Gospel Story Finder

I recall a young couple who were having difficulty behaving themselves when alone on a date. They worried that they might lose control themselves. But their dates continued to end up with just the two of them in some secluded spot, walking on the edge of the cliff, as it were. They repeatedly fell into the same behavior for which they had prayed for strength to overcome. The peril-filled thrill of petting had greater attraction than did the calm plans made in the light of day. Having once walked to the edge of the cliff, they kept returning readily.

Fortunately, the girl finally realized they lacked the determination to change their behavior, so she ended their dating altogether, thus escaping the final fall over the cliff.

The next morning I sat shyly, uncertainly, on a big wooden kitchen chair, Oscar, my teddy bear, on my lap. I looked across the table at a long, tall newspaper with a strong hand clutching each side. I knew it was Grandpa because when I had walked down the stairs and peeked timidly around the corner, he had lowered the paper and winked at me.
“Would you like some hot chocolate, dear?” Grandma had asked in her quiet voice.
I jumped slightly at her question, chewed on Oscar’s ear, and tried desperately to think of an answer. It shouldn’t have been so hard, but you see, Grandma was very quiet, and I was a little afraid of her.
“Yes, dear,” I heard the deep voice from behind the newspaper answer.
Oh, I thought, embarrassed. I was glad I hadn’t answered. I soon learned that Grandma would never ask me if I wanted some. If I did, I had to ask her.
I drove thoughtfully around corners, through child-infested residential areas, almost afraid to arrive at my destination.
Grandma had sounded as quiet as ever on the telephone. “You’d better come,” she had said. As usual her voice confused me. She gave only words. I could never see what was in her mind, in her heart. If only she would cry or something to give me a clue.
“Come now,” she said. So I came. But I was afraid.
What if Grandpa looked less than majestic? I didn’t want to remember him the rest of my life as small and shriveled, perhaps even senseless. Oh, how I longed to sit on his lap once again, to place childish arms securely around his neck, hear a story, share a laugh. Why hadn’t I come back last year when I had planned to? Why had I waited till now when … I shook my head angrily. I had been having too much fun. And in my mind there had been no rush. Grandpa would be there forever. I couldn’t imagine it any other way. And his lively, colorful letters brought him into my apartment weekly.
Suddenly I saw a flash of blue before me. My hands gripped the steering wheel; my foot reached for the brake. Screeching, I stopped just inches short of the boy on his blue bicycle. My head pounded, my palms sweat, but he just pedaled by, his hands in the air, unafraid, cocky. It seems like everyone has a nice bike these days. With a smile I remembered mine.
It was the most beautiful bicycle I had ever seen. Next to it the twinkling Christmas tree looked dim. It was shiny lavender and white, with coal-black seat and tires, sparkling spokes, and what surely would have been the envy of every kid at home—lavender plastic tassles dangling gaily from the handlebars. My eyes laughed. My mouth didn’t utter a sound, for there was more, even more, and my little heart could hardly stand it. There in the center of the handlebars, strapped securely in place, was a dainty, white, woven basket with two purple plastic flowers on the front. It was too much, really too much. Why, I knew kids back home who would’ve been glad to come in Christmas morning and find anything that had two wheels and could move by their Christmas tree. I used to have a friend named Sara who never sat down while riding her scratched, squeaky bicycle because it had no seat. In fact, I knew an older boy back home, well he was at least 12, who had picked up junk from the junkyard and made his own bike. It was a strange looking thing, but it worked.
I caressed my shiny new handlebars. I turned and grinned at Grandma and Grandpa. Grandma stood quietly, with a hint of a smile about her mouth. Grandpa beamed. I had been suspicious lately of this man, Santa Claus. I mean he never did get anything right and he always gave more to the kids whose parents had money than he gave to poorer families, and it seemed like it should be the other way around. Seeing Grandma and Grandpa like they were that Christmas morning, I decided once and for all that Santa was not responsible for this wonderful surprise. Grandma was too pleased, Grandpa too proud. This was one of those times that my mama had told me I’d have someday when I would cry with happiness and wisdom.
The difference between me then and many kids now is that I knew how truly lucky I was to have that bike.
I remember another morning, a summer morning that dawned slowly on me, slow and dimly gray … different. I pulled my blankets over my shoulders. My room felt cool and clammy. The sunshine that fell across my bed seemed shrouded, not glorious like a Saturday morning. My mind was foggy. My eyes studied the room, wall to pink wall, corner to corner.
“Is this Saturday?” I blinked and tried again. A clear, glassed window answers all kinds of questions. I hated the window in the bathroom. It was made of some fuzzy, bumpy kind of glass, and you couldn’t see through it at all. My bedroom window was my world. I could see green through it. I could see blue. I could vaguely see the colorless, transcendental, sparkly shine, but it was having a hard time getting through those raindrops on the window. Raindrops! I threw back my covers, swung my feet to the floor, and ran to the window.
“It is Saturday and it rained last night!” Tears sprang to my eyes, and I knew, I just knew that my bike would be nothing but a big pile of rust.
Who would have thought last night when the full moon fell all over the yard and the clear, black sky stretched on forever that clouds would sneak in and drench everything during the night? I ran hysterically down the stairs, holding my big, poofy nightgown in one fist around my waist so I wouldn’t trip. I ran to the kitchen window and threw back the curtain. A little bubble popped in my chest—my bike hadn’t disintegrated to rust yet. I grabbed a dish towel from Grandma’s apron. Grandma looked up questioningly from spattering bacon and eggs. I ran out the door.
Oh my bike, my bike, it was wet! Wet all over, wet white and lavender, wet droopy tassles, wet little basket, wet, wet, wet! I could hardly see it through my tears as I wiped madly with Grandma’s dish towel. Soon the salty droplets were one with the raindrops. My face was wet and cold.
I didn’t hear the door bang shut. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I only saw the hand, the big, masculine hand clenched around another dish towel gently wiping up raindrops. I looked up. He hooked a bit blurry. No questions, no amused grin. Grandpa helped me dry my bike.
The hospital was tall, five stories tall. It was a new building with hundreds of windows in uniform rows. I stood before it, my head bent back as my eyes scanned the top row of windows. So many windows, each with a personal story behind it. Which one housed my grandpa, my childhood, my life? I looked to the pavement below my feet and slowly shook my head. My hand wiped away a tear, and I entered the modern, colorful house of birth, of joy, of pain, of loneliness, and … I shuddered … and hoped I would never have to come here again.
“Room 363, intensive care.” The woman’s face was blank, expressionless. Again I felt the tightness in my chest. Something wanted to explode there. I leaned against the elevator wall, my eyes shut tight.
The nurse was a little more human. “You’ll have to wait a moment, dear. The doctor is with him,” she whispered. The hall, the air was hushed and still. At the end of the hall in the corner, a quiet bottle rack stood with rows of empty pop bottles. It made me think of Grandpa’s store. Grandpa kept all the empty pop bottles in a bushel basket just inside the back door. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I went in the back door, took a couple of bottles, went out the back door and around to the front door, I could give Grandpa the bottles and buy a candy bar. Then Grandpa would take the bottles out back and put them into the bushel basket to wait till the next time I got a craving for a Hershey bar. Back home we had to search up and down the streets, in and out of alleys, through garbage cans to find an empty pop bottle. Life was just easier all the way around here with Grandpa and Grandma.
Thinking of Grandma made me feel a little apprehensive. She was in with Grandpa now, but sooner or later I would have to see her, I would have to say something. It doesn’t seem possible that two people could live in the same house together for 13 years and still be strangers. How could she be so unlike Grandpa? She’d never been cross or impatient, but I couldn’t talk to her. I secretly suspected that she’d been relieved to see me go. I sighed tiredly. Grandma wouldn’t understand my hurt. How could she? She didn’t know me.
I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”
Grandpa knew me. He hadn’t forgotten who I was. I soon remembered who I was. But Grandma had never known.
The door swung silently open. The doctor walked through the doorway and looked kindly at me. “You must be Janie,” he said. “Your Grandpa has been asking for you.”
I let out a long breath and stood. I felt light-headed. My legs felt like jelly. I looked to the doctor for strength. But he didn’t know me either. He smiled and walked down the hall.
I entered the room. Grandpa was not small and shriveled. He was not senseless. He smiled at me. He looked very pale.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I cried and ran to his open arms. He held me, patting my back.
“It’s all right,” he whispered. “I have no regrets.” I looked at him with a teary face. His eyes were clear. He looked tired.
“Don’t cry, Blondie Boo. Don’t cry.” His eyes closed. He held me a moment longer, then his hands, his arms, relaxed. They lay heavy on my back.
“Grandpa,” I sobbed. I could see him lying still. But someone’s warm hands were on my shoulders. I turned to look into Grandma’s face.
“For the first time in his life he was wrong,” she said. “It’s all right to cry.” Surprised, I saw that she was crying, too. I could only stare.
“Come stay with me for a while,” she said suddenly. I was confused.
“Please,” she said. “It will be kind of like wiping up raindrops. I’ll help you … and you can help me.” I couldn’t believe it. She did understand. And in her quiet way she probably always had.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll stay.” I had a grandmother to get to know.

Tiger Brown was the meanest man I’d ever met. During the first summer after my mission I worked a highway construction job. Tiger was the foreman. He was about 60, short and stocky, with a bulldog neck and face. His eyes were small and angry, like a bear’s eyes.
My job was to follow a machine that laid down asphalt mix and to make sure the surface was clean and level. Large rocks would make their way through the machine, ending up buried in the asphalt. I would have to pick them out with a shovel and fill in the hole with hot mix from the front of the machine. Then I’d rake it smooth so it matched the rest of the road surface. We were laying a new surface on a highway in the west desert of Utah that summer. In the middle of the day the temperatures would be a hundred plus in the shade, and with the steaming hot asphalt it was nearly unbearable. The machine would often drop several big rocks at once, and I’d have to run just to keep up.
About four times a day Tiger would come by.
"Hey!" he’d growl at me above the roar of the machine. He would walk up to me with quick steps, his head down, pawing the air with his arms moving like an attacking grizzly. He always wore the same clothes—a ragged blue denim jacket, old khaki pants, a worn-out flannel shirt, and a dirty baseball hat. If you didn’t know him and saw him in downtown Salt Lake, you’d probably feel sorry for him and offer him a dollar. On the job no one ever made that mistake or even had to ask how he got his nickname.
"That’s not the way you do it," he would mumble, grabbing the shovel out of my hand. For ten minutes he would do my work. He would attack it with a vengeance terrifying to watch. No matter how far behind I was he would catch up to the machine in a quarter of the time it would have taken me. There was nothing I could do then but stand, humiliated, watching until finally he’d hand the shovel back to me.
"I should have hired your grandma," he’d snarl, and then after a disgusted glance he would stalk off.
He watched his crew like a red-tailed hawk watches a covey of mountain quail. If there was ever any indication of something out of order, the work moving just a little slow, or if the new road surface wasn’t perfectly level, or if the asphalt mix wasn’t just right, he would swoop down with that eagle nose and those fierce eyes, yelling, "Hey!"
I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I had bad feelings for the man, feelings that almost bordered on hate. I felt that way until about the second month of work.
We’d finished a stretch of road and were getting the equipment ready to move to a new location. The place looked like an ant bed that had been kicked. The work was moving fast, and the crew was on the run getting their equipment onto the back of trucks and large trailers. Tiger came suddenly into the middle of this scene waving his arms and yelling.
"Hey! Hey!"
He stopped all the work and grabbed the driver of a large crane by the arm and directed him toward the hot mix machine. The hot mix machine was a 50-foot long cylinder used to mix gravel and hot tar. When the crane reached the hot mix machine Tiger had the operator lower a hook that hung by cable from the crane’s arm. With the entire crew watching and wondering if he’d finally slipped his gears, Tiger put his foot in the hook and jerked his thumb upward. He rose up to about 40 feet, level with the top of the hot mix machine.
After reaching the cylinder, he carefully bent down and picked up a small bird’s nest full of bald-headed baby birds. The proud and very worried parents, two kingbirds, were hovering over the nest. Tiger jerked his thumb downward. When he reached the ground, he walked over to a small cottonwood tree and gently placed the nest in its branches. He had several of us put barricades around the tree.
"Hey! Hey!" he yelled when he turned around. "Get back at it. You think this is a spectator sport? I should have hired your grandmothers."
Tiger still barely nodded when I said good morning to him, and he yelled at me and took my shovel when my work wasn’t up to his standards; but after the incident with the birds I saw him in a different way.
We broke the Utah record a few weeks later for the amount of asphalt laid in a day. The inspectors said it was as smooth and as good a surface as they’d ever seen. Whenever I drive over that highway I feel a sense of pride. Tiger believed in giving a good value of work for his dollar and he expected the same from his crew. I started looking past his faults to the good in the man. By the end of the summer I not only learned to respect Tiger, but I also learned to like him.
Since then I’ve found there are many people like Tiger, and I’ve had to look past their faults to see the good. Some have become very good and valued friends.

President Thomas S. Monson tells of Kathleen McKee, who passed away when he was her bishop. She had no family, so she had requested that Bishop Monson give away her few possessions. She had asked him to find homes for her three canaries. Two were beautifully marked and were to go to friends. But the third, a scruffy canary with gray on her wings, was to be the Monsons’. “He isn’t the prettiest,” Sister McKee had said, “but his song is the best.”

Bishop Monson reflected that Sister McKee had been much like her favorite canary. Not gifted with great beauty or numerous posterity, she nevertheless had befriended many neighbors in need, given comfort almost daily to a cripple on her street, and brightened each life she touched (see Ensign, August 1987, page 2).

Let me give you some background about the proclamation as a core message of what we believe.
In 1994, a year before the proclamation was presented, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles discussed how society and governments were pulling away from God’s laws for family, marriage, and gender. “But that was not the end of what we saw,” President Russell M. Nelson later explained. “We could see the efforts of various communities to do away with all standards and limitations on sexual activity. We saw the confusion of genders. We could see it all coming.”
The Twelve determined to prepare a document, an official proclamation, summarizing the Church’s position on family. During that year, these Apostles, seers called of God, prepared a declaration about the family. President Dallin H. Oaks recalled they prayerfully turned to the Lord for “what [they] should say and how [they] should say it.” They presented it to the First Presidency—Presidents Howard W. Hunter, Gordon B. Hinckley, and Thomas S. Monson—for their consideration.
Just months later, in March 1995, President Hunter passed away, and President Hinckley became the 15th President of the Church. The proclamation was now in his hands. When would be the right time to make this declaration to the Church? That time came six months later.
Days before the September 23 general Relief Society meeting that preceded general conference, President Hinckley and his counselors met in counsel with the Relief Society General Presidency. The sisters, like the Apostles, had been weighing concerns about women and families. They had focused the upcoming meeting on families.
President Hinckley was scheduled to address the women at the gathering. He had been pondering the direction of his remarks. As the discussion progressed, he referred by name to the newly created but not yet public “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” Was this women’s meeting the right setting to make the decisive declaration about family?
Relief Society General President Elaine Jack later explained: “We didn’t know what the proclamation on the family was at that time. … [W]e could tell by the title, but we felt anything on the family … would be a positive thing. … I felt very positive that we had members of the Quorum of the Twelve that were receiving revelation.”
The Relief Society meeting that Saturday was historic. President Hinckley introduced the family proclamation with these important words: “With so much of sophistry that is passed off as truth, with so much of deception concerning standards and values, with so much of allurement and enticement to take on the slow stain of the world, we have felt to warn and forewarn … of standards, doctrines, and practices relative to the family which the prophets, seers, and revelators of this church have repeatedly stated throughout its history.”
He then read the proclamation in its entirety. As the Lord has said, “Whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.”

Almost exactly two decades ago, President Henry B. Eyring was assigned to visit our stake (The Rainier Oregon Stake) for a stake conference. At that time he was serving in the Presiding Bishopric of the Church. He stayed in our home in the woods and sat at our table and talked with us and our children. As a newly called stake president, I privately sought his counsel regarding a member of the stake. He told me a story about when he was a young bishop and sought counsel from then President Spencer W. Kimball.

After explaining the situation he was facing and asking President Kimball what he should do, President Eyring expected a clear answer of profound wisdom. He was surprised when President Kimball started to ask him a string of what seemed to be trivial questions about the member that Bishop Eyring was concerned about. Does he come to all his meetings? Does he arrive early or late? Does he sit in the front or the back? Does he participate in classes or just observe? And so the questions went.

That little story has profoundly impacted my life. I think of it often as I make small, but conscious decisions. Alma 37:6 says, "Now ye may suppose that this is foolishness in me; but behold I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass." Great things, like eternal life, hinge on our small choices. Small choices are at first "conscious," effortful decisions, but eventually in our quest to be true disciples of Christ, they become part of our very nature.

Sister Grassli remembers her childhood as being a happy one. “I loved to learn and do many things. I remember a Primary teacher who took us to her house one Primary day. It was so fun! We learned how to make cinnamon toast. Each of us got to make her own, and the teacher made hot chocolate for us. I realized then that Heavenly Father wants us to learn all kinds of things. It’s important to learn about the scriptures, but Heavenly Father also wants us to learn about everything that is good. That was exciting to me. I knew Heavenly Father cared about our whole selves, not just one part.”

When my mission ended, I was apprehensive about my return home. I did not know where I would live. My parents had divorced when I was young, and I had lived alone and done several odd jobs to provide for myself. Fortunately, my last mission companion and his parents offered me a place to live. This helped me a lot because his family was very strong in the gospel. They provided me with a roof over my head and this helped me avoid many of the problems experienced by some returned missionaries.

My theory comes from thinking about many gifts and many holidays, but one day and one gift can illustrate it. The day was not Christmas nor even close to it. It was a summer day. My mother had died in the early afternoon. My father, my brother, and I had been at the hospital. As we walked out, my brother and I went to the car together, smiled, and looked up at the mountains. We remembered how Mother had always said she loved the mountains so much. He and I laughed and guessed that if the celestial worlds are really flat, like a sea of glass, she would be eager to get away to build her own worlds, and the first thing she’d build would be mountains. With that we smiled and got into the car and drove home. We went to the family home, and Dad met us there. There were just the three of us.

Friends and family came and went. In a lull, we fixed ourselves a snack. Then we visited with more callers. It grew late and dusk fell; I remember we still had not turned on the lights.

Then Dad answered the doorbell again. It was Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill. When they’d walked just a few feet past the vestibule, Uncle Bill extended his hand, and I could see that he was holding a bottle of cherries. I can still see the deep red, almost purple, cherries and the shining gold cap on the mason jar. He said, “You might enjoy these. You probably haven’t had dessert.”

We hadn’t. The three of us sat around the kitchen table and put some cherries in bowls and ate them as Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine cleared some dishes. Uncle Bill then asked, “Are there people you haven’t had time to call? Just give me some names, and I’ll do it.” We mentioned a few relatives who would want to know of Mother’s death. And then Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill were gone. They could not have been with us more than twenty minutes.

Now, you can understand my theory best if you focus on one gift: the bottle of cherries. And let me explain this theory from the point of view of one person who received the gift: me. As we’ll see, that is crucial. What matters in what the giver does is what the receiver feels. You may not believe that yet, but trust me for the moment. So let’s start from inside me and with the gift of the bottle of cherries.

As near as I can tell, the giving and receiving of a great gift always has three parts. Here they are, illustrated by that gift on a summer evening.

First, I knew that Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had felt what I was feeling and had been touched. I’m not over the thrill of that yet. They must have felt we’d be too tired to fix much food. They must have felt that a bowl of home-canned cherries would make us, for a moment, feel like a family again. And not only did they feel what I felt, they were touched by it. Just knowing that someone had understood meant far more to me than the cherries themselves. I can’t remember the taste of the cherries, but I remember that someone knew my heart and cared.

Second, I felt the gift was free. I knew Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had chosen freely to bring a gift. I knew they weren’t doing so to compel a response from us. The gift seemed, at least to me, to provide them with joy just by their giving it.

And third, there was sacrifice. Now you might say, “Wait. How could they give for the joy of it and yet make a sacrifice?” Well, I could see the sacrifice because the cherries were home bottled. That meant Aunt Catherine had prepared them for her family. They must have liked cherries. But she took that possible pleasure from them and gave it to us. That’s sacrifice. However, I have realized since then this marvelous fact: It must have seemed to Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine that they would have more pleasure if we had the cherries than if they did. There was sacrifice, but they made it for a greater return: our happiness. Most people feel deprived as they sacrifice to give another person a gift, and then they let that person know it. But only expert givers let the receiver sense that their sacrifice brings them joy.

My mother was born in Poprad, Czechoslovakia (now Slovakia). Her father served in the Czech army during World War II, and his was one of many military families that fled into nearby woods for safety from German occupiers. For five days, my grandparents huddled under a blanket with my mother and her sister, ages one and five, eating a ration of sugar cubes.
My grandparents were not members of the Church at this time, nor did they pray often. However, during this ordeal, their hearts were softened. My grandmother wrote in her journal, “This very night I felt a longing for kneeling down to ask for help from someone who had a higher authority. So I went a little ways into the forest, knelt down, and prayed with a broken heart and a contrite spirit. I pleaded for help.”
Her prayer was answered. Some families in the woods were killed upon discovery, but my grandparents and their two daughters were miraculously protected. Through this exhausting and trying experience, the Lord planted a seed of faith and trust in my grandparents’ hearts.

A small river runs through the field near Cooper House, a farm a little more than four miles outside of Barnard Castle in northeast England. Normally the setting is quite tranquil, and it seemed like the perfect spot for our annual camp.
When we parked the cars, however, we realized that we would have some chores to do before we could enjoy our fun. Due to the location of the site, all the equipment had to be carried down a steep, dusty hill. Most of the 38 young men felt an inclination to slide rather than walk, but somehow everything and everyone arrived intact.
The next challenge was pitching our tents. Those who had brought their own tents were familiar with them and seemed to have no problems. But others, like our stake president, Craig Marshall, had borrowed tents. The owner of the tent had told President Marshall that it was a cinch to put up, but despite lots of head scratching and lightning suggestions from the great brains of the group, he had trouble getting the frame to fit together.
While President Marshall struggled, the rest of us put up the food tent (the most important camp item), collected firewood, constructed a rack for the canoes and paddles, and prepared cocoa and biscuits to eat around the fire in the true tradition of camp. Eventually even President Marshall got his tent erected, with some friendly help from the rest of the group.
The next morning some poor, unfortunate boys had to go to the girls’ camp seven miles away in Middleton Teesdale to collect the canoes. The girls were heading for home that day, and it was our turn for the boats. It may have been hard work shifting the canoes, but the volunteers were glad to accept the girls’ offer of fish and chips before returning to camp.
Back at Cooper House, young men clad in shorts or wet suits formed human chains out into the river, passing rocks and boulders to each other to build dams to create a section of fast-running water for the canoes. After slipping and splashing, most of us ended up soaked. Soon canoes and inner tubes were set to water, and we were all delighting in maneuvering ourselves along in the current.
After tea (that’s what we call our evening meal, even though Mormons don’t drink tea), we organized a game of T-mac (sort of like group hide-and-seek) with one team seeking and one team hiding. The game lasted until it was too dark to recognize anyone anymore, so once again we slipped back to the campfire, then to bed.
During the next few days there were special moments at camp like singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” as a group, loud even though it was off-key. And we played a puzzle game which could not be done without all of us sharing our pieces. That taught us charity and selflessness. We also read our scriptures and retraced some of the journeys made by the ancient prophets.
Some of us went on a 30-mile hike that took two days. Some of us just stayed at Cooper House and floated in the stream. One day we made a raft from the inner tubes, but it had a tendency to throw its passengers. Another day we tried to use inner tubes, plastic bags, and ropes to walk across the river on top of the water. Paul Anderson of Billingham Ward walked the farthest. He had inner tubes tied to his hands and knees.
Brian Jones, the camp leader, spent time one day leading a rope course to prepare us for rock climbing and absailing (rappeling). Brian gained his knowledge from several expeditions in the Antarctic. Later on we tried our skills at a nearby quarry.
Thursday was one of those rainy English days when there is nothing you can do but play games or read in your tents. Hot meals and an opportunity to catch up on sleep were the only relief from the downpour. But during the afternoon, the two counselors in the stake presidency, Alex Stewart and Geoff Mawlam, arrived with some of their family members to join us overnight. It was President Stewart who persuaded some of the braver souls to go canoeing in the rain. It didn’t matter to him about the rain, since he capsized every time he went down the rapids anyway.
The first thing we wanted to do Friday was to dry out. The rain had stopped, but some of the sleeping bags and clothes were wet. We hung things out to dry. Then we built an obstacle course. The course consisted of various tasks—pushing the canoe trailer around some tyres (that’s the English spelling for tires); running the rapids on inner tubes; crossing over the river by rope and then wading back; climbing a rope; and monkey climbs (climbing over and through logs fashioned together like a jungle gym). Not surprisingly, most of us finished wet and dirty. Prizes were awarded for the fastest group time and the fastest individual time according to age.
Like any camp, we also had our cleanup time. The tents were dismantled, the dams broken down, the turf replaced where the fire had been. For our last meal, Brother John Dale, our chef de cuisine treated us to fish and chips from Barnard Castle.
We picked up our tents and equipment and climbed the hill for the last time. Looking back, the field seemed bare, except for yellowed patches of grass where the tents had been. All that we have now are the memories.

White, white, nothing but white—a foot and a half of white! Laura peered out the front window at the depressing blanket of snow that had shut down the city. Not a snowplow in sight, nor a person. Not even the letter carrier would make it today.
“Laura,” her mother called. “Come here, dear, please.” Laura gave a deep sigh and moped into the kitchen where her mother was taking fresh bread from the oven. “I want you to take this over to our new neighbors while it’s still warm. I heard that their boy has been ill. Perhaps your company would be appreciated.”
Laura plopped down at the table. “Oh, Mom, you don’t know him. He’s really stuck up.”
“Come on, you know that you’re going crazy couped up in here. He hasn’t been in our country for long. I bet he’s just shy. Anyway, I do want you to take the bread over.”
Grumbling as she donned her coat, Laura took the still-warm loaf and, kicking through the drifts, fought her way to the neighbors’ front door. Shivering against the biting wind, she poked the doorbell with her mittened hand. After what seemed like at least an hour, the door opened and a tall, thin woman smiled down at her.
“Why, you must be the Scott girl from next door. Do come in.”
Laura nodded and stepped in. Unwinding the scarf from her face, she handed the bread to the woman. “Mom said you might like some. It’s real fresh.”
“Oh, you are a dear to come out in this weather,” the woman replied, taking the package. “Now you must say hello to Thomas. The poor lad has been all alone with his eyes bandaged for three days now, and the wrap doesn’t come off till Saturday. I’m afraid he’s quite weary of my company and hasn’t really had time to make any friends at school yet.”
She’s talking so fast, she must be desperate, Laura thought. Before she could get out, “I really should get back,” Thomas’s mother had hung up her coat and was leading her into the front room, where the boy sat on the sofa, a huge blue and white afghan tucked over his lap. What Laura could see of his face was red and puffy with what might have been tears slipping from under the large white bandages.
“Someone to say hi, Thomas.”
As his mother quickly slipped out of the room, Laura wished that she could disappear too. After all, what do you say to a miserable kid you don’t even like.
“Who’s there?” he called out loudly.
“You really don’t have to shout,” Laura replied. “I’m not deaf. I’m Laura Scott. I’m in your class at school. Mom had me bring some fresh bread over. I guess you’re kind of lonesome, huh?”
“Not lonesome, just angry. I hate being stuck in the dark. You would too. It’s beastly. I want to go back and see the London parks. I just want to get out and walk anywhere!”
Laura looked closely at the unhappy boy in front of her. “I don’t know if your mom told you or not, but it snowed like crazy last night. There’s no place you could walk to, even without the bandages.”
“I just want to get out,” he muttered again. He sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his sleeve.
Laura sat down next to him. “I have an idea—have you ever been in the country, like to a lake in the summer?”
Thomas felt about for a tissue, then blew his nose. “I don’t … know what the country’s like here. I’ve seen little ponds in the parks, though. Why?”
“Well, do you think you’d like to go for a pretend walk with me. I know a super little path at the lake we go to in the summer, and since your eyes are already closed, it might be pretty easy for you to see in your mind the things I’ll describe. What do you say?”
Thomas sniffed again and leaned back. “I guess I could give it a go. Do you really want to bother?”
“Sure. I’ll close my eyes too. I’d love to take a summer walk myself right about now.” She leaned back against the sofa and tightly shut her eyes. “Ready?”
“Go for it!”
“This part may be a bit hard, but I think we’ll just make you the main character, even though I was the real one,” Laura began. “It’s real early. You’re on a small cot inside a one-room log cabin. You open your eyes and see your mom pushing sticks of wood into the stove top, then plunking the heavy metal cover over the hole. ‘Breakfast in ten minutes,’ she says. You jump out of bed onto the wooden floor, splash a bit of cold water on your face, and jump into shorts and a T-shirt.
“After a quick breakfast of cereal and cold juice, you run out onto the front porch and look down to the lake. It’s a wonderful, sunny, clear morning. The air is humming with insects, and the blue water has just a slight ripple from the breeze. The grass feels pleasantly damp under your feet as you run down to the lake and dip your fingers into the water. A very small frog jumps away and hides in the reeds growing close to the shore.
“A young boy in blue swim trunks runs up to you. He’s crying. You ask him what the matter is, and he says he’s been playing with a cat all week. It’s come around every day and spent all day with him, but it hasn’t come for two days now, and he’s afraid something has happened to it.”
“I do say I’ll help, don’t I?” Thomas broke in.
Laura smiled to herself. “Of course you do. You put your arm around his shoulders and ask where the cat usually can be found. He tells you that it likes to wander in the woods and around the boathouse. You take his hand and start down the trail along the water’s edge toward the creaky old dock, where the rowboats are tied. The sun is very hot now, and you grab a long tassel of grass, slip it from its stalk, and put it between your teeth.
“The boy takes you to the boathouse entrance, and you both go in. It’s dark and cool. Old boats with their white paint peeling are leaning against the walls. You notice a small stain on the floor in the corner. The boy sees it too. ‘It’s blood, isn’t it?’ he says. You say it might be—it’s the right color and is fairly fresh.”
“I bet the poor chappy is even more worried now,” said Thomas. “Actually I guess I am, too, aren’t I?”
“Yes. Before you’d thought there wasn’t really a problem, but now you’re not so sure. You take his hand again and start down the path into the woods. The path gets narrow, and the ferns brush against your legs. In some places you have to push the brambles away, and one snags your arm, leaving a nasty scratch.”
“But I don’t let it bother me, do I, Laura?”
“Of course not; you’re much too concerned with the boy and the lost cat. When you see an old building off the trail and up on a hill, you push through the underbrush to get to it. It looks like it had been some kind of storage place. There’s no door on the rusted hinges, so you can see inside.
“Because of the woods, it’s really dark inside. The boy calls out, ‘Here Muffin,’ and a low mew is heard from a corner. He rushes over. ‘Look,’ he cries, ‘she’s not hurt at all!’ And sure enough, there lies a cat with four tiny kittens snuggled against her. Off to the side you see a dead mouse she must have caught at the boathouse and brought here to eat before the births. ‘That mouse explains the stain,’ you say.”
“I’ll be bound the lad is really happy,” Thomas prodded.
Laura opened her eyes and saw him leaning back on the pillows, a smile on his face. “You bet,” she said, “for it turns out that the guy who runs the boathouse owns the cat. He promises the boy one of the kittens when it’s big enough, and asks you if you want one.”
“What do I say?” Thomas asked, turning eagerly toward Laura.
“Actually,” Laura answered with a little laugh, “you, or rather I, said, ‘sure,’ and Mom said it was OK, so now I have a super little gray kitten named Smoky. I could bring him over if you’d like me to.”
“Oh, that would be smashing. Might you come this afternoon? Mum will fix us a lovely tea with biscuits (cookies) and hot chocolate.” Thomas then added shyly, “If you wanted, I could take you on a walk … in London. Would you like that?”
Laura could think of nothing she’d like better.

It was a blessing for the nine members from our Vieux-Fort Branch to travel to the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo Temple in April. I’m grateful for the brother who assisted in financing the temple trip. I pray that I’ll be able to have the opportunity to send many more members to the temple that they may also experience the wonderful joy, peace, calm and love the temple holds. Our group had the opportunity to do their family history and saving ordinances for many of their deceased family members. My experience of baptizing my grandparents on both sides of my family was the opportunity of a lifetime.

J: First let me illustrate the concept of lateral leadership with a true story I heard several years ago from an older admired colleague and former teacher at BYU, Todd Britsch:

Brother Britsch’s friend Bob Despain spent several years at Cal Tech in California before transferring to BYU. Bob said this of his experience there: “Most of the students at Cal Tech lived in what they called "houses" (or dorms). The residents in the houses were distributed evenly between the classes or age groups. Very early in the fall the upper-class residents gathered the freshmen together to orient them to the university. A number of topics, important and trivial, were covered. The house president then addressed academic honesty. He said something like the following: ‘You may have heard that you can be given probation or even be expelled if you are found cheating on your tests or homework, but I wouldn't worry about that.’ At that moment, there were knowing snickers from the freshmen. Then the house president continued, ‘Because if any of us find out about you cheating, we will make your life so miserable that you will gladly rush away from here.’ Nothing more was said. Everyone understood that students at Cal Tech were not going to tolerate anyone cheating them out of honest test and assignment results.” Bob concluded this story by saying, “I never observed dishonesty during my years there.”

Sixteen! What a time of life! “Nobody should have to go through this alone,” I thought.
My wise parents were kind and always gave me good counsel. My older sister had just gotten married and moved out of state. My little brother was involved with his 11-year-old concerns. I had great friends, and I knew my Church leaders sincerely cared about me.
But my older brother, Gary, was my confidant. I looked up to him in all things as a teenager. “Whenever I talk to him, things make more sense,” I said to myself. “I wish he could be here right now.”
But he wasn’t. He was far away in Japan, serving a full-time mission.
Despite missing Gary, I did have a fun birthday. My mom made me our traditional birthday breakfast, and I received a few gifts before going to school. That night, my family and I went out for a pizza dinner and ended with birthday cake. I even let myself daydream about dating, driving, and other exciting things I would do as a 16-year-old.
However, the best present I received that day was a letter in the mail. Gary hadn’t forgotten my super special day! This was before the days of email, so a letter took a long time to travel from Japan to Cache Valley, Utah, USA. I was amazed that his letter arrived right on my birthday! The letter was handwritten, which made it more like having my brother present with me as I read:
“Dear Merilee:
“Well, you have got the big birthday coming up, don’t you? I guess when you get this letter it will already be past. I can’t believe it—you are 16 years old. It seems like only a few years ago when you used to [wear your little red cowboy hat].
“Stay sweet and pure, and always let everyone know that the Church means a lot to you. If you do that, you won’t ever get into a situation where you have to make a decision with all the peer pressure weighing on you. Example: In high school, everyone knew that I didn’t want to drink or smoke, not at all, so I never got invited to a party where that sort of thing went on. My friends knew I didn’t do that. …
“If you let people know your standards, then people with your standards are attracted to you. I don’t mean you have to tell everyone, but actions speak loud. Your spirit is really sweet, and you do fit your name. And you have a good sense of humor. Happy ‘Sweet 16’ Birthday!” The last sentence was underlined in red. No other birthday present could’ve been better! I read it over and over again, until he was back home from Japan and we could finally talk to each other face to face.
It has been years since I received that letter, but I still have it. Many things have changed since then, but not my love for my brother. Today I sustain him not only as my brother and friend, but as Elder Gary E. Stevenson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. The counsel he offers as a special witness of Christ to all the world is an added strength in my life, just like the letter he sent me on my 16th birthday.

I speak next to those who are trapped in traditions.

When I met John Raass, he was not yet a member of the Church. His wife, Kailani, had catered a dinner for the stake presidency, and we invited them to join us. John appeared weary of entering a spiritual discussion, but I assured him we would become fast friends. You see, John was a former BYU football star, and I grew up cheering for him. We eventually asked John why he had never joined the Church. He cited the need to honor the faith traditions of his now deceased parents. We helped him realize that they now understood the Church and they would honor his decision. John then chose to meet with the missionaries. Two months later he was baptized. And a year later his family was sealed in the temple.

It was an early morning in 2008 when my mother woke me up to go to school. I was really happy that morning, but I didn’t know that it would turn into the worst day of my life or the last time I would be with her. I didn’t finish all my classes that day because a friend of our family picked me up and told me that my mom had killed herself. I was only 12 years old.
I thought, “How can I live without my mother?” She was my best friend.
I cried for months. I didn’t like going to school because the other children treated me differently and felt sorry for me. I had no clue what I was supposed to do; I only knew I had to be strong for everyone else.
One day, five or six months after my mom’s death, I was alone in my room by the window, crying, trying to understand what I was here for. Suddenly I heard a voice in my head: “You are my daughter; I won’t let you suffer.” I knew it was God. But it surprised me because I didn’t believe in Him anymore, especially since I felt that it was God who had taken my mother from me. Even though I didn’t know what He meant, I felt safe.
Three years later I went to Rome, Italy, to visit my uncle. He kept telling me about this church he went to. One Sunday, he took me with him. I will always remember walking toward the church’s doors for the first time and feeling the love of Heavenly Father when I went in. It felt like home.
I started going to church every single Sunday and to every activity during the week. I loved being with the youth of the Church. They made me happier. They thought and believed in the same things that I did. Then, after three months, my summer holiday finished and I had to go back to Albania.
When I returned home, I told my dad about the feelings I’d had and how happy I’d felt during those three months going to Church activities. He didn’t like it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to continue to go to church. So I would have to be patient for the next three years until I turned 18 years old. Then I could decide for myself and be baptized.
During this time I was blessed with so many people who would tell me about what they learned each Sunday at church. One of those people was Stephanie. She’d been living in Italy when my uncle joined the Church, but she had returned to her home in the United States. My uncle thought it would be good for us to write to each other, so I added her as a friend on Facebook.
Even though we’d never met in person, I will always be grateful to her for helping me build my faith and learn more about the gospel of Jesus Christ. She wrote to me almost every Sunday and told me everything she learned in church and then would answer my questions. She was a great friend to me.
Finally, after years of being patient, I was baptized just two days after my 18th birthday. And soon I will share with my mother the happiness I felt that day, because I will be baptized for her. I know she will be proud of the life I have chosen.
I feel blessed by Heavenly Father because He was with me during my entire journey in so many ways. I just had to wait and be patient because He had a plan for me. He’s the one who gave me strength to go through all the challenges I faced. He was always there, helping me be happier.

When I was five years old, my mother helped me to learn about boundaries when she said to me nearly every day, “Jimmy, don’t go near the quicksand,” which was just a couple hundred feet away from our house. Well, guess what Jimmy and his young friends would do? We would go there. As we walked closer to the quicksand, one of my friends walked onto this rather wet, darker looking sand. It looked almost like the rest of the sand. At first his feet wouldn’t move, and we all laughed. And then they sank a little deeper into the quicksand, and he panicked. He couldn’t get out of the quicksand, and he started screaming. The rest of us ran as fast as we could go to a cowboy’s house, screaming at the top of our voices. He immediately grabbed a rope and ran with us back to the boy, who was now up to his waist in the quicksand. He quickly lassoed the boy, and we held the rope while he put out a log and climbed onto it to pull the boy out of the quicksand.
We learn that when we cross over the Lord’s boundaries, we are often caught in a quicksand of sorts. The ways of the world are often like that quicksand, and they can be so destructive. They seek to divert us from the Lord’s boundaries—His commandments. These worldly ways—drugs, drinking, smoking, living together without marriage, some of the music, and on and on—
Seem very enticing,
Appear to be the normal way of life,
Seem to be accepted by everyone, and
Are extolled in television, on the movies, over the Internet, in videos, et cetera. These things lead us outside the boundaries the Lord has set. When followed, they bring despair and devastating health, financial, and other problems.
The boundaries of the Lord are set forth in your For the Strength of Youth booklets and are clear and a great blessing to everyone who follows them. We go forth as missionaries and as members to help people find and value the commandments or boundaries of the Lord. If it is done with “the heart and a willing mind,” or in other words anxiously, happily, and enthusiastically, like President Hinckley as he goes forth across the earth, it will make us different, appreciative, and thankful for each opportunity that we take.
Third, young and, yes, old alike, begin with the end in mind. Where do you want to be at 19 years of age or at retirement? On a mission? Make that decision even this very night. I promise you that it will change your life and others’ as God directs you on your mission. All He requires is “the heart and a willing mind.” You can do so much good that it will astound you as you are changed and as you see others changed.
In a testimony meeting in Bari, Italy, you can imagine my surprise when a young man stood up and said, “If it hadn’t been for the missionaries, I wouldn’t be here today.” He then went on to tell how his mother and grandparents had been found in Paris, France, by Elders Ben Walton and James Paramore 30 years earlier. After many meetings, the family was baptized. Now this son was on a mission. I later learned that over the years more than 170 people had been baptized by that family. I had been privileged to serve a mission, and those two and a half years were crucial to my testimony. I cannot thank God enough.
I testify God lives, that His Son is the Redeemer of this earth, and that this gospel will bless all mankind everywhere. May we all:
Trust in God and His Son.
Live within the boundaries they have given.
Begin with the end in mind with “the heart and a willing mind.”
Remember the Lord said, “For them that honour me I will honour” (1 Sam. 2:30). May this be our journey, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The morning is quiet. On his way out of the house to feed the horses, Brother Gines glances at the shelves of trophies and stops. He stands there, silent, silhouetted against the early morning light, looking at Neal’s basketball trophy and remembering the long hours Neal practiced to prove that he wasn’t clumsy. As he stands there, he recollects the times he and Neal have spent together.

“Back when Neal was younger, we milked the neighbor’s cows. It was Neal’s job, but I went anyway, figuring that it was important to be with him. We talked about horses and football and bulldogging and the Church. We grew closer together, understanding each other, becoming best friends.

“When Neal started bulldogging, I became the hazer (the one who guides the steer in a straight line). It’s kind of symbolic, both of us coming out together, with me hazing to keep the steer from running wild so Neal can grab him and throw him to the ground. We work well together, we’ve done it for so long. I can tell if Neal is hurt, how bad it is, whether it is just another scrape to add to his scars, or whether the horns have dug deeper this time. I never say much, but I’m right there.

“As Neal grew older, we didn’t stop doing things together. My wife teases us about being inseparable, but a father likes to know that his son wants to spend time with his old dad,” Brother Gines adds with a smile.

On cool fall nights they work outside together, joking, trying to hurry and get the wood stacked so they can go in and eat. They spend long hours hauling hay; taking trips to the saw mill to gather shavings so the animals can have the “softest beds”; walking quietly through the just-fallen snow, tracking down pheasants; going downtown to get a malt. They are still inseparable, still best friends.

“Need some help feeding the horses, dad?” Neal asks as he walks into the room.
Brother Gines turns to see Neal all dressed, ready to help. “Sure,” he replies.
Together they walk out into the bright morning.

About six months before the end of the war, I was assigned to an unit where the new incoming young people were trained on radar equipment. We were stationed in Seesen in the Harz Mountains, and I was about 17. One day we had to write a composition about Germany, and mine was judged the best one. The officer had me stand in front of the whole unit, and he said: “Congratulations for writing the best composition. I expect you to volunteer now to become an officer for the German Reich. We need people with your potential, and I expect your written application tonight.”
“I don’t have to wait until tonight,” I said. “I refuse.”
He got really furious and wanted to punish me. He said, “Tomorrow, I will ask you again, and the next day again.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I told him. I was not in tune with the spirit of national socialism. My father was a friend of the Jewish people, and we had always prayed for them in our home. The officer asked me what I wanted to do. “I want to go with the rest of the group,” I said. He told me if I didn’t want to volunteer I was ordered to stay behind and train the young people. There was no other choice.
Although I was forced to stay in that group where I didn’t want to stay, once that officer said I had to stay I felt very secure about it, like that was where I was supposed to be. All my friends were sent to Russia. Only one came back—all the others were killed. The Lord guided me to be in the right place at the right time for my life to be spared.