Gospel Story Finder

When Mya’s grandma and grandpa were in a car accident, Grandpa had to go to the hospital in an ambulance. Mya went with her mom to pick up Grandma. Mya was worried about her. Grandma wasn’t hurt, but when she got into the car she started crying. Mya held out her hand and said, “Here, Grandma. This is for you.” She put a large green button into Grandma’s hand. This button was very special to Mya. It was one of her treasures. Grandma was thankful to know that Mya loved her so much she would give up her treasure. Grandma sewed the button onto a teddy bear. She calls it a “badge of love.”
Mya G., age 4, Montana

My wife, Wendy, experienced this difficult situation. For years she had nearly exhausted herself, thinking she had to be the perfect wife and mother, the perfect Church member, the perfect neighbor and citizen. Instead of feeling joy, she often felt overwhelmed and discouraged. Her frustration was further exacerbated when well-intentioned leaders and friends seemed to indicate that if she had enough faith, she would be able to accomplish all these things. Only after a personal crisis of depression and anxiety was she able to understand fully the source of her suffering. It was a painful time not only for her but for our entire family. We have grown stronger and learned many lessons as a result. But perhaps we could have been spared much of the pain if we had more clearly perceived the need to maintain temporal and spiritual balance.
While my wife was struggling to escape from the cycle of faithful works followed by frustration and discouragement, the Spirit of the Lord whispered to her that what she was demanding of herself was not pleasing to the Lord because she was not allowing the Atonement to operate fully in her life. It is not a sign of weakness to avail ourselves of the Atonement. Rather, it shows courage, faith, and gratitude. The Atonement allows us not only to repent of sin but also to receive an outpouring of the Savior’s grace, which strengthens us when we simply do not have the power to overcome our human weaknesses. It allows the Savior to share our burdens and compensate for our many inadequacies (see Matt. 11:28–30; Ether 12:27).

Less than a month ago, two missionaries visited a widowed lady who had expressed interest in the Church. She was ill and had been advised by her physician that a kidney was to be removed. The elders comforted the woman, heeded the whisperings of the Spirit, and pronounced a blessing. Another miracle happened. The operation was cancelled, and the missionaries began teaching their friend the gospel. A baptismal date has already been set. This particular woman will never forget the blessing and teachings of the elders. They will be held in cherished memory and regarded as “saviors of men.”

President George Albert Smith, left, the eighth President of the Church, was born on 4 April 1870, just across the street from Temple Square. When he was 13, he attended Brigham Young Academy. He said, “I cannot remember much of what was said during the year that I was there, but there is one thing that I will probably never forget. Dr. [Karl] Maeser one day stood up and said:
“‘Not only will you be held accountable for the things that you do, but you will be held responsible for the very thoughts you think.’
“Being a boy, not in the habit of controlling my thoughts very much, it was quite a puzzle to me what I was to do, and it worried me.” A few days after this, President Smith came to a realization: “Why, of course, you will be held accountable for your thoughts because when your life is complete in mortality, it will be the sum of your thoughts. That one suggestion has been a great blessing to me all my life, and it has enabled me upon many occasions to avoid thinking improperly because I realize that I will be, when my life’s labor is complete, the product of my thoughts” (Church News, Feb. 16, 1946, 1).

I remember when I was a returned missionary, and having searched the scriptures diligently, I thought I knew it all. During our courtship, Blanquy and I would study the scriptures together. I used many of my notes and references to share my knowledge of the gospel with her. After we married I came to a serious realization as I learned a great lesson from her: I may have tried to teach her the gospel, but she taught me how to live it.

Big teardrops splashed down Bobby’s cheeks as he watched Freddie and Dick lug Freddie’s wading pool over to Dick’s house. All the way home from school, the three boys had eagerly planned making a jungle hideout in a pile of dirt behind Dick’s garage. Dick’s father had said they could.
Freddie’s wading pool would be their hidden lake. The green branches Dick’s father had pruned from his shade trees would be the jungle trees. They would use their stuffed toys and odd-shaped rocks and pieces of bark for animals. Bobby knew where there was a crooked stick, streaked brown, that looked like a snake. He planned to put it on one of the trees for a huge python, just like in real jungles.
They were going to wear their shorts and go barefoot, like Tarzan. They’d creep through their jungle with bows and arrows, looking for wild animals. Oh, what fun they were going to have!
Bobby had rushed into his house to get a snack and to put on his shorts—and there, on the refrigerator door, was the note: DON‘T FORGET, BOBBY! Love, Mom.
He was so disappointed that he didn’t even look to see what she had left for a snack. Who’d feel like eating when he had to weed two rows of corn before he could play!
It didn’t help to remember that it was his own fault. He had fooled around all day Saturday while Dad, Mom, Susan, and Peggy did their weeding. Then, when he was about ready to start, who should come but Aunt Alice, Uncle John, Nick, and Michael.
“We’ll let it go for now. We mustn’t disappoint your cousins. They have come all the way from Bountiful to play with you,” Mother had said, adding firmly, “but you may not play after school Monday until your weeding is done.”
And there was the note to remind him.
Bobby started to cry. He felt awful. He felt even worse when he saw Freddie and Dick go by with the wading pool. They were going to make their jungle without him. And it was his own fault.
Trudging to the garden, he began pulling weeds. He started working fast, hoping to finish in time to play awhile before dinnertime. Then he remembered how Dad had told him to be extra careful to not injure the tender stalks of corn. He couldn’t work fast. He had to be careful.
When he looked down at the row of corn, it looked as long as a road that never ends. And he had two of those long rows to weed before he could play! He’d never get through in time to play jungle with his friends.
Bobby started to cry again, which, of course, only made matters worse—no weeds got pulled while he cried.
He noticed a shadow approaching and looked up. His father was standing behind him.
Usually Bobby was happy when Dad came home. But not today. If Dad was home already, it would soon be dinnertime. That meant no time at all for play.
“My boy seems upset,” Dad said.
Bobby tried to sniff back the tears.
“Those rows must look mighty long to you,” Dad guessed.
“Yes,” Bobby sobbed. “And Dick and Freddie are making a keen jungle—and I don’t get to help.”
“I know a trick,” Dad said.
“What kind of trick?”
“One that makes long rows grow shorter,” Dad answered, his eyes twinkling.
“No trick can do that.”
“Try it and see.” Dad tossed a small stick a little way down the row. “If you don’t look one bit farther than that stick, the row will grow shorter. Go on. Try it.”
Bobby started pulling weeds. In no time he had reached the stick.
“Now throw it a little farther down. But don’t look up,” Dad said.
This time Bobby seemed to reach the stick even faster. Dad tossed the stick again, and Bobby weeded to it. Again. Suddenly Bobby’s head almost touched the fence. He had reached the end of the row! “Wow! The row really did grow shorter!”
“Now do the other row the same way,” Dad suggested.
Bobby tossed the stick, then weeded to it. Again and again he tossed the stick and weeded to it. Then, as if by magic, he was through!
“Now look at the rows,” Dad said.
Bobby was amazed. The two rows weren’t shorter at all. They were as long as the other rows in the garden, just like before.
Then Bobby understood Dad’s “trick”: To make a job go faster, do it a piece at a time and work with a will. He looked up. The sun was still a long way from the mountain. Dad must have come home early. There was still time for play!
“Yippee!” he shouted. He gave Dad a big hug, hurried inside to change his pants, then got his “snake stick” and rushed to Dick’s yard to help transform a pile of dirt into a dark, mysterious jungle full of adventure and fun.

Disagreeing with my older sister was not unusual for my nine-year-old self. As with most brothers and sisters, our disagreements were more for the challenge of being the winner than for the subject of the argument.
This time, however, it seemed vital to my intellectual esteem that I be right. We were arguing about the clouds in the sky and the earth’s rotation. I had learned in my science class that the earth revolves in constant motion so I just knew that it wasn’t the clouds we saw moving across the sky, it was the earth rotating beneath them.
Since my sister and I couldn’t come to an agreement, we took the problem to our fact source: Mother. “Mom, do the clouds move or do they stay in one position and the earth moves beneath them,” we asked in unison, each anxious for her theory to be the correct one.
To my sister’s delight and my disappointment, mother explained that although the earth is constantly revolving, the clouds moved as the wind blew them across the sky. My understanding of earthly laws was incomplete and I had to alter my thinking process. There was more I needed to learn.
Fifteen years later I see how silly my idea was. I thought I could base all my observations of the physical world on the partial knowledge I had of it and be accurate in those observations. That is, until they were corrected by a more knowledgeable source.

Several years ago my wife and I visited Switzerland hoping to learn more about our family history. When we arrived in the town of Glarus, about 30 minutes from Lake Zurich, we found that our hotel reservation had been lost. The hotel clerk felt very bad for us, and he tried to find another place for us to stay. After making several unsuccessful phone calls, he said, “Oh, wait a minute. There’s one other small hotel not too far away. The owner has been in the United States. I’ll call there and see if he’s back yet.” So he did. We learned that the owner had just returned that day, and his hotel was completely empty.
The little hotel was right at the base of the Alps, on the shore of a beautiful lake. During a pleasant dinner, the proprietor said, “I know a Paul Koelliker. He lives in Glarus.” The next thing I knew, our new friend was on the phone talking to Paul Koelliker in Glarus. The man on the other end asked him if I was from Salt Lake City. When I replied that I was, he said, “I’ve met that man before.”
And then the memory came back to me. Twenty-five years earlier I was sitting at my desk at the Church Office Building in Salt Lake when my phone rang. Speaking English in a heavy German accent, the caller said, “My name is Paul Koelliker. I see in the phone book your name is Paul Koelliker. I’d like to meet you.” I went with my father and my grandfather to meet him, and we had a nice visit. He gave me some names of our ancestors, but we were unable to connect them to our family line, and we hadn’t seen each other again until my trip to Switzerland.
Early the next morning we went to his office. Not only does this Paul Koelliker live in Glarus, but he is the head of the archives for the canton of Glarus. When I told him we were trying to find our family roots, he said, “I think I can help you.” He took us into the archive and showed us books organized by family. He said, “I can’t let you photocopy any of this; you’ll just have to write it by hand.” So for the next seven hours, we wrote as fast as we could.
We returned from our trip to Switzerland with the names of hundreds of our ancestors and later completed their temple work. We knew there were many more names waiting in the archive at Glarus. Our family feels the spiritual urging that those names are waiting for us. I know the Lord will help us find our ancestors if we will just act on the promptings of the Spirit.

A much-told family story illustrates the importance of a temple recommend. When one of my sisters was a young single adult, she danced one night with a man whom she thought she would like to know better. When she returned home she told my mother about him. My mother was skeptical and said there was no possible way to know if a man was good just by dancing with him.

My sister replied, “He has a temple recommend, so he must be pretty good.”

Mother asked, “How do you know he has a recommend? Did you ask as you were dancing, ‘So, do you have a recommend?’”

My sister laughed and said, “No, but he said something about having plans to go to the temple tomorrow with a mission companion, and he must have a recommend to do that.”

Deliberately, my mother asked, “Why is it so important to know that?”

My sister answered, “Well, if I know a man has a recommend, I know he keeps the Word of Wisdom, I know he pays his tithing, I know he attends his meetings, I know he honors his priesthood, I know he sustains the leaders of the Church, and I know he has a testimony of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I want to start with a recommend as the basis for any relationship and go from there. When I know a man has a recommend, there are a lot of questions I don’t have to ask.”

A young man came to me not long ago and said, "I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can't make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?"
I looked at him and said, "Keep your agreement."
"Even if it costs me my home?"
I said, "I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges."[1]

We will make many choices throughout our lives. Today I'd like to talk about three choices that can help us find the joy Heavenly Father wants for each of us.

The first choice is, choose to share the gospel.

Sharing the gospel will bring a sweet spirit into our lives. When we testify of the truth, our testimonies are strengthened. Sometimes we get discouraged because every experience doesn't end with what we see as success. Every missionary experience may not be successful as we see it, but each one will be worthwhile. All the Lord expects is that we do our part.

We should remember that those we work with are precious sons and daughters of our Eternal Father and deserve respect and understanding. People should never be considered a project. We should never abandon someone because they don't respond or accept our invitation.

When we try to encourage someone to come back or learn about the gospel and they respond, "No, thanks," often they are really saying, "Just give me a little more time. Don't stop loving me. I'm not ready yet. Don't give up on me."

I visited a 16- and 17-year-old Sunday School class one Sunday morning. When the teacher came into the classroom, he wrote on the chalkboard, "The Plane Truth." P-L-A-N-E. I thought to myself, "I wonder where he went to school? I hope it wasn't BYU-Idaho." I soon learned what this meant. Two young people came to the front of the class and sat in two chairs and then began to role-play sharing the gospel to someone sitting next to them on an airplane. They did a great job.

It made me think of a story I'd recently heard of a lady who was sharing the gospel with the person sitting next to her on a flight. The person she was talking to became very interested in knowing more, and the member of the Church said, "Oh, I wish I had a Book of Mormon to give you. I usually have one with me when I travel, but I forgot this time." Just then, someone in the seat behind her reached over and handed her a Book of Mormon. I'm not sure if it was a good member who had overheard the conversation trying to do their part or someone trying to get rid of a book they had just received.

These experiences inspired me to want to share the gospel the next time I was on an airplane.

A few weeks later, I flew to area council meetings, and I got my chance. On the way home I committed myself to share the gospel with the person sitting next to me on the plane. If those kids could do it, so could I. On the first flight, I sat next to a young man who had no interest in hearing about the Church. All he wanted to talk about was all of his girlfriends, his pickup truck, and how much beer he could drink. I was so discouraged I wanted to jump out of the plane.

On the second flight, I waited anxiously to meet my next flight companion. He was from Germany. He spoke English pretty well, and I talked to him about the Church. He said that he had never heard of the Church and changed the subject but was still friendly and wanted to talk. I asked where he was staying and offered him a ride to his hotel when we arrived in Idaho Falls. I asked him why he was going to Idaho. He explained that he was going to ride horses and herd cattle at a nearby ranch. He said he had received information telling him that he needed a hat. I said, "That's a good idea. It's hot there. You'll get a sunburn without one". "How about cowboy boots?" he asked. I thought to myself, "Please don't do this to me. It's Saturday night, and I'm sure you're going to want me to help you buy boots on Sunday." So I told him, "If you buy new boots and wear them for five days straight, you'll probably never walk again the rest of your life. But I have a pair of boots in my closet at home that are a little too small for me. They are in good shape, and you can have them if you want." I asked, "What size do you wear?" He told me some European size, and I said, "Oh, I'm sure they'll fit."

When we arrived at the hotel, he said "Oh, what about the boots? When can I get the boots?" I said, "I have church tomorrow, so after church I'll..." Then I thought to myself, "You big chicken! If those kids can do it, why can't you?" So I said, "Or, if you'd like, you can go to church with me, and I can give you the boots then." He said, "Okay." I was a little shocked and pleased, but having been a missionary, I knew he might not be there when I went to pick him up.

The next morning, when I went into the hotel lobby to meet him, he wasn't there. As I went outside to leave, he came running around the building and said, "I was looking for you." I could hardly believe it! He got in the car, and we headed for church. When we arrived, I introduced him to a few members of my ward. Everyone that spoke one word of German, had ever seen a German movie, or even eaten sauerkraut surrounded him. He felt so welcome. I had copied off some Church materials and talks in German for him the night before, mostly stuff by President Uchtdorf. He really seemed to enjoy his time there. When we got in the car to go back to the hotel, he thanked me for inviting him to church and said, "I go to church almost every Sunday in Germany, but I have never felt what I felt today." I had come so close to not letting one of Heavenly Father's children feel His Spirit. And to think that I almost missed this wonderful opportunity to share the gospel.

They remind me of the characters in a parable written a few years ago by Dr. Hugh Nibley. And I would like to quote part of his parable:
“A young man once long ago claimed he had found a large diamond in his field as he was ploughing. He put the stone on display to the public free of charge, and everyone took sides. A psychologist showed, by citing some famous case studies, that the young man was suffering from a well-known form of delusion. An historian showed that other men have also claimed to have found diamonds in fields and have been deceived. A geologist proved that there were no diamonds in the area but only quartz: The young man had been fooled by a quartz. When asked to inspect the stone itself, the geologist declined with a weary, tolerant smile, and a kindly shake of the head. An English professor showed that the young man in describing his stone used the very same language that others had used in describing uncut diamonds: He was, therefore, simply speaking the common language of his time. A sociologist showed that only three out of 177 florists’ assistants in four major cities believed the stone was genuine. A clergyman wrote a book to show that it was not the young man but someone else who had found the stone.
“Finally an indigent jeweler … pointed out that since the stone was still available for examination the answer to the question of whether it was a diamond or not had absolutely nothing to do with who found it, or whether the finder was honest or sane, or who believed him, or whether he would know a diamond from a brick, or whether diamonds had ever been found in fields, or whether people had ever been fooled by quartz or glass, but was to be answered simply and solely by putting the stone to certain well-known tests for diamonds. Experts on diamonds were called in. Some of them declared it genuine. The others made nervous jokes about it and declared that they could not very well jeopardize their dignity and reputations by appearing to take the thing too seriously. To hide the bad impression thus made, someone came out with the theory that the stone was really a synthetic diamond, very skillfully made, but a fake just the same. The objection to this is that the production of a good synthetic diamond, for the farm boy, would have been an even more remarkable feat than the finding of a real one.” (Lehi in the Desert and the World of the Jaredites, Bookcraft, 1952, pp. 136–37.)

Recently my boyfriend left on his mission, and despite the fact that I’d been encouraging him to go for 3 1/2 years, I found myself almost pleading with him to stay home. He stayed with some friends before entering the MTC, and I knew that if I tried hard enough I could convince him to come home before he entered the MTC. But instead of trying to think of ways to get him home, I turned to my Heavenly Father, the scriptures, and the New Era. I have been receiving the New Era for five years, and until now I had never completely read one. I was truly amazed at the comfort I received from the articles. Now I’ve gone through the whole house and found all my old issues. Whenever I feel lonely and start missing my missionary I read a New Era, and like an answer to prayer there is always something to comfort me. It usually has to do with missionary work, and it makes me realize how important it really is that I support my boyfriend so that we can both grow close to our Heavenly Father. Now, thanks to the New Era, when I write to my missionary I can encourage him!
Mindy DartonKnoxville, Tennessee

Every morning Zach looked outside to see if it had snowed. “Will it snow today, Mommy?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not—the first snow is late this year.” Mommy hugged him sympathetically. She knew that Zach wanted to play in the snow.
It hadn’t snowed in November or so far in December. A week before Christmas, Zach looked out the window and sighed. He wanted to build a snowman and run all over the backyard and leave his footprints in the snow before he went to bed. “But there still isn’t any snow,” he said sadly to himself.
Mommy heard him. She thought about the dishes in the sink and the ironing she had planned to do. Zach is more important, she decided. “Let’s pretend that there is snow and go out and play in the backyard,” she said. She got out their coats and boots and mittens.
Zach and Mommy stomped all over the backyard, pretending to make footprints in the snow. “What big feet you have!” Mommy exclaimed. That made Zach laugh.
They rolled invisible snowballs around the yard and put them together to make a make-believe snowman. Then they went inside to drink hot cocoa and admire their snowman through the kitchen window.
Just as Mommy asked, “Did you have fun today?” a snowflake drifted past the window. Soon there were lots and lots of snowflakes falling faster and faster.
Zach said, “It’s fun to pretend, but”—he gave Mommy a big smile—“it will be even more fun tomorrow, when we make a real snowman!”
Mommy looked at the dishes in the sink and the pile of ironing. Then she looked out the window at the snow and smiled back. “You know,” she said, “I think so too!”

I had a fun experience not so long ago with our youngest daughter. We were picking up leaves in our backyard and I noticed she was only using one hand to do so. Needless to say, I was picking up most of the leaves. Upon closer inspection, I could see her phone was clasped tightly in her hand. I suggested the job would go far more quickly if she put away her phone and picked the leaves up with both hands. But even more quickly, she explained that that wasn’t possible because she was in the middle of a text conversation with her friend.

With my patience now a tad thinner, I responded her friend could wait a few minutes and to put the phone away. She refused. Our conversation then went something like this “Phoebe, put the phone away.” “No Dad.” “Phoebe, put the phone away, right now.” “Aww Dad.” “Phoebe, I am going to count to three, if you don’t put the phone away by the time I’m done, you are going to lose it for the next month.” She barely put it away in time.

This experience reminds me of movies when the police officer tells the bad guy to “put the gun down” or “move away from the gun.” Needless to say, with my daughter using both hands and her full attention, the job was soon finished and there was still time to text her friend.

In the words of a well-known song, I wish you could “come fly with me” to eastern Germany, where I visited last month. As we traveled along the autobahns, I reflected on a time twenty-seven years before when I saw on the same autobahns just trucks carrying armed soldiers and policemen. Barking dogs everywhere strained on their leashes, and informers walked the streets. Back then, the flame of freedom had flickered and burned low. A wall of shame sprang up, and a curtain of iron came down. Hope was all but snuffed out. Life, precious life, continued on in faith, nothing wavering. Patient waiting was required. An abiding trust in God marked the life of each Latter-day Saint.
When I made my initial visit beyond the wall, it was a time of fear on the part of our members as they struggled in the performance of their duties. I found the dullness of despair on the faces of many passersby but a bright and beautiful expression of love emanating from our members. In Görlitz the building in which we met was shell-pocked from the war, but the interior reflected the tender care of our leaders in bringing brightness and cleanliness to an otherwise shabby and grimy structure. The Church had survived both the war and the Cold War which followed. The singing of the Saints brightened every soul. They sang the old Sunday School favorite:
If the way be full of trial; Weary not!
If it’s one of sore denial, Weary not!
If it now be one of weeping,
There will come a joyous greeting,
When the harvest we are reaping—Weary not!
Do not weary by the way,
Whatever be thy lot;
There awaits a brighter day
To all, to all who weary not!
I was touched by their sincerity. I was humbled by their poverty. They had so little. My heart filled with sorrow because they had no patriarch. They had no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—neither endowment nor sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members were forbidden to leave the country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts, and they leaned not to their own understanding. In all their ways they acknowledged Him, and He directed their paths. I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.”
That night as I realized what I had promised, I dropped to my knees and prayed, “Heavenly Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy church. I have spoken words that came not from me, but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou, therefore, fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” There coursed through my mind the words from the psalm: “Be still, and know that I am God.” The heavenly virtue of patience was required.
Little by little the promise was fulfilled. First, patriarchs were ordained, then lesson manuals produced. Wards were formed and stakes created. Chapels and stake centers were begun, completed, and dedicated. Then, miracle of miracles, a holy temple of God was permitted, designed, constructed, and dedicated. Finally, after an absence of fifty years, approval was granted for full-time missionaries to enter the nation and for local youth to serve elsewhere in the world. Then, like the wall of Jericho, the Berlin Wall crumbled, and freedom, with its attendant responsibilities, returned.
All of the parts of the precious promise of twenty-seven years earlier were fulfilled, save one. Tiny Görlitz, where the promise had been given, still had no chapel of its own. Now even that dream became a reality. The building was approved and completed. Dedication day dawned. Just a month ago, Sister Monson and I, along with Elder and Sister Dieter Uchtdorf, held a meeting of dedication in Görlitz. The same songs were sung as were rendered twenty-seven years earlier. The members knew the significance of the occasion, marking the total fulfillment of the promise. They wept as they sang. The song of the righteous was indeed a prayer unto the Lord and had been answered with a blessing upon their heads.
At the conclusion of the meeting we were reluctant to leave. As we did so, seen were the waving hands of all, heard were the words, “Auf Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen; God be with you till we meet again.”

Let me read to you from a letter I received from a man ashamed to sign his name. He writes:
“I am a 35-year-old male and am a convert to the Church of more than ten years. For most of my adult life I have been addicted to pornography. I am ashamed to admit this. My addiction is as real as that of an alcoholic or a drug addict.
“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 to not only avoid but eliminate the sources of pornographic material in their lives. …
“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.”

As a newly ordained teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, my first home teaching companion was Henry Wilkening, a high priest nearly 60 years my senior. He was a German immigrant, a shoemaker by trade, small in stature, but an energetic and faithful shepherd to the families assigned to us. I trotted behind him (for he seemed to walk and to climb stairs much faster than I could) during our monthly visits, which took us into sobering environments new to my sheltered experience. He expected me to present part of each lesson and to make all the appointments, but mostly I listened and watched as he aided brothers and sisters with various spiritual and social, economic and emotional needs previously unknown to me as a 14-year-old.
I began to realize how much good could be done by a single faithful priesthood bearer. I watched Brother Wilkening forging a strong priesthood link for himself through his loving service to those families in need—and to me in my youth.

My grandpa has a big white truck that is really old. He says that it was new when my dad was still a boy. Whenever our family goes to visit Grandpa and Grandma, my brother, Justin, and I like to play in it. Grandma laughs and says we only come to visit Grandpa and his truck.
Some days we have to wait for Grandpa to come home from work before we can play in it. As soon as he opens the kitchen door, out we race to the big white truck.
The first one to reach the truck wins—that’s the rule.
I push my brother up into the truck, and then I climb in behind the wheel. Once inside the truck, we put on hats that Grandpa leaves in the truck—baseball caps or big straw hats or cowboy hats with turned-up brims. Grandpa always leaves hats there for us.
Justin and I take turns making roaring engine noises as we pretend to race with screeching tires and squealing brakes to catch the robbers just around the corner or to finish the big race in first place.
When we are tired of racing, we climb out through the open windows into the bed of the truck. There we hide from the ugly wild things we imagine are lurking behind the trees, or we build big forts with some old blankets Grandpa leaves in his truck.
Sometimes we take turns jumping off the truck’s tailgate. I always jump the farthest.
When Grandpa sits in the truck with us, we put the hats on him in funny ways, and he laughs with us a lot. Whenever he brings us cookies from Grandma, we sit and eat them in the truck. He doesn’t even care if we drop crumbs.
Sometimes Grandpa takes us to the park in his big white truck. We ride high above the cars and look down on them moving along beside us. Justin sits next to Grandpa and reminds him where to turn. I sit close to the door and wave and shout hello to people who pass by.
Once in a while Grandpa takes us to the ice-cream store in his big white truck. Grandma, who says the truck is too old, comes out to see us off. She asks Grandpa if he would rather take the car, but Grandpa says no and tells her not to worry. Then off we go in the big white truck.
We are always sad when it’s time to leave. Grandpa hugs us and tells us to come back soon. Grandma kisses us and tells us to be good.
I think the big white truck might be a little sad to see us go. I think it likes to race and chase and go with us. I’m glad Grandpa has his big white truck.

“Two sandwiches? I want three! Gimme three!”
“Man, I can really use this. Thanks.”
“Hey sweetie! You’re kinda cute.”
“Can I take one home to my kid? We haven’t eaten in a while.”
“Peanut butter? I can’t eat this stuff. Ain’tcha got no cheese?”
Mark looked around in the tray for something that he thought was a cheese sandwich and handed it to the hungry man standing at the open side door of the big white van. Mark and three other priests from the Arlington Ward, McLean Stake, were distributing food as fast as they could to the needy and homeless of Washington, D.C. This was a service project a little out of the ordinary for the priests, one they wouldn’t soon forget.
The plan had sounded simple enough. They’d go to a charity kitchen called “Martha’s Table,” where food had been donated and prepared. They’d load a van, which was driven by another volunteer, then head out to give away the food at three prearranged locations.
Mark Wolthuis, 16, was to hand out sandwiches, fruit, and pastries. Taylor Holsinger, 16, would do the same thing. Gonzalo Vargas, 17, would be at the back of the truck, wearing yellow rubber gloves and ladling up hot vegetable soup. And Keith Haraguchi, 16, would pour drinks from big plastic coolers he’d set up outside the van.
A line about 50 people strong had already formed by the time the van pulled up to the first stop, a busy downtown street corner bordering a small square. The young men were surprised to see a business suit or two and several bicycle couriers in line. They were also surprised the first time they saw what they later understood to be standard operating procedure: People would stand in line, get their food, then go straight to the end of the line. By the time they got to the front of the line again, they had finished their first helpings and were ready for seconds.
The second stop was Lafayette Park, right across the street from the White House. There were even more eaters there, their numbers swollen by those who had run over from the last stop. While some tenderly fed their last sandwich crumbs to the pigeons, others were trying to cut in the line, and a fight erupted. The boys just kept on dispensing food.
The last stop was in a more residential neighborhood. Old brick apartment buildings surrounded a small park where the food was handed out. There some of the people stopped to chat, explaining that with rent and food costs so high, they couldn’t afford both. “Prices here are some of the highest in the country,” agreed Taylor.
Gonzalo turned the big soup kettle on its side, trying to ladle out the last drops of broth, and Keith poured his last drink. They loaded their equipment back in the truck for the final time and pulled away from the curb. One or two lone, shabby figures remained to pick through the discarded wrappers, hoping to find a crumb or two worth eating. On the way back to Arlington, after the van had been returned and the empty trays, pots, and coolers unloaded, the boys talked about what they’d learned from the experience. They had done their part to help the needy, but the needy had also helped them.
Taylor said it made him realize how important it is to work hard in school and to take advantage of the educational opportunities he has right now to prepare for future employment. “I don’t ever want to end up in the streets,” he said.
Keith learned about gratitude. Although the food they gave out was simple, he noted that many people were grateful for any little thing they could get. “A lot of people said thank you, and really meant it,” he said.
Some questions were raised in the boys’ minds, too. “Could this whole thing be kind of futile?” Taylor asked. “I mean, we feed them for not working. Why work when you can survive on handouts? Do you think, by giving them food, we’re making them lazy?”
“But what about the old people, and the ones who are sick?” asked Gonzalo. “There are some guys who really can’t take care of themselves.”
“Those are the ones we need to have shelters for, I guess,” said Taylor.
“It would be best to help some of the others find good jobs,” offered Mark.
The boys realized that they were dealing firsthand with a social situation that has no easy answers. They’d never know what the people they’d been helping had been through. All they could see was that there seemed to be an awful lot of people in need.”
“There was no way you could judge them, and no reason to,” said Gonzalo. “You just gave something to everybody.”
What Gonzalo said brought to mind the great speech King Benjamin gave in the Book of Mormon about helping the needy. He said: “Ye yourselves will succor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.
“Perhaps thou shalt say: The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just—
“But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent. …
“For behold, are we not all beggars? Do we not all depend upon the same Being, even God, for all the substance which we have … ?
“And now, if God, who has created you, on whom you are dependent for your lives and for all that ye have and are, doth grant unto you whatsoever ye ask that is right, … O then, how ye ought to impart of the substance that ye have one to another” (Mosiah 4:16–19, 21).
Somehow, the strange things the priests had seen didn’t matter as much as the good things they’d done. They’d been able to ease some of the pain, if only temporarily, for some people who were suffering. They knew they’d be back to do it again, and they knew they couldn’t judge the people they were helping.
Because, deep down inside, the seed of understanding had been planted that would teach them what was really meant when King Benjamin asked, “Are we not all beggars?”