Gospel Story Finder

Then President Pulman related this story. He, along with the advance party for the conference, had arrived a day early to prepare everything. The first person they saw was a porter of the university, who asked them to sit down a moment as he had something to say.

This porter had about 500 young people in his wing of the college every year. He said about 60 percent were not very well behaved. But for the last three years there had been a truly exceptional student who had never put a foot wrong and had been a wonderful example to all around her. He had learned that she was LDS, so he had decided to give the Latter-day Saints a welcome on behalf of the staff.

Then President Pulman called on the soloist to stand up, and stated that she was the student the porter had spoken of. I realized why I had been so impressed with the beautiful young lady who had proved such a worthy representative of the Church. I hope that as other LDS youth leave home, whether for a university or a youth conference, they will live so that they too can be outstanding examples.

In October 1856, during a general conference, President Young learned that two handcart companies, the Martin company and the Willie company, were traveling late in the season and would face harsh winter weather on the plains of the western United States. He stood at the pulpit as a prophet of God and declared:
“Many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with hand-carts, … and they must be brought here, we must send assistance to them. … This community is to send for them and bring them in. …
“That is my religion; that is the dictation of the Holy Ghost that I possess, it is to save the people. …
“I will tell you all that your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”4
As a result of President Young’s call to action, wagons with teams of mules, men to drive them, and flour and other supplies were immediately sent to rescue the people stranded on the plains.

May I share with you an experience or two that I’ve had. Several years ago I was called to the Primary Children’s Medical Center to see a nine-year-old boy. Three days before, he had complained to his parents of headache and not feeling well. They had noted that his little body was hot; he had a fever. For three days they watched and waited and hoped that he would recover, but he became increasingly sick. On the day he was brought to the hospital he had lapsed into unconsciousness, and the family realized for the first time how really sick he was. At the hospital he was examined by the doctors. The laboratory tests and the X rays were done. Then, because bacterial or spinal meningitis was suspected, a little needle was put into his back so that they could obtain a sample of spinal fluid to make an examination. As that fluid came out through the hollow hub of the needle, instead of being crystal clear like spring water, it was cloudy. When the fluid was examined under the microscope, one could see the pus cells and the bacteria. Yes, indeed, he was critically ill with bacterial meningitis.

That evening as I left that little boy in his room—unconscious, blood pressure falling, intravenous fluids started, massive doses of penicillin being infused through the intravenous fluids—I had serious doubts that he would survive. I had doubts, if he did survive, that he would ever be normal.

Walking down the hall, I met that little boy’s mother and father. The father said, “Doctor Mason, will you assist us in administering to our boy?” So I went back into that room. There the father and I exercised our priesthood in behalf of the little fellow. The father anointed his son and then asked me if I would seal the anointing and give a blessing. As we laid our hands upon that little boy, the Spirit of the Holy Ghost whispered to me, “Promise him he will recover. Promise him he’ll have no aftereffects of this infection.” And so in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy Melchizedek Priesthood that I held, I promised that boy that he would be healed. I promised him that he would have no aftereffects. As I left that room the second time that evening (even though earlier I had had grave doubts), after that manifestation of the Spirit, I had an assurance that was much surer than medical science or previous experience. I knew that he would live. And indeed, he did. His recovery was uneventful and complete.

As I left California, bound for Salt Lake City to receive training and be set apart for a mission in Arizona, I experienced for a moment an alarming feeling. I had lost all of my keys. The keys to the cars, home, business, and Church calling had been left behind. I had the depressing feeling that I no longer had any keys; even my pockets seemed empty.
Then came the exhilarating thought that I still had the most important key of all, a key that I will hold eternally, if I remain worthy. That key, of course, is the patriarchal key with my family.

As a young elder in the missionary training center, I thought I knew how to do missionary work until I had an experience that changed everything about my approach to sharing the gospel. It happened in a Sunday School class with hundreds of other missionaries.
During the class, the teacher focused our attention on a comment made by the Prophet Joseph Smith. He explained that in the area where Joseph Smith grew up, missionaries of other churches tried to convince people that their churches were true by reasoning from passages of the Bible. These efforts often became quite intense, leading young Joseph to describe them as a “war of words and tumult of opinions” (Joseph Smith—History 1:10).
Over time, Joseph recognized that this approach was ineffective and confusing, and he offered an insight that can influence the way we share the gospel. He said, “The teachers of religion of the different sects understood the same passages of scripture so differently as to destroy all confidence in settling the question [of which church was true] by an appeal to the Bible” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12).
This was a revolutionary idea to me. I had assumed that the most effective way to share the gospel was by teaching it primarily from the Bible—common ground with other Christians. What Joseph Smith discovered had never occurred to me: because the Bible can be interpreted so differently, it can be a source of contention and misunderstanding, sometimes leading to “Bible bashing.” As President Jeffrey R. Holland, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, explained, “The Bible, so frequently described at that time as ‘common ground,’ was nothing of the kind—unfortunately it was a battleground.”
So what should we rely on when sharing the gospel? Again, Joseph Smith identified the answer: “Unless I could get more wisdom than I then had, I would never know [which church was true]” (Joseph Smith—History 1:12; emphasis added). Joseph discovered that the only way to know which church was true was to get “more wisdom,” or, in other words, more revelation, truth, and inspiration from God. The revelation he received to answer his question is known today as the First Vision.
This is the simple realization that changed my life as a missionary. I knew what I should do. Instead of trying to prove the Church true by reasoning from the Bible, I would rely on latter-day revelation. Specifically, I would teach the First Vision because it is God’s answer to the question of which church is true. The Holy Ghost could then confirm that answer to each individual. As one former mission president counseled, I would take “the quickest and most direct route to the Sacred Grove.”

Some weeks ago I was called out of a Thursday evening meeting at the Missionary Training Center, where I serve as a branch president, by an elder with a toothache that hurt so bad that he was crying in pain and with a jaw so swollen that he had not been able to eat all day. Unable to get into a dentist until the next day, he asked if I would bless the pain away. “Do you think it can be done?” I asked, trying to put down my own inner Schweinhund that sees toothache as abscesses in need of repair and wondering how I could arrange to get him some painkiller pills at that time of night. Then I heard him say, his voice charged with faith, “I know the Lord can do it, and I don’t see any useful lesson to be gained by this pain when I can’t concentrate on Japanese or anything but this pain; and I see a whole lot to be gained if the Lord will simply stop the pain.” We talked until I felt the Spirit whisper, “Now,” and flood my mind with what I should say. Then I laid on hands and blessed the young man. On feeling those impulses that I know as the promptings of the Spirit, I clambered out on a swaying branch I had trodden before and promised him that he would be healed at once. I concluded the blessing, spoke a few words of instruction about how to pray after a blessing, and we returned to the branch meeting. Otherwise engaged with missionaries, I did not see him again that evening, but I prayed hard on Friday and Saturday that the Lord would have already granted the young man the blessing he sought—and more. On Sunday morning he was at my office door, bright-eyed and radiant, to tell me that a miracle had indeed occurred. Before he had taken his seat in the meeting to which we returned on Thursday, the pain had stopped; by the end of the meeting the throbbing was gone; by the time he was back in his room the swelling had left and he was able to eat. He did not keep his appointment with the dentist the next afternoon—he said he couldn’t afford the time away from Japanese. He bore testimony to me that his joy in the reality of the Holy Spirit in his life exceeded the relief he experienced with the cessation of pain. This testimony had come to a spiritually insecure young man who needed at that time, in that place, and in that way, some unambiguous support from his wise Heavenly Father. As the door closed behind him, I said aloud, “Thanks, Lord,” and experienced that familiar flood of warmth and comfort—something akin, I suppose, to being perched in the hollow of his hand.

The Targeteer A classes of the Orem Fourteenth Ward decided to do something to beautify our sacrament trays. This was done in secret so that only the members of the class and our teacher knew about it. Everyone rolled up their sleeves and really scrubbed and polished the trays. We became so enthusiastic that one class member suggested that we also clean the storage shelves. We felt good about it and many of the ward members commented on the gleaming silver trays.
We also baked cookies at our teacher’s home and took them to some of the sick and elderly people of the ward where we sang songs and visited.

Shannon, a young mother, did not expect that she would teach her children the power of prayer when they piled into their van to drive to their home just 40 minutes away. There was no storm when they left their grandmother’s home, but as they began to drive through the canyon, the light snow turned into a blizzard. The van began sliding on the surface of the road. Soon visibility was near zero. The two youngest children could sense the stress of the situation and began to cry. Shannon said to the older children, Heidi and Thomas, ages 8 and 6, “You need to pray. We need Heavenly Father’s help to get home safely. Pray that we will not get stuck and that we will not slide off the road.” Her hands shook as she steered the car, yet she could hear the whisper of little prayers repeatedly coming from the backseat: “Heavenly Father, please help us get home safely; please help us so we will not slide off the road.”
In time the prayers calmed the two little ones, and they stopped their crying just as they learned that a road closure prevented them from driving any farther. Cautiously, they turned around and found a motel for the night. Once in the motel, they knelt down and thanked Heavenly Father for their safety. That night a mother taught her children the power of holding true to prayer.

Amelia liked visiting Grandma. She liked playing with the toy animals, especially with Grandma’s soft stuffed bunny. But today wasn’t for playing. Today was for helping.
On the way to Grandma’s house, Amelia’s sisters talked about which jobs they wanted to do.
Sarah wanted to sweep. Emily wanted to mop. And Mom asked Alyssa to clean the windows.
“What about me?” Amelia asked. “Should I help dust?”
“I have a special job for you,” Mom said. “I need you to listen.”
Amelia waited. “OK, I’m listening. What is it?”
“That’s the job!” Mom said with a laugh. “Just listen. Sit with Grandma and listen while she talks. It might be the most important job we do all day.”
How could listening be the most important job? Amelia wondered. It seemed like dusting would be more of a real job! But Amelia was willing to try.
Grandma was glad to see them. Everyone else got started on their jobs. Amelia went and sat next to Grandma on the couch. Amelia noticed the stuffed bunny in the corner. “I like your rabbit,” she said.
Grandma smiled. “Did I ever tell you about my brother Mel and the baby bunny?”
Amelia was surprised. “A real bunny?”
Grandma nodded. “It was an orphan he found. He snuggled it inside his shirt so it would be safe.” Grandma told Amelia about the rabbit pen Mel built.
That story reminded Grandma of other stories. She told about a pet calf she named Star. She used to ride on Star’s back! Amelia giggled as she pictured Grandma riding a baby cow. It wasn’t easy imagining Grandma as a little girl.
Grandma talked and talked. She told the rabbit story again. Another time, she even stopped in the middle of a story and started over.
Amelia tried to keep listening, but she was getting tired. Mom and the other girls were still working. It was hard to sit and listen! But Grandma smiled. She seemed happy to be sharing her stories.
A few minutes later, Mom came in. “All done! We’re ready go.”
“That was so nice,” Grandma told Amelia. “I love visiting with you!”
Amelia gave her grandma a big hug. She saw tears in Grandma’s eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Amelia asked.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Grandma said. “Thank you for talking with me. I love you.”
Amelia felt warm all the way inside. “I love you too,” she said. “I’ll come again soon.”
On the way home, Alyssa asked, “How was listening, Amelia?”
“It was harder than I thought. I think I was done listening before Grandma was done talking!”
“You were terrific!” Mom said.
“Thanks,” Amelia said. “Some of the stories she told were fun. Did you know Grandma had a pet calf?”
“Really?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah! Grandma used to ride it,” Amelia said, nodding. “Its name was Star.”
Amelia told them all of Grandma’s other stories. It was pretty cool to learn so much about her.
Emily grinned. “Maybe you could trade me jobs next time. I want a chance to listen!”

When a teacher recommended me to help in the special needs seminary class, I accepted, but not without some serious doubts. My hesitations were purely selfish but were doubts nonetheless. Many questions ran through my mind: How would I interact with them? What if they didn’t like me? Why did they choose me when I had such a busy schedule and wanted to enjoy my time in seminary?
I would love to say that when I went to the class for the first time, all my doubts washed away and I opened my arms to these amazing youth. But I did not. I was standoffish and gave the smallest effort possible.
However, one experience I had in this class changed my perspective. One day, the teacher decided to sing hymns the entire class period. I sat next to a girl named Annie who was severely autistic. She couldn’t talk and could hardly even communicate through the very little sign language that she knew. The teacher told me that she loved it when people would pat out the beat of the music to her on her arm or leg, as well as sing to her. After an hour of patting her arm, my arm felt like it would soon fall off. Also, I have always known that I was not blessed with a wonderful singing voice. I get embarrassed to sing in front of other people, because I know I don’t sing well. But Annie didn’t care. She was so happy, just sitting there smiling and smiling. Whenever I would stop singing or patting, she would get very agitated and start shaking or moaning. But as soon as I would start singing again, she would be right back to smiling (even if I was noticeably off-key). I felt the Spirit so strong as we sang “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2), and Annie smiled up at me from her wheelchair.
I would often get discouraged in that class because I was not seeing the results of my efforts come out in the students. I am extremely goal-oriented, and I expect clear results from my hard work. But this one experience showed me that if I would just forget myself, I would make a difference for these incredible people. What I wasn’t aware of was that they were making a bigger impact on my life by their amazing spirits and the goodness that radiates from them.

One Saturday night when I was about eleven, many of Mother’s relatives came from out of town to have dinner with us. Such visits were rare, so she spent the whole day getting the dinner ready. She prepared a pot roast and all the vegetables to go with it, mashed potatoes and gravy, salads, hot rolls, and dessert. She cooked all day, and soon the dirty dishes started stacking up.
After dinner, everyone brought the leftover food to the kitchen, then went into the living room and began to visit. I remember going back to the kitchen, thinking, Mother works all week long, and now she’ll have to do the dishes late at night after everyone leaves. Then I thought, I’ll do the dishes for her.
In those days, we didn’t have a dishwasher; the dishwasher was either me or someone else. I filled up the sink and started washing. I stood there for three hours, washing every dish—and I learned that when dishes or pans are dirty, it’s best to clean them immediately, before the food hardens!
Finally I finished drying the last dish, wiping off all the counters, and scrubbing the floor. I heard the relatives walking out onto the porch, and I heard Mother bidding them good-bye.
The kitchen door swung open, and Mother entered. She stopped and looked around and then looked at me. I cannot describe the look on her face. I think that at first it was shock, then appreciation, and then I think it was more than that. It was a feeling of love and pride, and of something I couldn’t measure. I think you understand. There was a light in her eyes. I made the decision then that I would like to put that kind of light into people’s faces.
Mother hugged and thanked me, and I went to bed contented and happy, knowing that she wouldn’t have to stand there doing dishes until two o’clock the next morning.

When we are willing to serve, we strive not to complain or murmur, because we do not want to tarnish our service in any way. Complaining may be a sign of wavering commitment, or that our love for the Savior is not as it ought to be. Left unchecked, murmuring can progress to outright rebellion against the Lord. This progression is seen in the life of Ezra Booth, an early convert to the Church in Ohio who was called as a missionary to Missouri.

As he left Ohio in June 1831, Ezra was upset that some missionaries were able to travel by wagon while he had to walk in the summer heat, preaching along the way. He murmured. When he arrived in Missouri, he felt deflated. Missouri was not what he had expected. Instead, he looked around and noted that “the prospect appeared somewhat gloomy.”

Ezra became increasingly cynical, sarcastic, and critical. Upon leaving Missouri, instead of preaching as he went, as he had been asked to do, he returned to Ohio as quickly as he could. His initial murmuring evolved into wavering and finally into losing confidence in his earlier spiritual experiences. Soon Ezra left the Church and “ultimately ‘abandoned Christianity and became an agnostic.’”

Second, the wolf of their own imperfections will test them. One woman told me through her tears how her husband’s constant criticism finally destroyed not only their marriage but her entire sense of self-worth. He first complained about her cooking and housecleaning and then about how she used her time, how she talked, looked, and reasoned. Eventually, she felt utterly inept and dysfunctional. My heart ached for her and for him.

My senior year of high school began with the tardy bell ringing, echoing through the empty hallway. Agghh! Late for the first day! I slammed my locker door shut and ran down the hall to my first class. Why did school have to start today? I had slept in this morning and missed the bus. Mom had already left to take my little sister to preschool, so I hopped on my mountain bike and covered the two miles to school in record time.
School should start next week! Why couldn’t today just be a repeat of yesterday?
“Hey, Andrew, Mr. Lazy Bones, wake up! It’s gonna get hot soon and we gotta do Pet Piranha before the sun hits it!”
My best friend Josh made a habit of charging into my room like that. I shouldn’t have been the least bit surprised this morning. With school starting tomorrow, this would be our last chance to go rock climbing with no schedules or homework to worry about.
“Dude, get up!” Josh hopped onto my bed and started jumping until I could no longer ignore him.
“Okay, okay, I’m up already!” I whined in my best morning voice. “Where’s my stuff?”
“I thought I told you to lay it all out last night, since I knew you’d sleep in again.” Josh tried to sound impatient, but I could hear the excitement in his voice.
I got dressed. As I picked up my harness, climbing shoes, and chalk bag, my Book of Mormon fell to the floor. I had set it on top of my gear yesterday afternoon to remind myself to read before going to bed, but the time had grown late and I was sleepy. What did it matter if I missed reading the scriptures for one more day?
Reading the scriptures every day was a goal I had agreed to in seminary before school let out for the summer. Our teacher had said something about how reading the scriptures would protect us. It had motivated me enough to make the goal, but I had long since forgotten why it seemed so important.
As I picked up the book, I also thought about my goal to say my prayers every morning and night, but that could wait too. After all, I could pray anytime. I tossed the book on my unmade bed and headed out the door with Josh.
Mr. Fenton had just started class as I walked through the door to algebra III. I avoided his gaze as I made my way to the back of the class.
Uh, oh. Amy sat there in the back, smiling at me and clearing her notebook off a desk next to her. Amy was all right as a person, but the way she looked at me sometimes made me feel uncomfortable. The brownies she sometimes cooked for me tasted great, but that didn’t mean I wanted her to give them to me.
After Mr. F. had begun again, Amy looked over and smiled. “You missed the bus,” she whispered, as if I didn’t already know. I nodded my head and looked back up to find Mr. Fenton staring straight at me.
“Do you think you two could get reacquainted after class, Andrew?”
I thought of defending myself, of telling him that I hadn’t said anything. “Yeah, sorry,” was all I said. I didn’t look at Amy again, even though I sensed her trying to get my attention. I tried to pay attention for a while as Mr. Fenton droned on about our first assignment but soon found my thoughts drifting back to yesterday’s adventure.
Outside my house, I set my gear in the back of Josh’s truck. We backed out of the driveway and drove up the canyon to our destination. The guidebook told us that Pet Piranha was rated 5.11a***, right at the edge of my climbing comfort zone. The three stars next to the rating, however, promised good holds and a fun, doable climb.
We pulled off the highway at the bridge and began the steep hike to the cliffs. Once there, we studied the drawing in the guidebook, looking for Pet Piranha while walking along the cliff base.
“This must be it,” said Josh. “See, this looks like the tower to the left, and there’s Chips Ahoy that joins it halfway up.” He dropped the guidebook and walked over to touch the cliff. I pulled the tarp and rope from his pack and looked up to find Josh already four feet off the ground. He pulled himself close to the rock and swung his right hand high above his head to the next hold.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Aren’t ya gonna wait for the rope?”
“Yeah, sure,” he answered. He lowered himself a bit and jumped to the ground. “But someday, I’m gonna free solo this route.”
Josh stared up the route as he spoke. He wasn’t afraid of anything, and I didn’t doubt that he meant it. But free solo? That meant no rope, no protection at all, nothing to keep him from falling all the way to the deck if he slipped even once. And it happened to the best of them. We had read magazine articles about guys who free soloed and talked about how great it was, but now at least two of them were dead.
“Don’t be crazy, Josh. What if you die? Who would I climb with then?”
“But think of the rush!”
“Listen, if you slipped from even halfway up this route, you’d deck so hard you’d crush at least three dozen bones and blow your chance to ever climb again. How would you like to spend the rest of your life as a paraplegic?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Anyway, I don’t think I’d really have done it.” He turned away from the cliff and smiled cheerfully. I finished doing up my harness and waited for him to tie in.
My next class was seminary, or released time, as they called it officially. I had signed up with Josh, and we were both in Brother Stowers’s class. I stopped by my locker, then headed outside toward the seminary building. The touch of the morning breeze against my face reminded me of yesterday’s breeze in the canyon.
“You gonna go first?” Josh asked, smiling.
“I thought you were going first,” I answered.
“Of course you did. I always go first. That’s why you should go first today. This is the last day of summer. Ya gotta do something memorable!”
The thought of leading this climb frightened me a little, but why not? If I couldn’t finish, Josh could always come up and do it.
“All right, I will then.” I pulled on my tight climbing shoes and tied myself in with a figure-eight knot. As each second passed, the knot of fear inside my stomach cinched tighter.
“Climbing,” I said, trying to sound as casual as Josh always did.
“Climb on,” he answered in a sing-song voice.
I chalked my hands and stepped up to the cliff. The first holds weren’t too bad. They were small and a bit polished, but I moved up to the first bolt eight feet off the ground and clipped in. I breathed more easily once I had the rope clipped through the quickdraw. Now there was something to catch me if I fell.
I can do this! I moved up toward the second bolt. The moves became technical and balancy. My feet were placed uncomfortably off to one side as I tried to lay back on vertical handholds. I made it to the next bolt, but the thought of letting go with either hand to clip frightened me.
“I don’t know if I can clip this!” I yelled down to Josh.
“So skip it,” he yelled back. “You can clip the next one.”
Yeah, right! Falling without protection nearby would result in a long fall, and my chances of getting hurt would increase dramatically. My stomach tightened again and adrenaline seeped quietly into my veins. I knew I couldn’t hang on forever. I slowly let go with one hand and reached down to the gear loops on my harness, unclipped a quickdraw, and clipped into the bolt. I reached down for the rope and clipped it into the draw. A cool wave of relief swept over me as the gate snapped shut around the rope.
“Lookin’ good, Andrew!” Josh yelled from below.
My arms were getting tired, and I couldn’t see my next move. “I don’t think this thing is only an .11a!” I shouted down. Maybe it got easier higher up, but the fear was already making me use up my strength much faster than I needed to.
“I’m getting awfully pumped! I’m not sure I can finish this!” It was times like this that I began to wonder why I climb in the first place. “Hold me for a minute while I rest then.”
“Gotcha. Go whenever you’re ready.”
Josh took up the slack in the rope, and I sat in my harness and let the rope hold me up. I was glad for the bolt right there, something that would hold me up, keep me from falling, and let me rest. The bolts also marked the route, telling me where I could expect to find holds that would take me to the top.
I shook out my tired forearms and looked down to where the highway and river twisted along the canyon floor. A few swallows floated gracefully on the updrafts. For a moment, I forgot my fear of the climb. Then I looked back at the gray and black limestone in front of me. I touched the narrow edges and ran my fingers along thin cracks and seams. It was beautiful, and I remembered why I came here—the thrill of the climb, the beauty of the natural world, the sense of accomplishment after a challenging ascent, and just spending time with my best friend.
I walked into seminary and found my name on a desk at the back. I sat down as Brother Stowers walked into the room. He told us a little about himself and asked each of us to give a short introduction as well.
Next to me on the back row sat a girl I had never seen before. She must have been new in town, and I wouldn’t mind being one of the first to get to know her. The new girl said her name was Amber, and she had just moved here from Wyoming. Josh noticed my interest and bobbed his eyebrows at me. I gave him a “Give me a break!” look, even though it was futile to deny that I was interested.
Having learned Amber’s name and given my own short introduction, I was free to let my mind wander again.
I took a deep breath and called, “Climbing.”
Josh answered with a cheery “Climb on,” and I went back to work.
I had scouted out a few potential moves and tried them out. They worked all right, but they were small and I had to move quickly to avoid burning out again and coming off the wall. I climbed to the third bolt and clipped again. Only three more bolts to the top. By now I was more than 30 feet above the deck. “I sure wish these bolts were closer together.”
With my middle finger in a shallow pocket and my index finger stacked on top of it, I smeared my feet on a bulge and looked up for the next handhold. “Ya know, this doesn’t feel anything like an .11a,” I shouted down. “Seems more like an .11d!”
I reached up and pinched a tiny crystal, then shifted a foot to an eighth-of-an-inch-wide ledge. It had a sharp edge and felt secure, and I breathed a little easier as I shifted most of my weight back to my feet. “I bet the guidebook got it wrong,” I yelled while moving my right hand to a large rock flake above my head. “I bet it was a typo and this is really a .12a or maybe …”
As I pulled down against the flake, it broke loose and sent me hurtling backward into empty space. “Falling!” I shouted instinctively.
Just for an instant, the wind whistled past my ears; then the slack ran out and the rope caught me with a gentle jerk on my harness. I held my feet out in front of me, and they landed softly against the cliff, almost 15 feet below where I had fallen.
“Yahoo!” Josh shouted. “What a screamer! You got some serious air on that one. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I answered as I watched the loose rock tumble down the mountainside below. That would explain the wrong rating. The route has probably changed as other holds have broken off. That would make it a completely different climb than it used to be. The shock of the fall quickly turned to excitement and elation with the adrenaline still pumping hot through my veins and brain.
“You owe me your life!” Josh said in his most dramatic tone of voice. It was his standard line every time he caught a fall. I laughed and he asked, “Wanna try again?”
“Nah, I’m gonna let you finish. I’ve had enough for one day.”
After I lowered down, Josh tied in and climbed quickly up to where I had fallen. I noticed him carefully testing each hold before trusting it with his entire weight. He agreed that the route was more difficult than an .11a, but he enjoyed it just the same. We spent the rest of the afternoon eating granola bars and drinking apple juice in the shade, then wading through the river and finally swimming once a water fight had broken out between us.
My thoughts returned to class when Amber started reading a scripture.
“… with a promise immutable and unchangeable, that inasmuch as those whom I commanded were faithful they should be blessed with a multiplicity of blessings.”
Boy, wouldn’t it be nice if we could count on everything being that dependable. Like climbing routes and guidebooks. Like life even. I thought of raising my hand to share the analogy, but I hadn’t been listening and wasn’t sure if it would fit into the discussion.
“That’s one reason why we call Christ ‘the Rock’,” Brother Stowers said. “Because he never changes, we can trust him to bless us when we keep his commandments just as he promised people in the early church and throughout history.”
Now I was intrigued. The Rock, huh? This analogy is getting better. Only the true Rock can be depended on like that. Everything else in this world can eventually break off, and that could put a person in a great deal of danger or pain if he had trusted it too much. I looked at Josh and he smiled. He must have thought the same thing. Suddenly I found my hand raised above my head.
“Yes, Andrew?” Brother Stowers called on me after consulting his seating chart.
“So we should clip into the rock frequently, I guess,” I blurted out.
“Clip?” Brother Stowers asked, a bit confused.
I should have backed up and explained things a little. Now no one would know what I was talking about. I was remembering the cliff breaking apart yesterday. I was thinking about how each clip on yesterday’s climb gave me a great sense of security and how I wished they were closer together. I was thinking about my broken resolves to read the scriptures and pray every day and how foolish it seemed to put them off now that I could see it all in perspective.
Then Josh jumped into the discussion. “Yeah,” he said, “attach ourselves, anchor ourselves to Him.”
“Ah, yes,” Brother Stowers said. “That’s a good point. And how can we do that.”
“Pray,” one student volunteered, “every morning and night.”
“And study the scriptures often,” added Amber.
“Yes,” agreed Brother Stowers, “and if we anchor ourselves that way to the Rock, then … Well, I think Paul said it best in his letter to the Romans. Andrew, would you please read the last two verses of chapter eight?”
“Sure,” I answered. I flipped open my New Testament and began reading, “For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
I suddenly felt the strength of the Spirit in the room that everyone else had probably felt throughout the entire lesson. It burned inside me, confirming to me that the words I had read were true, that Heavenly Father and Christ love us more powerfully than we can know, and that they are always there for our security and well-being in this unpredictable world. It made me feel strong and confident.
I thought again of my broken resolutions. This time I’ll really do it. No more procrastination.
“Nothing can separate us from Him,” I added thoughtfully, “except for ourselves.”
The class was silent as everyone pondered my last comment. Brother Stowers nodded his head. His mouth began to form another word, but it never came out. Instead, the bell rang marking the end of the hour, and everyone scrambled to pile up their books and make their way out the door. Brother Stowers smiled and walked to the door. He shook our hands as we left class and told us he would see us tomorrow. I, for one, could hardly wait.

When my father-in-law passed away, our family gathered together to greet others who came to pay their respects. Throughout the evening, as I visited with family and friends, I often noticed our 10-year-old grandson, Porter, standing near my mother-in-law—his “granny.” Sometimes he was standing behind her, watching over her. Once I noticed his arm linked with hers. I watched him pat her hands, give her little hugs, and stand by her side.
For several days after that experience, I couldn’t get this image out of my mind. I was prompted to send Porter a note, telling him what I had observed. I emailed him and told him what I had seen and felt. I reminded Porter of the covenants he had made when he was baptized, quoting Alma’s words in Mosiah chapter 18:
“And now, as ye are desirous to come into the fold of God, and to be called his people, and are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light;
“Yea, and are willing to mourn with those that mourn; yea, and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, and to stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places that ye may be in, even until death, … that ye may have eternal life—
“… If this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord, as a witness before him that ye have entered into a covenant with him, that ye will serve him and keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit more abundantly upon you?”
I explained to Porter that Alma taught that those who want to be baptized need to be willing to serve the Lord by serving others—for your whole life! I said: “I don’t know if you realized it, but the way you showed love and concern for Granny was keeping your covenants. We keep our covenants every day as we are kind, show love, and take care of each other. I just wanted you to know I’m proud of you for being a covenant keeper! As you keep the covenant you made when you were baptized, you will be prepared to be ordained to the priesthood. This additional covenant will give you more opportunities to bless and serve others and help you to prepare for the covenants you will make in the temple. Thank you for being such a good example to me! Thank you for showing me what it looks like to be a covenant keeper!”
Porter replied back: “Grandma, thanks for the message. When I was always hugging Granny, I didn’t know that I was keeping my covenants, but I felt warm in my heart and felt really good. I know that it was the Holy Ghost in my heart.”
I also felt warm in my heart when I realized that Porter had connected keeping his covenants with the promise to “always have his Spirit to be with [us]”—a promise made possible by receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost.

When I phoned my fiancée to wish her a happy birthday, she asked about my decision. I told her I had decided to go on a mission, but that I would like to talk with her when she came to see me in a few weeks. She insisted that we talk about it right then. Her sweet voice became choked as if something bitter were being swallowed against her will. We said good-bye.
I went to my room to pray to my Heavenly Father so she could understand and accept my decision. A little later the phone rang and that same sweet voice said with firmness, “Thank you for the birthday gift.” At first I thought she was being ironic, but then I realized she was sincere.

One day, my mom needed to take me to urgent care because the blisters had an infection. I was so scared. I didn’t want to get in the car. My mom knew I was scared. She told me about when Joseph Smith was my age. When Joseph Smith was seven years old, he had an illness that required the doctor to do surgery on his leg. He was scared too, but he knew that Heavenly Father was with him and would help him. The doctor took nine pieces of bone out of his leg! I was so surprised. He was brave. If he could do that, I knew that I could get in the car and go to the doctor. I would be brave, and Heavenly Father would help me with the pain I was feeling.

I read the story “Getting the Best of the Bully” (March 2010), and it has improved my life a lot. I was in a situation similar to the kid in the story, and every day I dreaded going to school, but I went anyway. I started being nicer to the bully, and the day after I started acting nicer, he did the same. He even stood up for me when somebody accused me of doing something I did not do.
Spencer H., Arizona

I staggered away from the table saw, my ears ringing, my stomach churning. Warm blood reached my elbow and flowed to the sawdust-covered cement floor, but I dared not look at the hand. With the palm of my undamaged hand, I cradled the mess, terrified at the sight of the red blood, white bone, and yellowing skin.
“Tim, what happened? Tim? Tim!”
I heard a voice yelling my name. It was Jeff, the only other person in the shop, and out of blurring vision I saw him running toward me.
“Go. Go get help! Call an ambulance! Hurry!” I screamed out to Jeff, and he ran out a side door.
Now alone, I lay on a large roll of plastic to stave off the dizziness I started to feel. I had just finished a year of college and landed my dream job—working for the U.S. Forest Service in the remote mountains of southwestern Colorado. Not only that, but a week before I had received my mission call to Melbourne, Australia. I was to finish my summer job in Colorado, then report to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.
Where are they? I wondered. I started to get up, thinking I would go outside, get in the truck, and drive myself to the hospital. With dizziness fast returning, I lay back down on the slippery plastic and closed my eyes. Soon I heard the wail of an ambulance.
“He’s in here.” I recognized Jeff’s voice.
Opening my eyes, I saw Jeff and a uniformed man and woman from the ambulance standing over me. Almost simultaneously, the man grabbed my cut hand and the woman took my pulse on the other arm.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said as my hand was surrounded with white gauze. I was glad the wound was no longer my responsibility and was relieved the injury was out of view.
“How old are you?” The woman now spoke.
I whispered the answer. My throat was dry, making it difficult to speak. She asked more questions about allergies, past medical problems, and current medications I was taking. I responded quickly until she got to her last question.
“What family member do you want me to call that can come to the hospital?”
I thought of my family, more than 600 miles away. Mom would be eating lunch at work and Dad would be sleeping after working a graveyard shift as a security guard. My younger sister, Erin, would be in school.
“Tim?”
“There isn’t anyone that can come now. I don’t have any family in Colorado,” I replied. As they lifted me into the ambulance and drove toward the hospital, I remembered times that summer when I hiked into isolated wilderness areas to repair eroding trails and didn’t see anyone for days. When I came back into town, I always felt detached and alone, the way I felt now.
“Tim.” It was the woman from the ambulance. Her voice sounded distant. She continued, “Is there someone else I could call—like a minister or a priest?”
I thought of the small branch in Gunnison. The members had been friendly to me during the past few months, but as an outsider, I didn’t want to bother them with this problem. I looked down. The blood had saturated through the white gauze. I winced when I thought of the ripped flesh inside.
“Phone Willy Akers or Bud Smith,” I said at last. President Akers had just been called as branch president, and Bud Smith was his counselor.
“I know Willy. I’ll call him when we get inside,” she said with assurance.
The ambulance was stopping in front of the small hospital. I saw the doctor at the door waiting for me to be wheeled inside. Once inside, I looked around at the small emergency room as they placed me on an examination table and started an IV. The doctor spoke calmly to the nurse as he unwrapped the dark, red gauze. I looked away.
Finally, he finished and directed the nurse to wrap it again. Without a word, he left. I could hear his voice on a telephone in the next room and knew he was speaking about me. He stopped talking after a few minutes and entered the emergency room.
“Tim,” he started, speaking slowly, “you’ve cut yourself pretty good, and I don’t have the equipment or expertise to do much for you. I just called for a helicopter to fly you to a limb preservation unit at a hospital in Denver. They will do everything they can to save it there. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some pain medication to make things more comfortable for you on the way. Do you have any questions?”
I managed a weak no, then thought about what he had just said. The words “save it” kept repeating themselves. I had never had a cut that required more than a few stitches, and now I was faced with the possibility of losing my hand.
“It’s a good thing this happened while I was home for lunch or you wouldn’t have caught me,” President Akers said as he entered the small room. Brother Smith followed close behind. “They tell me you get to go on a long helicopter ride too.” I nodded, too weak to speak.
“Would you like a blessing?” Bud asked. I nodded again, and in the curtained partition of the two-bed emergency room in a small hospital, I was promised two things: my hand would be all right, and I would be able to fulfill my mission to Australia. President Akers went back to work, and Brother Smith stayed with me until I was loaded on the helicopter.
“Now I’m really alone,” I thought as the machine flew above Gunnison. I knew a few people in this small town of 6,000, but in Denver, a city of half a million people, I knew no one.
But I was wrong. When the helicopter landed and I was wheeled into the doors of the hospital, a missionary couple from the Denver South Mission greeted me. Their gray hair and warm smiles reminded me of my grandparents.
“Your branch president’s wife called and asked if we’d visit you sometime this week, and we came right over,” Sister Jeffreys explained. They sat by my bed until late that afternoon when the surgery team had assembled and was ready for me in the operating theater.
I wanted Brother and Sister Jeffreys to stay, but knew they would not be allowed in during the operation. I said good-bye and watched them leave down the long hallway.
“Hello. I’m Lile Hileman, one of the anesthesiologists here,” a man said, approaching my bed. “I was supposed to get off at 4:30, but when I saw you were the only Mormon besides me here, I thought I’d ask if it would be all right if I stuck around as your anesthetist.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I joked for the first time since cutting myself.
“For you, I’ll learn fast,” he said, laughing.
It took the surgeons more than 14 hours to repair the damage, and I was in Denver for just as many days.
The day after the accident, my mom flew to Denver from our home in Orem, Utah, and she was greeted at the hospital by the full-time missionaries. For the three days she was in Denver with me, she stayed in the home of Church members she had never met.
After my mom returned home, and during the ensuing weeks, I continued to receive visits from the Jeffreys and Brother Hileman. In addition, half a dozen members of the Denver South Singles Ward showed up three times each week to cheer me up. The night before I left, they all “kidnapped” me from my room and took me to an ice cream shop close to the hospital.
I flew home, and after six more operations and months of therapy, I was able to use my hand again. Although my mission call was delayed six months, I served two years with an added vigor, for I now could teach the people of Melbourne about their caring brothers and sisters they’ll always have as part of their church family.

2. Isolate the situations that cause you to respond badly. It may be that you can eliminate some of the situations at home that “set you off.” And if you can’t eliminate them, you can at least try to work around them. Kathy usually flew into a rage when she walked through the door from school because her mother started to ask her questions. They were perfectly legitimate, friendly questions, but Kathy resented them and she responded by snapping at her mother. Afterwards she always felt bad.

Kathy and her mother talked about the problem and decided that Kathy needed a “time-out” period as soon as she got home from school. They figured out that Kathy resented her mother’s questions because she had just spent an entire day answering to teachers and friends. What Kathy needed was time to herself. Kathy and her mother decided that Kathy, an accomplished musician, should be free to come home and play the piano for a while before assuming responsibilities at home.