twenty-three-year-old, relatively new bishop of the Sixth-Seventh Ward in the Temple View Stake, and was uncharacteristically restless as the stake priesthood leadership meeting progressed. He had the distinct impression that he should leave the meeting immediately and drive to the Veterans' Hospital high up on the Avenues of Salt Lake City. Before leaving home that night he had received a telephone call informing him that an older member of his ward was ill and had been admitted to the hospital for care. Could the bishop, the caller wondered, find a moment to go by the hospital sometime and give a blessing? The busy young leader explained that he was just on his way to a stake meeting but that he certainly would be pleased to go by the hospital as soon as the meeting was concluded.
Now the prompting was stronger than ever: "Leave the meeting and proceed to the hospital at once." But the stake president himself was speaking at the pulpit! It would be most discourteous to stand in the middle of the presiding officer's message, make one's way over an entire row of brethren, and then exit the building altogether. Painfully he waited out the final moments of the stake president's message, then bolted for the door even before the benediction had been pronounced.
Running the full length of the corridor on the fourth floor of the hospital, the young bishop saw a flurry of activity outside the designated room. A nurse stopped him and said, "Are you Bishop Monson?"
"Yes," was the anxious reply.
"I'm sorry," she said. "The patient was calling your name just before he passed away."
Fighting back the tears, Thomas S. Monson turned and walked back into the night. He vowed then and there that he would never again fail to act upon a prompting for the Lord. He would acknowledge the impressions of the Spirit when they came, and he would follow wherever they led him, ever to be "on the Lord's errand.

We talked long into the night. “Should we or shouldn’t we?” The bishop had announced in priesthood meeting that they needed a full-time custodian for the stake center. My husband Ace had inquired about it after the meeting and had been told to talk it over with his wife and then meet with the three bishops the next evening.
Would he like such a job? It was a large church house that served three wards and a stake. With all the activities, there would be plenty of work. I would undoubtedly help, dusting the organ and piano and washing a few windows. Since we lived close by, he could come home for lunch and also reduce transportation expenses. There would be no more long hours working in the sun, rain, wind, and snow that his present job with a plumbing supply company demanded, and no more need to work a second job at night as a warehouse custodian. But at age fifty-nine it’s hard for a man to change jobs. Suppose the new job didn’t turn out well?
Monday the big decision was made. We would take it! Ace gave his employer notice that he was quitting Sunday; we went to church and for the first time really looked at the building. There was a lot to do.
The first task we undertook was to clean the stairways on each end of the hall. One was four feet wide, the other six feet wide, each with seventeen steps. It had been some time since they had been cleaned and they were a dull gray, covered with black marks from shoes, spills, etc. For two hours we worked with suds, cleanser, and steel wool. How pleased we were, though, to discover they were a light, cream-colored vinyl with dark streaks that resembled marble.
Ace found there was always something that had to be repaired or replaced. He changed all the locks on the outside doors and replaced the latches on the rest room doors and cultural hall doors. He fixed the showers in the girls dressing room and this does not mean “bolted them shut” but “bolt (anchor) them to the floor” the lockers (which were in the middle of the floor for some unknown reason) back into place. He mended several broken classroom tables that had been stacked in the furnace room.
We hadn’t been working long when construction was started on a new stake president’s office and high council room in a cemented area that had been used as a patio. The laborers worked just a short time each day, drilling and crushing cement and creating dust that permeated the building. We would just get the building cleaned when they would start working again. The ward members didn’t understand the situation, so there was a lot of criticism. This went on for about three months.
One day we were told they were going to have a youth conference in the Junior Sunday School room. The leaders asked if it could be fixed up a little special, so we really went to work. We washed all the windows and woodwork, scrubbed and polished the floor, and even sent the curtains out to be cleaned. Everything just sparkled. After the meeting was over I asked Ace if they were pleased. He said, “Well, one of the counselors in the bishopric asked if we couldn’t be a little more careful about dusting the chairs.” They had needed extra chairs for the large crowd, so someone had brought them from the construction area! We had a good laugh, realizing for the first time that it was not the things we did that were noticed but the things we didn’t do.
It took some time to get all the plastered walls throughout the building washed. We started with the rest rooms, then did the foyers and halls, the Relief Society room, the high council room, and the classrooms. We painted all the heat convectors, door frames, stair railings, entrances, and various other places. The carpets in the foyers and the Relief Society room were worn and soiled with several orange punch stains that were impossible to remove. Ace asked the bishops if someone could be hired to shampoo the carpets but was told not to bother since they planned on replacing them right away. After waiting a few weeks, Ace rented a shampooer and cleaned the carpets himself. This made an immense improvement. Little by little the building began to shape up.
After two years of custodial work, another ward was added to our building, making a total of four. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday we had Relief Society, with the officers arriving as early as 8:30 A.M. The Relief Society room, foyer, kitchen, south steps, nursery, and rest rooms had to be ready. While Relief Society was in session, we cleaned the rest of the classrooms, the chapel and the cultural hall.
Then at 3:00 the Primary officers began to arrive. The relief society room, nurseries, kitchen and rest rooms had to be checked and cleaned if needed. When Primary was over we picked up, swept, straightened chairs, and cleaned backboards to get ready for activity night. This went for about a year; then two wards moved out of the building. It seemed like we were on vacation!
One beautiful morning a salesman sold us a can of chemical cleaner to be used on stainless steel sinks, drinking fountains, and other types of metal. I decided to try it out on the brass light switch plates, which were covered with film and grime. After polishing a half dozen with good results, I went into the boys rest room where there was a larger plate with three switches on it. I wiped it off with the chemical, and was reaching for my damp sponge, when I heard a crackling sound. I turned to see flames shooting out of the plate clear to the ceiling! I raced down the hall shrieking. “Fire! Fire! I’ve set the church on fire!” Ace came bounding down the hall into the rest room. The fire was out and it was pitch dark. The switch box had completely burned out. I learned that chemicals and electricity don’t mix.
Last summer we began our two-week vacation on a Monday morning. Ace insisted on coming home both of the following Saturdays in order to clean the building before Sunday. I was feeling rebellious at having to come back before our vacation was over. As I cleaned, I said to myself, “This is absolutely stupid. Nobody cares whether this place is clean or not. If they did care they wouldn’t throw trash around. Nobody will even notice that the work was done.”
All at once I felt as if someone was there with me. It seemed as though someone spoke to me and said, “I care. It is my house and I care! Suppose we had visitors tomorrow and the house was dirty? What would investigators think? I would be embarrassed.” I was really shaken. It was such a strong impression. Never again have I begrudged the time I have spent cleaning His house.
During our first few months as custodians we were either ignored by the members or treated with what we felt was condescending sweetness. Gradually as we became acquainted, their attitudes began to change. Ace was always there, ready to set up tables or help in any way. He made friends with the children and young adults, letting them in the building to play basketball or volleyball whenever he was there. They reciprocated by trying not to track up the foyers, especially on Saturday when he had it all cleaned for Sunday.
After the first year or so people began treating us more warmly. Some of the Primary teachers and classes brought us goodies and baskets of fruit for Christmas. One year a group of boys made a nativity scene for us out of cardboard and molded sugar. They also brought a wreath made of pine cones and nuts. Another Primary made a lovely poster with all their names on it telling us how they loved us and appreciated the way we kept the building clean.
The Relief Societies invited Ace to eat lunch on work day. Once we were even invited by the stake presidency to have dinner with them and the high council while they entertained the visiting General Authority at conference time.
We retired last spring after six years of keeping house for the Lord. We have worked hard; we have laughed; we have cried. We have made hundreds of friends and hope we have made no enemies.
The tears and troubles have been many, but just the same, this has been a wonderful experience in our lives!

We build Zion by fleeing from Babylon and embracing the attitudes and practices of Zion. And we do it together. We can help each other develop the patterns of Zion by acting in faith to lift, strengthen, and rescue one another when we face temptations, sin, hardships, and disappointments. I would like to tell you a story about four BYU-Idaho students who helped each other build Zion. These are not real students, but their story is based on real experiences.

Brock had been a student at BYU-Idaho for almost three semesters. Although school was not easy for him, he had enjoyed his time on campus and had been a fairly active member of his ward. Brock had struggled in high school with his testimony. He had worked with his bishop to be worthy to be at BYU-Idaho; but he wasn't sure he wanted to serve a mission, and he had a lot of questions about his future.

Alison, Sara, and Jen were roommates at BYU-Idaho. They had been at school for three years. Sara had just returned from a mission to Brazil and had re-joined her old roommates. They were in Brock's ward and in his family home evening group. All three young women were very active in the ward.

One day, while they were eating dinner, Sara asked her roommates what they thought of Brock. They all agreed that he was friendly and fun to be around, but Jen said something that made them all think: "You know, I think there is something missing in his life. When I talk to him or see him at Church or FHE, he seems a little distant to me." Sara said, "I think what's missing is the light of the gospel. On my mission I watched people grow in their testimonies so that the light radiated from them. That is what is missing in Brock." Alison then asked, "Do you think we should say something to him?"

This is the work that Alison, Sara, and Jen contemplated that day at dinner in their apartment. Let me tell you what happened. The young women decided to talk to Brock. The next Sunday they went up to him after church and asked if they could talk to him. He said, "Sure." So, they talked. Sara said: "Brock, we think you are a really great guy. But we feel there is something missing in you. We don't see the light of the gospel in your eyes. Maybe it's the music you listen to, or what you watch, or where you go; but the light is missing. We just wanted to tell you that if you had that, if you had the light of the gospel in your eyes and in your life, you would be awesome."

That brief conversation with those sisters had a powerful impact on Brock. He thought about what they said for a long time. He prayed about it and decided they were right. He changed the kinds of movies he watched, and he listened to different music. He worked on being more consistent in his study of the scriptures, and his prayers were different. By the end of that semester he made up his mind to serve a mission.

Brock prepared well. By the time he went into the MTC, he was on fire. He was a great missionary and had many wonderful experiences. When he returned home Alison, Sara, and Jen had graduated and married. But it wasn't long before Brock met his eternal companion; they were married about a year after his mission. Today, the light of the gospel is in his life and in his eyes. And the three sisters were right: He is awesome.

In 1968 a marathon runner by the name of John Stephen Akhwari represented Tanzania in an international competition. “A little over an hour after [the winner] had crossed the finish line, John Stephen Akhwari … approached the stadium, the last man to complete the journey. [Though suffering from fatigue, leg cramps, dehydration, and disorientation,] a voice called from within to go on, and so he went on. Afterwards, it was written, ‘Today we have seen a young African runner who symbolizes the finest in human spirit, a performance that gives meaning to the word courage.’ For some, the only reward is a personal one. [There are no medals, only] the knowledge that they finished what they set out to do.” When asked why he would complete a race he could never win, Akhwari replied, “My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; my country sent me to finish the race.” (The Last African Runner, Olympiad Series, written, directed, and produced by Bud Greenspan, Cappy Productions [videocassette, 1976].)

Poor Dusty! He always seemed to be in trouble. He had been in town only a few months, but already just about everyone in Redwood was mad at him.
Mrs. Gillis was angry because he had gotten into her garden and trampled all over her vegetables, looking for the carrots. At the feed and grain store, Dusty had chewed a hole in a large sack on the loading dock and had eaten half the oats in it before Mr. Brock chased him away. You could hear Mr. Brock’s yelling a couple blocks away. Dusty didn’t care, though. He trotted away, looking carefree and innocent.
Dusty was a long-eared, sand-colored donkey with big, gentle, brown eyes. To look at him you wouldn’t think such a little donkey could cause so many problems.
Dusty used to belong to Mr. Fisk, an old hermit who lived up in the mountains. When Mr. Fisk died, Dusty was left to fend for himself. He spent a lot of time alone, grazing in the meadows near town or roaming the hills. No one in town knew anything about him, though, until one day Dusty came strolling down Main Street as if he had lived in town all his life.
After that, several times a week, he came to town and usually ended up in trouble. Most people said he was a good-for-nothing pest and didn’t belong in Redwood. They had even threatened to send him to a glue factory.
But Dusty was always welcome in the schoolyard. We kids loved having him around. My brother, Bay, fed him the carrots Mom put in our lunches, so Dusty was our friend for life. Only Mrs. Hayes, our teacher, didn’t want Dusty hanging around school. She was afraid he’d hurt us, so she’d chase him away. But he would always return an hour or so later.
“I feel sorry for Dusty,” I told Bay one fall day. “He seems lonely. And what will he do this winter when it gets cold?”
“He’s smart enough to take care of himself,” Bay said. “Besides, he may not have to worry about winter. If the folks in town catch him, they’ll get rid of him.”
“But he’s a good donkey. All he wants is some love and attention. Why don’t people give him a chance?” I asked.
Bay didn’t have an answer. Then, two days before Thanksgiving, a surprise snowstorm hit. By three o’clock five inches of snow had already fallen, and Mrs. Hayes told us to hurry home.
My best friend, Robin Quinn; six-year-old Pete Newly; and Bay and I all lived outside of town. We walked back and forth to school together every day. We knew a few shortcuts, and that afternoon, because of the storm, Bay thought that we should take the shortcut through Otter Creek Meadow.
As we followed the trail through the woods behind the school, I could feel the wind come right through my coat. None of us had boots on, and Bay didn’t even have his gloves. At the edge of the woods was Otter Creek Meadow, but we couldn’t see it at all. In fact, we couldn’t see more than two feet in front of us.
“Maybe we should go back to school,” I said.
“No,” Bay replied. “It’s closer to go home now. Everyone hold hands, and no matter what, don’t let go.”
We waded across the field with no idea where the path was—or even if we were going in the right direction. When we finally reached the creek, we were at the edge of a steep, snowy bank. We usually crossed over a bridge, but in the blizzard we didn’t know if we were to the left or right of it.
Pete suddenly slipped and tumbled down the bank toward the creek. Bay scrambled after him and grabbed him before he fell into the water. Together they struggled back up the bank, where Pete just sat and cried. I knew how he felt; I was scared too. I kept praying that we would get home safely.
Bay shoved his red hands inside his coat pockets. “Come on,” he said kindly. “We have to keep moving, or we’ll freeze.”
We didn’t go far, though, before Bay stopped again, saying he’d heard something. He called out, and Dusty appeared! I knew Dusty was the answer to my prayers. He came right to us, and Bay buried his hands in the thick hair of Dusty’s mane.
Bay boosted Pete up onto the donkey’s back. Then he tied one end of Robin’s long scarf around Dusty’s neck and the other around his own right hand, and we started off again, with Dusty leading the way.
Dusty had spent a lot of time in this meadow, so he knew it well. He also knew the way to our barn, having eaten from our haystacks a time or two.
Trudging along, head bent into the wind, he found the bridge and led us across it. As the snow piled up, even Dusty had to struggle to get through the deeper drifts. We picked our way through a grove of trees and came out in the field near our barn.
Dusty continued to plow our way for us almost to the back door of our house.
Mom and Dad hurried us inside. We changed into dry clothes and sat by a roaring fire. It felt good to be safe and warm again, and we owed it all to Dusty.
Dad took our long-eared friend to the barn, gave him some fresh hay, and two big carrots as a special treat.
That Thanksgiving we were especially thankful that Dusty had been around to help us. Even the folks in town treated him better and spoke kindly of him.
Dusty stayed with us for a while, but he was happier when he could come and go as he pleased. He still spent his time wandering from place to place, but now he was welcome wherever he went. And he still got into trouble now and then, but now nobody seemed to mind too much. He was, after all, the hero of Redwood.

At first, I thought Personal Progress was just more “work.” Then one day, my Young Women leader challenged us to do Divine Nature value project 5, which invites us to try to strengthen our relationship with a family member. I chose to do this with my mom. Every morning I left a sticky note for her to tell her how awesome she is. I began to enjoy doing nice things for her, and I loved the great spirit I felt in doing it. After I completed that value project, I was hooked on the spirit I felt and I could tell my testimony had grown. My advice is to focus on how it helps you grow in testimony and in feeling the Spirit.
Amber P., 18, Florida, USA

As a young man on a mission, I recall reading Paul’s words to the Corinthian Saints and pondering what he meant by the phrase “faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity” (1 Cor. 13:13). I wondered why charity should be the greatest. Charity was a word I did not understand. Part of the reason for my dilemma was that the common use of the term charity did not seem to be consistent with the doctrinal or scriptural use.
As I searched the pages of the Book of Mormon, I gained a new view. Mormon, an ancient prophet of the Americas, connected the word charity to the Savior. He declared that “charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever” (Moro. 7:47).
I considered what was meant by the phrase “love of Christ.” That answer is critical because “the Lord God hath given a commandment that all men should have charity, which charity is love” (2 Ne. 26:30). If we must have charity, then we must know what it is. The phrase “love of Christ” might have meaning in three dimensions:
Love for Christ
Love from Christ
Love like Christ
First, love for Christ. This concept proclaims Jesus as the object of our love, and our lives should be an external expression of our gratitude for him. Sometimes that is difficult to do. I once visited a high priests group meeting where an older brother taught us. He noted that “as a people we often pray, ‘We thank thee for all the blessings we enjoy.’ But what about the blessings we don’t enjoy? It can be very hard to be thankful for those.” This dear man had just experienced his first Christmas without his sweetheart in more than fifty years. It is difficult to be grateful to the Lord under circumstances we don’t enjoy.
Our beloved President Benson told some of his experiences with the Saints in war-torn countries and shared the following: “One sister walked over a thousand miles with four small children, leaving her home in Poland. She lost all four to starvation and the freezing conditions. Yet she stood before us in her emaciated condition, her clothing shredded, and her feet wrapped in burlap, and bore testimony of how blessed she was” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1980, pp. 47–48; or Ensign, Nov. 1980, p. 33). Things we don’t enjoy must not overshadow our reasons to maintain our love for the Savior. Otherwise we may lose our perspective or become bitter, and our love for Christ may be lost.
How deeply do we love him? Does our love depend on favorable environments? Is it diminished or strengthened by our experiences? Is our love for him evident by our behavior and our attitude? Charity, or love for Christ, sustains us in every need and influences us in every decision.
A second dimension of the meaning of charity is love from Christ. From a prophet of the Book of Mormon comes an inspired explanation. Speaking to the Lord, Moroni declared: “Thou hast said that thou hast loved the world, even unto the laying down of thy life for the world. …
“This love which thou hast had for the children of men is charity” (Ether 12:33–34).
Through his compliance with the severe requirements of the Atonement, the Savior offered the ultimate expression of love. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). And by permitting his Son to make such a selfless and suffering sacrifice, the Father provided us with an ultimate expression of his love as his gift to the rest of his children.
The Apostle John accurately testified of this infinite though conditional representation of the charity of the Gods when he wrote, “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). This gift of charity is to be received. The Savior’s act of redemption for our sins is of no effect without our willingness to comply with the conditions of his atonement.
Speaking of the need for us to receive the divine love of God, Moroni prayerfully declared, “Except men shall have charity they cannot inherit that place which thou hast prepared in the mansions of thy Father” (Ether 12:34).
Some years ago I prepared to teach a class on a subject I felt would be particularly difficult. The night before the scheduled class, I prayed for guidance and then retired, still troubled in my mind. When I awoke, a certain thought was introduced to my mind that I shared with the class later that morning. After the class, a young man spoke with me privately and said, “The lesson was for me. I now know what I have to do.” Later, I learned that he had come to that class as his first contact with the Church in many years. He then proceeded to get his life in order and eventually served a faithful mission. Presently he is experiencing the happiness associated with keeping eternal family covenants. He possesses the gift of charity because he received the atoning love of Christ.
A third perception of charity is to possess a love that is like Christ. In other words, people are the object of Christlike love. Nephi said: “I have charity for my people. …
“I have charity for the Jew. …
“I also have charity for the Gentiles” (2 Ne. 33:7–9).
Since Nephi had such love for everyone, we wonder how he acquired it. He must have lived in anticipation of the divine directive that would later be proclaimed by the Savior as the key to the development of love: “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you.” (John 13:34; emphasis added).
Jesus’ love was inseparably connected to and resulted from his life of serving, sacrificing, and giving in behalf of others. We cannot develop Christlike love except by practicing the process prescribed by the Master.
The Apostle John was not only loved by the Lord, but he also loved others like the Lord. John affirmed the process by saying, “Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren” (1 Jn. 3:16).
Is it a coincidence that missionaries give a portion of their lives in behalf of others, then come home and testify of their great love for the people they have served? Is it any wonder that bishops and other priesthood and auxiliary leaders who sacrifice for others are filled with love for those who are recipients of their labors? Is there a greater love among mortals than that of a mother, who offers all for her child? Many who desire to have charity like Jesus attain it as he did.
On one occasion my wife expected to be away for the weekend and asked one of the sisters in our ward to teach her Relief Society lesson. The week following the session, that sister came to our home and returned the instruction manual. She also brought to my wife a freshly baked loaf of bread and a handwritten note that read, “I love you. You are a special person. Thank you for thinking of me.” She was grateful to have been asked to serve. She was full of the love of Christ.
Charity is not just a precept or a principle, nor is it just a word to describe actions or attitudes. Rather, it is an internal condition that must be developed and experienced in order to be understood. We are possessors of charity when it is a part of our nature. People who have charity have a love for the Savior, have received of his love, and love others as he does.
It may be of some significance to note that the word charity does not appear in a single verse in the Old Testament. Surely the prophets of ancient times understood the need for charity as did the Apostle Paul and the prophets of ancient America. And surely those prophets knew and taught that “charity is the pure love of Christ” (Moro. 7:47). We are left to wonder if the enemies of Christ deliberately removed from the holy writings these saving truths as part of the plain and precious teachings that Nephi prophetically said would be removed (see 1 Ne. 13:20–29). Also, charity is only partially explained in the New Testament. But thankfully the Book of Mormon, another witness for Christ, has restored to us an understanding of this eternal precept. I testify that as we abide by this precept, we will draw nearer to God. Indeed, we will become more like him.
Individually and collectively, we can experience the peace and happiness enjoyed for nearly two hundred years anciently when “there was no contention in the land, because of the love of God which did dwell in the hearts of the people” (4 Ne. 1:15). This I know, as I know the Savior lives, in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The ten members of the Toowoomba seminary invited their teacher and their parents to participate with them in baptisms for the dead. Since the Sydney Australia Temple is 1,100 kilometers (682 miles) away from Toowoomba, it is a rare opportunity for the youth to do temple work. After a 12-hour bus ride, despite sore muscles and weariness, the youth were eager to begin. Four days and four baptismal sessions later, the class had completed 981 baptisms for the dead.
Johanne Mutzelburg, the seminary class president, said, “This experience of being together as a class for four days brought us all closer together as a group.”
Johanne loves seminary. “I think it’s great to have friends in the gospel,” she says.

A few years ago, I was one of a few Church members in my grade. People thought I was weird because I was dedicated to living all of the standards of the Church. So one day I decided that I could compromise my standards a little bit. When I did, I noticed that I had more attention from others. But after just a few weeks, I felt guilty and turned to the Lord for repentance. He did help me, and I had to make a lot of sacrifices, but it was worth it! I truly got to see the blessings of living the gospel at school. I did lose friends and attention, but I gained respect and happiness.
Sutton K., 15, Texas, USA

By all appearances, Elder Clark* was an ideal missionary. He was obedient, baptized and confirmed many people, and was loved by his companions and Church members. During the last few months of his mission he served as my assistant in the mission office. So when I saw him following his mission I was surprised when he confided that he had had a very difficult time at the beginning of his mission. He was homesick, frustrated with learning the language, and having difficulty with the missionary schedule and rules. However, he knew he had been called by the Lord to serve his mission and that the Lord would support him. So he knelt to talk to the Lord, sharing his concerns and pleading for His help in overcoming them. “As I did this,” Elder Clark told me, “I felt a real change in my being. I felt the Lord’s support and strength. Ideas and good feelings came to me, and I began to overcome my negative concerns. With God’s help, I became a successful missionary.”

Sister Julie B. Beck: I remember a reporter who attacked our standards as restrictive. She had read the For the Strength of Youth book, and she felt that it was all about rules. So I talked to her about safety and choices, and I used the words liberate and free and protect. I said, for instance, if a young woman keeps our standard not to drink alcohol or take drugs, she will never be a slave to those habits. She’ll be free, and her ability to make choices will be multiplied because she won’t have the problem of addiction. The reporter started to nod her head when she understood that standards are not a fence to keep us in. Standards are what help us go out and function in a world full of choices. We can contribute in this world and live happy, productive lives because we are protected.

Twenty years ago, I was named the new president and CEO of Deseret Book Company, which was facing stiff challenges. The company had been losing a lot of money and every part of its business was being disrupted. I knew nothing about turning a company around and was in way over my head.
A few months into my job, President Gordon B. Hinckley—who had appointed me to this position—called me to his office to ask how things were going. I described the problems I was uncovering and said, “President, I don’t think I’m smart enough to turn this company around. I wish I were smarter.” To which he instantly responded, “Sheri, I wish you were smarter too.” After he finished laughing, he said, “Are you smart enough to hire smart people?” I thought for a moment and said, “Yes, I can do that.” “Well, then, go hire the brains,” he said. “Hire people you trust who will make you smarter.”
In essence, President Hinckley was saying, “Sheri, you probably aren’t smart enough to turn Deseret Book around by yourself. But if you’ll hire smart people and listen to them, you can do it.”

Three weeks ago I was sitting on a roof top of Jerusalem suburb Bet Safafa, overlooking some of the most fought-for real estate in the world.
From that rooftop you could see the home of ancient sites like the Dome of the Rock, the Wailing Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher -- some of the holiest sites in the world to the three major monotheistic religions.
You could also see the 20-foot concrete security wall that the Israelis had built to separate themselves from the Palestinians and the restaurants and bus stops that Palestinian suicide bombers had attacked.
I was the guest of two cousins -- Samer and Ghassan Alayan -- volunteers at a program called PeacePlayers that tries to bring together Palestinians and Israelis and help them overcome stereotypes through the game of basketball.
At some point in the discussion, Ghassan's father ambled up the stairs and joined the conversation.
He looked at the PeacePlayer shirt his son wore with a furrowed brow. "This word peace," he said pointing to the shirt. "We [Palestinians] hate this word. Peace, peace, everyone always comes talking about peace. You know the problem with this word? Everyone talks about peace. No one does peace. We are tired of hearing a word that is not real."
Ghassan's father's comment -- that people only talk peace, they never do -- struck me hard.

Let me share with you briefly what one of our dear friends taught Margaret and me about a better way to see our opportunities to settle down as if "for the duration" even if we won't be in a particular ward for long and even without a formal calling.

In one ward we attended, we observed a couple, Sandy and Nancy, who seemed to know everyone in the ward and were involved in helping them though neither was involved in a calling in which they would be expect them to do so. When we asked Sandy about this he told us an interesting story. At the end of a year when he served as elders quorum president in a BYU ward, his bishop thanked him for his service and told him that he wanted to give others the opportunity to serve so he was recommending that the stake president release Sandy.

Furthermore, he explained, "I'm not going to give you a formal calling, Sandy. But I call you to be a Christian. I call you to notice those who sit alone in church and sit with and get to know them. I call you to walk with those who walk alone and find those who need help and pray for inspiration to see how you or others can help them."

Sandy explained how awkward it felt initially to put himself forward in those ways. However, he related that this was the most meaningful year of Church service he had ever had. He met people he would never have known and found the Lord inspiring him to see needs he had been unaware of as an elders quorum president. He was involved in reactivating several people, doing missionary work as he helped others to change a flat tire, and giving blessings to others in the hospital. His life was full and more meaningful than ever. When they married, he and Nancy had committed they would continue to be Christians thereafter.

“I don’t care what everybody else is doing,” I snapped, charging from the barn where I’d been gathering eggs with my older sister, Minnie.
“Nobody needs my eggs.”
“But they do, Penelope. They don’t want all your eggs—just the ones the chickens lay on Sunday. It’s to help rebuild the church.”
One of the first things the people of Snowflake had built when they first settled here along the banks of Silver Creek was the church. We’d all been proud of it. Two weeks ago it burned.
I glared at Minnie standing in the barnyard with her bare feet peeking out from under her skirt. “I’m not giving away my eggs.”
“But Bishop Hunt wants you to give your eggs.”
I shook my head furiously. “Right in church yesterday, he said that nobody had to give their eggs. He said that the Lord doesn’t want anything from anybody who doesn’t want to give it. That’s how I know He doesn’t want my eggs.”
“But that’s being horribly selfish.”
“Minnie,” I exploded, “I have plans for my eggs.” I thought of the catalog at the general store, where eight months earlier I’d seen the prettiest pair of black, pointed, high-heel shoes with buttoned laces on the sides. I wanted those shoes more than anything so that I could go to church in something really nice. But they cost five whole dollars. In 1894 in Snowflake, Arizona, five dollars was a lot more money than any ten-year-old girl had.
I had even prayed about those shoes, and two days later, Pa gave me an egg. I called it my treasure egg and kept it warm in a rag by the fire. It hatched in three weeks, and I had my first chicken.
I took really good care of that chicken. It wasn’t long before she was laying eggs and having chicks herself. Now I had sixteen chickens, all laying eggs. I’d just started selling those eggs for ten cents a dozen. I knew that when I sold enough eggs, I’d be able to buy that pair of black, pointed-toe shoes.
“What about the church?” Minnie demanded.
“Minnie,” I grumbled, “my few eggs won’t get the church rebuilt any sooner.”
“You’re just thinking of those black shoes in the catalog.”
“What if I am? I want something nice to wear to church.”
“Except there won’t be a church for you to wear them in because you won’t help rebuild it.” Minnie stalked back into the barn.
Snowflake’s Sunday egg project was Sister Ballard’s idea. She was the Relief Society president and had asked all the people in Snowflake to donate the eggs that their chickens laid on Sunday. The Sunday eggs were to be sold and the money given to rebuild the church.
Any other time, I’d have joined the Sunday egg project, but most of my chickens had just barely started laying and I’d need every dozen eggs I sold to buy my shoes. Last Sunday, my chickens had laid twenty-one eggs, a real record!
Minnie came stomping out of the barn with a wooden bucket in each hand. She held one out to me. “Will you at least go around town to collect eggs from everybody else?”
“I can help collect the eggs,” I muttered. “I’ll be helping with the project then. That will be more important than my few eggs.”
“Have you gathered your eggs yet?”
I swallowed and pressed my lips together. “I’m going to do it right now.”
After I’d looked in every single nest, I charged out of the barn. “You stole some of my eggs, didn’t you? I have only nine eggs, not even a dozen! Just last week I had twenty-one. You must have taken some of mine.”
Minnie wagged a finger at me. “I didn’t touch your old chicken eggs.”
I went with Minnie and my best friend, Harriet, to collect eggs that Monday morning. I had never seen so many eggs. I was afraid that we were going to break half of them as we lugged our buckets around town. I told Harriet all about the fancy catalog shoes. “Nobody’s going to have shoes as nice as mine,” I boasted.
“They do sound like mighty fine shoes, Penelope. I can hardly wait to see them.”
Just then we passed the church. The thick adobe walls were still there, but the roof was gone and there were ugly black holes where the windows and doors used to be. I could hear the men working inside, and suddenly I felt a worm of uneasiness wiggle inside me. I looked away. “I can hardly wait to get my new shoes,” I repeated awkwardly to Harriet. She just stared sadly at our poor church.
“Why, you girls have surely been busy this morning,” Sister Ballard greeted us. “I can’t believe how well the chickens have been laying since we began our Sunday egg project. We’ll have that church rebuilt before you know it.”
Minnie laughed cheerfully. “The chickens must know we’re using these eggs for the church, because they’re laying more than ever on Sundays.”
“I certainly hope you’re right, Minnie,” Sister Ballard chuckled.
I had a little notebook under my pillow in the loft. On the first page, I kept a record of how many eggs my chickens laid each day. Before the church had burned down, my chickens laid heaps of eggs. But since the egg project began, it was as if they dried up. I fed them and coaxed them to loosen up, but they sure had a hard time.
There were other troubles. Three times during the week, skunks prowled around the barn at night and scared the chickens until Mustard, our dog, chased them off. Another night, a coyote sneaked in and ran off with one of Pa’s best laying hens. And Silas’s dog next door got through a crack in the wall and gobbled up half a dozen of my eggs.
With everything happening, my chickens were so nervous and afraid that they practically stopped laying eggs altogether. In fact, the next Sunday, they laid only four eggs among them. My notebook showed that they didn’t do much better all week.
Monday morning when it was time to gather the Sunday eggs, I told Ma that I wasn’t feeling well, so she let me stay in bed while Harriet and Minnie collected the eggs. I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was miserable. I didn’t want to ask other people for their eggs when I wasn’t willing to give up mine.
In the distance I heard the hammering and the sawing at the church. It was a horrible, annoying sound. I ducked under the sheet and buried my head in my pillow so I wouldn’t have to hear it.
That afternoon, Ma sent me to the store to buy two cups of sugar. Before I got it, I took another peek in the catalog. For some reason, my shoes didn’t seem as pretty and fancy as they had.
Saturday night, as I studied my egg record for the week, I frowned. I had gathered only twenty-two eggs all week—not even a whole two dozen. I remembered the Sunday I had gathered twenty-one eggs in one day. Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t fair—I was working hard, but my chickens weren’t cooperating.
I thought about asking the Lord to bless my poor chickens. After all, I’d prayed to get my treasure egg in the first place, and He had answered that prayer. But then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. How could I ask the Lord to help my chickens so I could get some fancy shoes, when I wouldn’t even share my eggs to help Him rebuild His church?
I looked at my record again. The Sunday before, I had gathered six eggs. “I can give the Lord six eggs,” I muttered to myself.
As soon as I said those words, a warm, peacefulness suddenly drove away my misery. I dropped to my knees. I didn’t ask the Lord for one thing. All I did was promise that until the church was rebuilt, I’d give away all my Sunday eggs.
As soon as I pushed up off my knees, an ugly thought pushed its way into my head. What if tomorrow my chickens lay another twenty-one eggs? I closed my eyes. I could give six eggs away, but could I give twenty-one? For a moment, I wondered if I should go back to the Lord and change my promise. The old misery started twisting in my stomach again. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and stomped my foot. “A promise is a promise,” I whispered firmly. “I don’t care if the chickens lay a hundred eggs.”
The next day, I was tempted to check my chickens, but I didn’t. Monday morning, I was up bright and early and charged out to the barn. Before I slipped through the door, I said a little prayer, reminding Heavenly Father what I’d promised and letting Him know that no matter what, every single egg belonged to Him.
What if there are only five eggs? Or even four or three? I asked myself. I suddenly felt horrible and closed my eyes again. “And if there aren’t very many,” I whispered softly, “Thou canst have some of my Monday and Tuesday eggs, too.”
I didn’t have to worry, though, because those silly chickens must have known what I’d promised. When I went around to their nests, they’d been working overtime. I collected twenty-two eggs!
I gathered them as fast as I could, and without waiting for Minnie or Harriet, I raced down the street to Sister Ballard’s house. I wanted mine to be the very first eggs she collected that Monday morning. As I ran by the church, the men were already working. I could hear the saws whine and the hammers bang, and it was beautiful, soothing music in my ears. It was my music because my few eggs were going to help it keep sounding beautiful and soothing until the church was finished.

I guess that we had the most fun one day when Mom went visiting teaching. She left Daddy to take care of us. He was busy in his study, so we looked for something fun to do until Mom got home. Hans opened a cupboard and took out a big can of flour. He took off the lid and showed it to me. It looked like something fun to play with, so we took it into the living room, where he poured it all onto the carpet. Then we rubbed it in big circles. If felt soft and nice. Hans rubbed a white circle around one of his eyes. He looked so funny! Mom came home right after that, and she couldn’t get mad when she saw how funny he looked. She just got her camera and took a picture of us.

Brother McAllister moved into the house down the street from my family at about the time my father died. Mom told me Brother McAllister had been a patriarch in a stake across the mountains, and that he and Sister McAllister had moved to our town to work at the temple. At that time I thought a patriarch was an old, old man. And Brother McAllister fit the description. He seemed about as old as a man could be.
I saw him just about every day, but I never spoke to him. I guess I was a little bit afraid of him. It was partly because he once yelled at me for hitting his window with a green apple I had aimed at a neighbor girl. But I was afraid of him mostly because he reminded me of a skeleton. He was so frail and thin that he looked like he might tumble over at any moment. And his eyes—pale blue—set in his square face burned with a fierce energy.
Early every morning he walked out of his house in a stiff, slow-motion gait wearing an immaculately pressed old-fashioned brown suit. Then he helped Sister McAllister get into their car before he drove away at a snail’s pace toward the temple. In the evening, he put on coveralls and worked in his yard. I wondered why he bothered, since he obviously didn’t have long to live.
When it came time for me to be ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, I told the bishop I would accept a home teaching assignment. I was assigned to go home teaching with Brother McAllister.
The first time was very awkward. I had forgotten he was coming, so I wasn’t ready. I put on a clean shirt and walked behind him to his car, feeling like I was being taken to the gallows. The way he did everything so slowly nearly drove me crazy.
Our first appointment was with Brother Tuttle. On the drive to the appointment, Brother McAllister told me Sister Tuttle had recently died and that Brother Tuttle was very lonely. I didn’t say anything. I knew Brother Tuttle as a grouchy old fellow who lived near my grandmother’s place. Once he had chased me out of his raspberry patch, and more than a few times told me not to play in his tumbledown barn. I was surprised when he greeted me warmly and told me a story about my grandfather. When he and Brother McAllister began discussing the lesson, I found myself staring at my companion’s carefully polished high-topped shoes. I noticed he put the laces in them so they went straight across instead of crisscross. Obviously, I wasn’t listening.
It went on like that for months. All the people we visited were old. They talked a lot about aches and pains, but were concerned about other things, too. Brother McAllister brought up the subject of dying, and said he was trying hard to get ready to meet the Savior. At first it really bothered me when he said things like that, but after a while, it didn’t. He seemed totally at peace with the idea. He talked about it the same way I talked with my friends about going on to high school. We were a little worried, but anxious to move on to something better. Slowly I began to understand why the pioneers and early Church members were willing to put their lives on the line for the gospel. Brother McAllister’s testimony had simply taken away all his fear of death.
Before long, I began to enjoy our visits. Even though I didn’t have much to say, I still felt like these people enjoyed having me come to their homes. Listening to Brother McAllister bear his testimony made me feel more confident about mine, and hearing talk about growing old gave me a totally different point of view.
I began to be ashamed of the pranks I had sometimes played on elderly people. When one of my friends suggested soaping windows or stealing fuses, I would picture Brother Tuttle or one of my families sitting alone in the dark, or trying to clean up the mess. I decided I would begin volunteering to chop wood or mow lawns for the widows in my neighborhood.
When Sister McAllister died, I attended her funeral. It was the first funeral I had dared go to since my dad died. Soon after her death, I was given another home teaching assignment. I didn’t speak with Brother McAllister much after that, but I noticed he still put on his brown suit and went to the temple every day. I marveled at how tidy he kept his yard, and wondered how he found the strength and determination to keep going. He even built a new carport.
The year I was picked as seminary president, Brother McAllister moved away to live with one of his children. I thought about him occasionally, especially when we had lessons about resurrection or the temple. Shortly after I entered the mission field, Mom wrote to tell me Brother McAllister had died. I thought about him that whole day, feeling sure he was happy and at peace. Later that night, I thought of him again when I found myself telling an investigator how a testimony of Jesus Christ and the ordinances of the temple could remove his fear of death.
I was still thinking about my home teaching companion when I said my prayers before going to bed that night. As I arose from my knees, I looked at my polished shoes and something dawned on me. I realized why it was I liked to put the laces in with the strings going straight across instead of crisscross.

When I was 15 years old, I decided to put the law of tithing to the test. I was working as a grocery bagger in Ponce, Puerto Rico. Every two hours I got a 15-minute break. During the break I would count how much I made in tips; then I would place my tithing money aside. After I started doing this systematically, I noticed that the amount of my tips increased! I don’t know that this was a result of divine intervention, but I knew that I was keeping a commandment and that when we keep commandments, sooner or later we receive blessings.
Of course, blessings don’t always come in quite the way we think they will. After I had been paying tithing for a while, I knew that what I was doing was sacred. It wasn’t just donating money to the Church. I was treating what the Lord had said with respect, and I was making sure my tithing was paid regularly and promptly. I was excited to do what I could to help build the kingdom of God.
Then one Sunday morning, I took longer than usual to wake up. My parents wanted to get to church early, so when I finally did get up, I was in a rush. I didn’t realize until we were at the meetinghouse that I had left my tithing money behind. “I’ll just pay it next week,” I thought. But I felt bad. I wanted Heavenly Father to know I was obedient.
After the meetings, we arrived home to find that our home had been burglarized. Jewelry, a video camera—pretty much everything that had value had been stolen. I rushed to my room and went through the drawer where I had left my tithing. It too was gone. Now I felt particularly bad. I felt that if I had remembered to bring my tithing to church, it would not be missing now.
Then I felt prompted to say something to my father: “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be OK. The person who robbed us took the Lord’s money, so he took something that is sacred.” I didn’t think the Lord would let that go unnoticed.
But I think the Lord wanted me to learn to be more careful with what belonged to Him. Soon the thief was apprehended, and everything was recovered—except my tithing money. To make things right, I took the same amount out of savings and took it to the bishop the very next Sunday. Ever since, I have always tried to pay my tithing in a timely manner. I know that tithing is a law from God, and that means I should take it seriously.

In the same year, Dr. Hansen made his medical discovery, two ecclesiastical leaders from different faiths first made their appearance on the Kalaupapa peninsula. One was a Latter-day Saint named Jonathan Hawaii Napela, the other a Belgian priest, Father Damien J. De Veuster, who was canonized by the Roman Catholic Church in 2009. Napela was born on the island of Maui in 1813, became a district judge in 1848, and converted to Mormonism in 1852. He was a tremendous aid to early LDS missionary work on the Hawaiian Islands as he fed and housed the elders, helped them learn his native language, and aided George Q. Cannon with the translation of the Book of Mormon. Perhaps his greatest contribution was his example as a loving husband. When his beloved wife Kitty contracted the disease, Jonathan chose to remain with her in the settlement and act as her kokua, a Hawaiian word meaning “helper.” Consequently, Jonathan wrote a heart-felt letter in his native language, Hawaiian, to the Board of Health, pleading that he might be allowed to stay with his wife:

"On August 3, 1843 I took my wife as my legally married wife and on that same day I vowed before God to care for my wife in health and sickness, and until death do us part…. I am 60 years old and do not have much longer to live. During the brief time remaining, I want to be with my wife. My wife has also lived a long life, but with this disease, it will quickly shorten her life. Such is the reason for this petition."4

Fortunately, Jonathan’s request was granted, and he spent the remaining years of his life at Kalaupapa with Kitty. While there, Napela more than just his wife. Not long after his arrival, he was called as the leader of the LDS Church on the Kalaupapa peninsula, a calling he held from 1873 until his death in 1879, from the effects of Hansen’s disease.5

I previously mentioned pornography. It easily becomes an addiction of the worst kind. Let me read to you from a letter I received from a victim:

“I would like to share something with you that I have not been able to share with anyone else. I am a 35-year-old male. For most of my adult life I have been addicted to pornography. I am very ashamed to admit this, … but for the most part, my addiction is as real as that of an alcoholic or a drug addict. …

“The main reason for my writing is to tell you that the Church can’t do enough to counsel the members to avoid pornography. I was first introduced to this material as a child. I was molested by an older male cousin, and pornography was used to attract my interest. I am convinced that this exposure at an early age to sex and pornography is at the root of my addiction today.

“I think it is ironic that those who support the business of pornography say that it is a matter of freedom of expression. I have no freedom. I have lost my free agency because I have been unable to overcome this. It is a trap for me, and I can’t seem to get out of it. Please, please, please plead with the brethren of the Church not only to avoid but eliminate the sources of pornographic material in their lives. Besides the obvious things like books and magazines, they need to turn off cable movie channels in their homes. I know many who have these services and claim that they are able to screen the bad things out, but this is not true. …

“Pornography and perversion have become so commonplace in our lives that the sources of this material are everywhere. I have found pornographic magazines by the roadside and in dumps. We need to talk to our children and explain how evil these things are and encourage them to avoid looking at them when they come across them. …

“Finally, President Hinckley, please pray for me and others in the Church who may be like me to have the courage and strength to overcome this terrible affliction.

“I am unable to sign my name, and I hope that you will understand.”