Gospel Story Finder

I was down in California some time ago and found a missionary there preaching some false doctrine. I heard him say to a contact, “Missionaries don’t get paid; we work for nothing.”

When the contact had gone I said to the missionary, “Now, that’s the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard anybody make in my life. How did you ever figure out that missionaries didn’t get paid? I thought the Lord said that if you labor all your days and bring just one soul unto him your reward is going to be very great.”

I asked him if he remembered what the Lord has said about the worth of the soul being greater than the wealth of all of the earth, and he did. I asked him if he knew what the earth was worth, and he did not. I had a newspaper clipping that said the assessed valuation of just one little section of the United States alone—California, Arizona, and Nevada—was over a trillion dollars. I got this elder a piece of paper and a pencil and had him write a trillion dollars down on the paper—it has twelve zeros, in case you have never seen it written. He had brought in a convert each month for the past twelve months, which was all the time he had been out; so I had him figure out that if he worked thirty days a month and ten hours a day, that would be three hundred hours’ work to save a trillion-dollar soul. Then I had him divide a trillion by three hundred and he figured he was getting three billion three hundred thirty-three million dollars per hour.

I asked him, “What is the most that anybody ever paid you when you were at home?”

He said, “Seventy-five cents.”

I said, “All right, now what were you trying to get those poor people to believe when you said that a missionary doesn’t get paid?”

Not long ago I glanced out the window of the mission home kitchen in Santiago, Chile. There behind the house I could see a large English walnut tree with a big pile of dirt under it. Playing in the dirt pile, I spied two little boys. It had rained recently and both boys were covered with mud. I could barely tell who they were. When they saw me looking out the window smiles broke out on their faces, and then I could tell it was my son Chris and his friend David. Chris’s face was so covered with mud that when he smiled his teeth showed through like six small marshmallows on top of a chocolate cake.
Later when it was time to come in and David had gone home, I sent Chris upstairs to bathe. We joked about how it would take three tubs full of water to get him clean. The first would have to be shoveled out just like pure dirt, the second, dipped out with a bucket like runny mud, and maybe we would be able to wash the third down the drain.
After Chris had soaked for a few minutes, I went in to help him get really clean and we had a serious talk that I hope he will never forget.
We worked together to get one hand scrubbed clean and then he compared it with the other that was still dirty. “Boy, Dad,” he said, “it’s sure great to have clean hands.” I explained how true that is, and said, “I want you to know that it is not the dirt of the earth that makes people’s hands really dirty. If a boy steals, if he is mean to his friends and hits them on purpose, if he tells his parents he will do something and then doesn’t, or if he is naughty or disobedient in other ways, this causes real “dirt”—the kind that you can’t wash off with soap and water. It’s the kind of dirt that you have to wear all the time and, even though others can’t always see it on you, you know yourself that inside you are not clean.”
I want all my dear, young friends to know there are different kinds of dirt; one you get on your hands from working and playing. This you can wash off. The other kind of “dirt” comes from doing bad things, sometimes called sin, that seem to stain your heart but can be “washed” away when you repent.
First you must do all you can to correct the wrong you have done. Then ask your Father in heaven and others to forgive you, so your hands and heart will be “scrubbed clean” from the dirt of wrong-doing.
The Savior said, “… entangle not yourselves in sin, but let your hands be clean, until the Lord comes.” (D&C 88:86.) He also said to those who had repented and were living pure lives: “Behold, your sins are forgiven you; you are clean before me; therefore, lift up your heads and rejoice.” (D&C 110:5.)
I hope that you will often get your hands dirty with hard work and play, but I hope that throughout your lives this is the only dirt you will have to get rid of and not the kind that stains your heart through sin or disobedience. I want Chris and all other children to remember that should you slip and fall into sin, you can be washed clean by true repentance.
What joy it is to have clean hands and a pure heart!

On 16 October, the St Albans Stake hosted a family fun day for Syrian and Iranian refugees. Working in partnership with local charity Herts Welcomes Refugees (HWR), members of the stake ran craft activities for children, outdoor games for teenagers, blanket making and chess and card games for adults. A speaker from Herts Wildlife gave a talk about animals in Syria and a magician entertained members and guests while they enjoyed homemade halal meat pizzas and popcorn. Members and guests also joined together to make baby blankets for Project Linus, a volunteer organisation providing homemade quilts and blankets to sick and traumatised children. Arab music played in the background and members soon learned how to say simple Arabic words: ‘shukran’ (thank you), and ‘salaam alaikum’ (hello).
Volunteer members were overwhelmed by the positive responses from the guests, who spoke of their appreciation for the fun event and the warm welcome they received at the stake centre. A man from Syria described the day as beautiful. Many refugees feel isolated from the communities in which they live. HWR volunteer and stake Relief Society first counselor, Joyce Farnsworth, described the event as an opportunity for members to extend the hand of friendship to refugees and to give them an opportunity to practice English, have fun and to feel welcome.
Our stake JustServe lead, Sister Catherine Bruce, shared an uplifting experience from the event: “Although we were not proselyting, I was asked about the Church’s beliefs by a volunteer from HWR as we sat together helping children with crafts. She was interested in lay clergy and asked what I did in the Church. I said I was involved in community outreach, which provoked a very positive response from this woman. She felt that was what it’s all about. I agreed wholeheartedly.”
In 2016, Elder Patrick Kearon1 reminded Church members that the Jesus Christ Himself was once a refugee, fleeing to Egypt as a young child to escape King Herod. Approaching the Christmas season, this event helped members heed the Saviour’s counsel that serving others is the same as serving Him.2 By blessing and welcoming refugees, the members themselves felt blessed to feel the true spirit of JustServe.

The principles we have discussed I know are true. They have blessed my life many times. One vivid example is when I was called to be a mission president. At the time I was working as a civilian for an admiral in charge of a program essential to the national defense of our country. When I told the admiral of the call, he was most upset because he did not understand how it had come and what it meant. He concluded a tense conversation with these words: “You are a traitor to your country. I’ll see that you never have success in this industry. I will not speak to you again. You are finished here. If that’s the way Mormons are, I’m going to get rid of all that work for me.”

I said, “Admiral, I will carefully turn my assignment over to a replacement unless you prevent me from continuing in this office.”

I knew what was right for me to do, but I was very concerned that my decision could cause a loss of work for innocent people who were honorably supporting their families in the program. As I struggled with that thought, there came into my mind the words of the song “Do what is right; let the consequence follow” (“Do What Is Right,” Hymns, 1985, no. 237). I could not see how that challenge could possibly be worked out, but I felt a peace and a calmness as I proceeded to do my best to instruct a replacement.

I can see now that the Lord guided me each step of the way in what to do and what to say. My replacement was a very capable, experienced individual who learned rapidly. I was impressed to identify those things that needed to be done and even was able to outline some suggestions for important future improvements in the program.

On my last day at work I met with the admiral again. The experience was totally different. That conversation ended with a much deeper appreciation for each other and for my beliefs. No other Church member was adversely affected because of my decision.

As we close this experience together, think of what the words of the song “Do What Is Right” mean in your life. May the doctrinal message it contains be as helpful to you as it has been to me.

Speaking of schools, I have just come from Southern California, where I’ve had one of the most glorious spiritual experiences of my life. President Oaks mentioned that I did some undergraduate work a few years ago at Chapman College. During my stay there, I came under the influence of a great teacher. Thank God for great teachers—some who don’t even belong to the Church, but particularly for those who do, who have an abiding faith and testimony.
Dr. Guy M. Davis, a recognized authority of the New Testament at Chapman and throughout the western United States, was my teacher. This was twenty-three years ago. We used to have a little fun in his class. He would kid with us. I’d challenge him.
I said on one occasion in private, “I believe that whether you’re aware of it or not, you’re a Mormon. You act and think like one. The day will come when you and I will testify to these truths, and I’ll have the opportunity of witnessing your baptism.” I have corresponded, visited, and worked with this man now twenty-three years; and we baptized him last Friday night. I haven’t words or the ability to express my affection for this man or the great thrill that came on the occasion of his baptism.

Now let me share a few quick experiences that show how doors will be opened if we do our part.
Everything I’m going to show you has been written and discovered in the last several weeks.
Recently I received an email from a complete stranger about someone on my wife’s line. When you post your family history on the Internet – and that’s one of the first things you need to do - you can get a lot of email if you do it right. The writer was responding to one of many postings I had placed on the Internet. His email said basically, is your Henry Wright born in 1782 the same person as my Henry Wright also born in 1782. Such exploratory emails are very common in the genealogical world.

When we affirmed the right dates, places and other names, he proceeded to deliver 1,100 names back to the 1500s, well researched, with documented sources. That led to much more, including old photographs and missing information to fill in stories. It even led to my wife rediscovering the best friend of her youth – a second cousin with whom we had lost contact 20 years ago.

My wife, Cathy, whose interest in actually doing family history, to put it diplomatically, has been… intermittent… over the years, mentioned to me after receiving this flood of names that she had been praying for help in finding her ancestors. I looked at her in surprise because she hadn’t mentioned it. ‘How long have you been praying about it?” I asked. “About three weeks,” she said. “But I prayed really sincerely.” I’m not sure what that says about my prayers for 40 years, but it does show that help may be closer than you think.

As a direct result of that one email, we added four pages to our family history website.

Corey has an excellent example about trying something new. When his stake announced they were going to have a pioneer trek, he thought he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t imagine walking around in 19th-century-style clothing, pushing a heavy cart with all his gear in it. But as the time for the trek came, Corey found himself wanting to try. He says, “The experience was incredibly beneficial because it gave me an insight into what the pioneers had to go through. My understanding was broadened. It was hard, but it showed me that perseverance is necessary to gain a great testimony. I think you have to experience some pressure and difficulty in order for that testimony to be tested and then become strong.”

On Sunday Keith was getting ready to leave for church when the doorbell rang. It was a group of his friends holding bats and balls and baseball mitts. “Hey, Keith,” his neighbor Matthew said, “we’re going to the school to play, and we need another baseman. Can you come with us?”
“No,” mumbled Keith, feeling self-conscious in his Sunday clothes. “I’m going to church.”
“See!” an older boy in the back spoke up loudly. “That’s a Johnson boy for you.”
As the group walked away, Keith could still hear the big boy’s voice. “His brother made the whole school team lose because he wouldn’t play on Sunday, either.”
Keith felt tears sting his eyes, and he quickly closed the door.
“Who was that, Keith?” asked his mother.
Keith spoke sadly. “My friends don’t like me because I can’t play with them on Sunday. Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t a Johnson boy!”
Keith’s mother sat him on the couch next to her and put her arm around him. “Sometimes it’s not easy to do the right thing. It wasn’t always easy for Jason either.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. But he knew that he had an even greater name to live up to than just Johnson. It’s the same name you’ll take upon you when you are baptized.”
“Jesus’ name?”
“Yes, and you’ll also promise to always remember Jesus and keep His commandments, just as you always think about Jason now and try to do all that he would do.”
“You mean Jason is trying to be like Jesus?”
Keith’s mother nodded.
“Now I really want to be like Jesus and Jason.”
Later, as they entered the church, the bishop shook Keith’s hand. “How’s the Johnson boy?” he asked. “Are you getting excited about your baptism?”
“You bet!” Keith grinned. “Bishop, is it all right if I invite my neighbors Matthew and Mrs. Peters, and my teacher Mr. Lee to my baptism?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” The Bishop winked at Keith’s parents and said, “It sounds just like something Jason would do.”

This pattern can be seen in the life of Jasmine B. of Washington, USA, who received help in coping with a disease. Before contracting the disease, she was a healthy young woman who excelled on her high school track team and loved getting up early for seminary.
Then she started feeling ill. She lost 15 pounds very quickly, and no matter how much sleep she got, it became harder and harder to get up for seminary. She couldn’t run as well as she used to and was hungry, thirsty, and weak all the time.
Over a month went by before she started to pray for help. “I held off so long,” she says, “because the thought of praying for help was an act of submission, admitting that something was indeed wrong with me. It scared me.”
But because she humbled herself to seek the Lord’s help, answers started to come. She went to see a doctor, who discovered she had developed type 1 diabetes, which meant her body could not produce insulin to process sugar. Diabetes has lifelong consequences and must be carefully monitored. Even as the doctors developed a plan to help her manage her condition, she began to worry that she would not be able to continue running track.
“I never ceased to pray as I struggled to understand my new life and to control my disease,” she says. “I prayed for strength and understanding and that I would be able to accept this trial. I would not have made it through those hard days and weeks without prayer.”
Jasmine made incredible strides. Within two weeks of being diagnosed, she was back practicing on the track, and later that year she did well in state competitions. “I believe Heavenly Father has blessed me with a strong, healthy body,” she says. “Having diabetes was not the end of the world. With His help, I knew I could get through this.”
By the grace of God and through her dependence on Him, Jasmine is able to cope with her disease and have wonderful successes in her life.

President Hinckley described what happens to the heart of every missionary who commits his or her life and work to the Lord when he talked about his own missionary experiences. It was early in his mission, and he was discouraged. The work was hard, and the people were not receptive. However, there came a time when discouragement turned to commitment. For him, the beginning was a letter from his father in which he read: “Dear Gordon, I have your letter. … I have only one suggestion: Forget yourself and go to work.” In describing what happened next, he said: “I got on my knees in that little bedroom … and made a pledge that I would try to give myself unto the Lord.

“The whole world changed. The fog lifted. The sun began to shine in my life. I had a new interest. I saw the beauty of this land. I saw the greatness of the people. … Everything that has happened to me since that’s been good I can trace to that decision made in that little house” (in Mike Cannon, “Missionary Theme Was Pervasive during Visit of President Hinckley,” Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).
President Hinckley continued by saying: “You want to be happy? Forget yourself and get lost in this great cause, and bend your efforts to helping people” (in Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).

“Thanks, Mom and Dad,” I yelled as I headed for the front door, the keys to the family car jingling in my hand. “Don’t wait up for us—it’s a double feature, and the second movie isn’t over till nearly midnight.”
Dad gave first me and then my cousin Sandi the piercing look for which he was famous in our family. “Listen, I don’t like you girls staying out late all by yourselves. Why don’t you go to an earlier movie?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad, you’re so old-fashioned. Sandi and I are hardly babies.” We had finished our first year at Ricks College, and Sandi had come to spend the summer in Rockford, Illinois, with my family. We had jobs at a local factory, and we felt pretty responsible and grown-up. I said so to my dad.
It didn’t help much. He still quizzed us. Which theater were we going to? What movies would we see there? Were we coming straight home afterward? Finally he sighed and said, “Your mother and I will be awake when you come home, so check in with us no matter how late it is, all right?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I said, resigning myself to the inevitable.
The movies were comedies, and when we walked out of the theater late that night Sandi and I were laughing and repeating our favorite funny lines. We got into the car and headed toward home.
Even at midnight there was a lot of traffic on the main streets of Rockford, so I turned onto a side street, taking a shortcut in order to avoid most of the traffic. A battered brown car followed us around the corner. I drove three blocks and then turned onto a deserted street. The brown car turned too, close behind us. I made several other turns, leading us toward home through the back streets. When I looked into the rearview mirror, the lone man in the car waved at us and yelled something obscene.
Although it was a hot night, we quickly rolled up the windows and locked all four car doors. We decided that if we ignored the driver of the brown car he would probably lose interest. But instead he moved his car closer to ours, driving nearly bumper to bumper. Then he pulled into the middle of the street and edged his car toward ours, forcing us toward the curb. By now we were getting pretty panicky.
As I neared an intersection, Sandi said tensely, “Turn right—quick!”
I did, and with a left turn at the next light I entered the main stream of nighttime traffic. Maybe in all the noise and confusion our pursuer would lose sight of us or forget whatever crazy ideas he had.
He didn’t. At every light he was there behind us, leaning out his window to yell lewdly. He was obviously drunk, but he was persistent. Even in the bright lights of Rockford’s busiest street, we were scared.
Finally we reached Fairview Boulevard. My house was only half a block away. We turned the corner, and he followed us, only inches behind our rear bumper.
I pulled to a stop in front of my house. The front sidewalk seemed miles long. Worse yet, the porch light was off, and no light showed from any of the windows. And the brown car had already pulled to a stop behind us. Sandi checked to make sure the car doors were locked.
I got a sick feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. “Sandi, we’ve got to say a prayer,” I said.
“I know. What do you think I’ve been doing all the way home?”
We were both silent for a split second, each pleading for the Lord’s guidance. I guess I was hoping for a miracle. But the stranger was out of his car and running toward us, yelling and cursing. There was no chance of getting past him, so Sandi and I sat in the locked car. The stranger grabbed the handle of my car door, then tried the door behind me. When he found the doors were locked he began pounding on the windows and trying to pry them open. He was shouting threats, and his angry drunken face was only inches from mine.
Suddenly good sense returned to me, and I pressed on the horn, making long blasts of jarring noise. Within seconds the light went on in my parents’ bedroom. Mom appeared at the window. Light from the front porch fixture suddenly flooded the yard, and my dad flung open the front door and ran out onto the lawn, bellowing, “Get out of here!” in his most menacing voice.
The man who had been so threatening and persistent moments before suddenly turned and ran. Leaping into his car, he drove off into the night.
A few minutes later Sandi and I sat at the kitchen table with Dad, giving a blow-by-blow description of the unpleasant incident. My mom bustled around the kitchen making hot chocolate and offering us occasional hugs as she passed us at the table.
Suddenly my newfound college independence didn’t seem so important. The kitchen was cozy, familiar, and comforting. Mom and Dad, scolding us because we had forgotten to write down the car’s license number, were pillars of strength and security. In that moment, my eyes flooding with tears, I thanked God for old-fashioned parents who insisted on waiting up until all their children came home.

As Emma approached her eighth birthday, she was allowed to choose the day of her baptism. She chose her birthday. She did not know that her birthday fell on the last day of an important meeting her father was to attend in Finland. When he came home from work, Emma dashed happily down the stairs to meet him and asked, “Daddy, will you come to my baptism on my birthday?”
“Of course, I shall be at your baptism,” Brother Lund said with a smile. Emma ran away happy, and her father called his boss to say he would miss the last day of the meeting.
Emma remembers clearly her feelings when she was baptized and confirmed by her uncle, Richard Bruvik. “My heart felt so warm. When I was confirmed, I felt so peaceful.”

I remember a saintly sister who once told me of her mother's experience as a young girl in Switzerland before her family immigrated to America in the late 1800's. The family had joined the church and decided to come to Utah where they could mingle with the saints and be close to the prophet. As a result of their decisions, they experienced a lot of persecution from the people who lived in their small town.

The night before their planned departure, the young daughter was walking alone up the hill to her home. As she walked by two men who were working alongside the road, she overheard one of them say, "Isn't that the Mormon girl that is leaving tomorrow? She's alone and we can easily catch her." She began to run but she could tell they were running faster and would catch her long before she could reach her home. As she ran, she poured out her heart to Heavenly Father, telling Him that she had always kept herself pure and begged that He help her escape from the men who were coming after her. The next thing she knew, she was standing alone on the front porch of her home. She didn't know how she got there, but she knew some power had done for her what she could not have done for herself. As Helaman had promised his sons, this young woman found that building on the Lord's sure foundation brought her a literal escape from the powers of the adversary. She, like Jacob's people, found that trusting in God made possible the conquering of her enemies.

“When I was six, I had an experience that is very important to me. I’m afraid that I didn’t come out of it as a hero—exactly the opposite. Most of the time we’re not heroes. We are learning, progressing, correcting our mistakes. This incident really taught me about the consequences of dishonesty. In Germany at that time, if teachers wanted to send information to parents, they sent home a letter. Such a letter was always sent in a blue envelope, and so it was nicknamed the ‘blue letter.’ A blue letter always contained bad news! I must have done something wrong at school, because I got a blue letter. I put it in my backpack, and when I got home, my mother asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?’
“I lied. ‘Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.’
“She said, ‘Well, I see by the tip of your nose that something’s wrong.’
“That made me angry and very defensive, so after lunch I went into the living room and opened up my backpack and put everything on the desk. I must have been careless, because the blue letter fell out. My mother immediately saw it and asked, ‘What’s that?’ I tried to grab the envelope and hide it, but Mother had already picked it up and was opening it.
“I will never forget the feelings of pain that came over me while she was reading that letter. To make a mistake is one thing, but it isn’t a really grave mistake if you admit it, ask for forgiveness, and make a commitment not to do it again. But to try to hide a mistake, hoping that nobody will find out, that’s a serious mistake.
“And so the lie caused me much more sorrow than the original mistake. I can’t even remember what was in that blue letter, but I still recall, in vivid detail, the awfulness of lying to my mother.

SHAWN: In elementary school I was diagnosed with learning disabilities, and I had a real hard time with the kids teasing me about it. In the sixth grade I started smoking cigarettes because there was a group of people there I could relate to. They let me into their crowd, and all I had to do was smoke cigarettes.

SHAWN: I remember my parents saying to me: If you use drugs, you’re going to be a freak. You aren’t going to be normal. I used drugs. I felt pretty normal. I decided they had been lying to me.

SHAWN: In the seventh grade I started using alcohol, and in the ninth grade I added marijuana and speed. Before I started using drugs, and for a while afterward, I danced, I sang, I played baseball, I wrestled. As the drug use progressed, I stopped dancing. I quit baseball. I backed out of everything. In the ninth grade I started backing away from the Church, even though I was the teachers quorum president. I slipped right off the deep end into devil worship. It was a frightening experience, but I was too numb to realize it at the time. I didn’t feel anything. I got more and more depressed. I had my first suicide attempt about the middle of my ninth grade year. At the end of that year I was arrested for possession.

I really started fighting hard with my parents. Every single day when I woke up it was a fight. Lying became a way of life. I lied so that I could keep using.

I went on to LSD. On a bad trip I beat myself up and stabbed holes in the wall. I remember seeing the walls in the house literally eating the flesh off my friends.

I started needing drugs many times each day just to survive. I still looked like a straight, clean-cut kid, but I was taking anything I could get my hands on, just to see if it would get me high. Once I overdosed and almost died.

In tenth grade I quit school and started looking really different. I wasn’t Shawn anymore. I was drugs. If I talked it was drugs. If I walked it was with drugs. Everything I did was drugs.

When I finally was forced into treatment I weighed 97 pounds. After being hospitalized for three weeks I weighed 130. That’s what drugs do to your body, and they injure your mind and spirit even more.

I wasted five years of my life that I’ll never have back. It’s gone, just gone.

SHAWN: I had totally lost control of my own life, but I still didn’t think I had a problem. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing wrong with me. I just blamed it all on my parents for being so strict.

When you’re using, there’s a gut feeling, a pain like someone’s just drilled a hole right through you, and you want to fill it up. It seems as if the only way you can do that is by denying everything to yourself and using more and more.

SHAWN: The hardest part of my treatment was when they said, “You’ve got to find God.” They called it “a higher power,” because not everybody has a religious background. I thought, There’s no way; He’ll never forgive me after what I’ve done. I can’t even forgive myself. I had been in the program two or three months before I finally understood that he forgives everyone who repents. You’ve just got to give him the chance and be willing to change. Changing is hard, but you don’t have to do it alone.

SHAWN: Even after treatment, staying sober is a day-to-day struggle. You wake up every morning and the first thing you say is, “God, help me make it through the day.” And for the rest of the day you’re working on it. It gets easier, but you never forget that you’re an addict.

I’ve been sober for a year and a half, and I still wake up in the morning and think, “Go get some speed; you need something to pump you up.” It almost breaks me in two sometimes.

Every year it’s the same just before the football game between Ridgewood and Central High, the two high schools in town. Each school does everything it can to fire up for the big game. On Thursday night there’s a big pep rally in the parking lot where the symbol of the opposing team is burned in effigy.
Another tradition, one which is not appreciated by school officials, also takes place during the week. A group of students go to the opposing high school and leave their mark. One year a group from Central painted Ridgewood’s sidewalk with a large C for Central Cougars. The next year Central High was broken into and an old car painted with Ridgewood colors was driven onto the gym floor at night, and then the wheels were removed. It was not until noon that authorities finally removed the car.
Unfortunately in some people’s minds it’s more than just a game. Since most students attending Central are of Mexican heritage, and most at Ridgewood are white, sometimes the cross-town rivalry is just an excuse to promote racial prejudice.
For as long as anyone can remember, it’s always been the same.
Jason Miller played the trombone in Ridgewood High’s marching band. On Thursday night he attended the pep rally because the band had to play for it. Afterwards he went home and watched TV for a while, but then decided that he’d better start studying for an algebra test. It was then that he realized he’d left his algebra book in the band room at school. He’d have to go back to the school and get it before the janitors locked up for the night.
He drove to Ridgewood High, parked, got out, and walked to the door.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” a voice called out.
Jason stopped. Two large guys stepped out from the shadows. “What are you doing here?” one asked.
“I’m in the band,” Jason said. “I left my algebra book in the rehearsal room, and I’ve got a test tomorrow.”
“I’ve never seen you before. How do I know you aren’t from Central and have come here to make trouble.”
“I’ve got my activity card here.”
“Let me see it.” Jason showed him his card. “All right, go ahead, but you better be telling the truth, because if you’re not, and we catch you messing around …”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“All right, you can go.”
Just then there was the sound of shouting from the other side of the building. “There are people inside with cans of paint!” someone yelled.
The two self-appointed guards ran inside the building.
Jason walked up to the third floor where the band room was. He could hear people yelling back and forth and the sound of running. “There they go!” someone shouted.
Because Jason was a section leader, he had a key to the rehearsal room. He went inside and began searching for his algebra book.
Suddenly a girl ran into the room. She was dark-eyed, with black hair and olive skin. She was breathing hard from running. “Hide me, okay?” she asked.
She’s from Central, he thought to himself. “You can’t stay here. I’m going home now, and I’ve got to lock up.”
“Just let me stay here until they’ve gone.”
One of the student guards barged in, saw the girl, and yelled out into the hall. “I’ve got one!” He turned to the girl. “Where’d your friends go, huh?”
“They all got away.”
Two guys rushed in the room.
Jason looked at the clock. If he didn’t start studying soon, he’d end up not doing well on the test tomorrow. “Can you all go someplace else? I’ve got to close up now, and I can’t let you stay in here because there’s thousands of dollars of musical instruments and …”
“Hey, cool it. We’ll be out of here in a minute. First we have to decide what to do with our prisoner.”
“I think we should make her clean up the mess where she and her friends painted on the wall.”
“I don’t want to sit around and watch some chickie clean walls.”
“Let me go, okay?” the girl said. “C’mon, a joke’s a joke.”
“I think we should keep her our prisoner and make her wish she’d never come here tonight,” the one in charge said.
The smile on the girl’s face vanished.
“Yeah, let’s teach her a lesson she won’t ever forget,” another said.
Jason could see the girl was getting scared.
“Let’s take her for a ride in my car.”
The girl’s lip started to quiver. “Please let me go.”
“No way. Hey, I just thought of something. I’ve got some handcuffs in my car.”
“Good, go get ‘em.”
The girl made a break for it, but they caught her and held her. “Let me go!” she cried out.
“You’re not going anywhere. Go get the handcuffs like I said.”
When Jason began speaking, he realized how thin his voice was compared to the others. “I think you should let her go.”
“Hey, geek, who asked your opinion? Look, just walk away from here and go home and forget you ever saw any of this.”
He’d never stood up to anyone before, and these guys were big and mean. But he had to say something. “I can’t let you hurt her.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t, that’s all. Can’t you see you’re scaring her.”
“You think we care? Look, whatever happens to her is her own fault. She was the one who broke in. She’s got to be punished.”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“I don’t know. But it’ll be so bad she’ll never come back here again, that’s for sure.”
The girl had the look of a trapped animal. She kept trying to free herself, but it was no use.
Jason looked at the girl. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
The ring leader shoved him backwards. “What are you going to do to stop us?”
Jason didn’t know. They were all so much bigger than he was.
The handcuffs arrived. Two of them held her while the other put the handcuffs on the girl.
Jason saw the phone on the band director’s desk. He went to it and picked it up and started to dial.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling the police.”
One of them grabbed the phone from his hand. “Let’s take both of them with us. Handcuff Twinkle Toes to the girl too.”
A few minutes later Jason and the girl sat in the back seat of an old beat-up car, a guard on each side of them. Jason could hear the terrified shallow breathing of the girl. He leaned over. “Don’t worry. They’re not going to hurt you.”
She reached out and grabbed his hand and held it tightly.
Fifteen minutes later the car left the highway and started down a nearly abandoned road which led to a place called Crescent Ridge where people went target shooting. No more than a dozen vehicles used the road in a year’s time.
“Let’s all think of things we can do to our prisoner when we get to the end of this road,” the driver said. They each took their turn describing various forms of cruelty. The girl held on tightly to Jason’s hand.
Suddenly the car stopped. “Let Twinkle Toes out here. We’ll take the girl on with us alone.”
“No,” the girl pleaded.
“He’s still handcuffed to the girl,” the one next to Jason said.
“Well, undo them, stupid.”
“I can’t see anything. How about turning on the dome light?”
“It doesn’t work. Get in front of the headlights.”
Jason and the girl were pushed out in front of the car. One of them took the key to the handcuffs from his pocket and waved it in Jason’s face. “You’re lucky we’re letting you go—you’re luckier than she’s gonna be.”
With his free hand Jason hit the hand holding the key. The key flipped into the air and landed somewhere off the road. In the soft sand at night it would be nearly impossible to find.
“He just threw away the key!”
The driver got out of the car. “What’s wrong with you anyway?” He shoved Jason backwards. Because they were bound together by handcuffs, he and the girl both fell down to the ground.
“Now what do we do?”
“Hey, they’re both such great friends. Let’s just leave ‘em here. Let ‘em try walking back in the dark. It’ll serve ‘em right. I’m tired of this anyway.”
They got in the car and drove away.
The girl was quiet for a minute and then she started sobbing. Jason kept saying it was all right now.
After a while she calmed down. “Maybe we’d better start walking toward the highway,” he said.
“Okay.”
At first their progress was slow because it was hard to see, but eventually their eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“Why did you help me?”
“I don’t know. I just did.”
“You must have had a reason.”
“It’s the way I was raised.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was taught a guy should protect the girl he’s with.”
“You weren’t exactly with me.”
“No, not exactly.”
“Who taught you that about girls?”
“The church I go to teaches that. I’m a priest.”
She snickered.
“You’re no priest.”
“In my church I am.”
“What church is that?”
“The Mormon church.”
“You a priest? In my church a priest looks like a priest. I’m Catholic.”
“Well, I bet that’s a nice church too.”
“I go every Sunday,” she said.
“No kidding? Me too.”
“I don’t want you to think my church says it’s okay to do vandalism.”
“I don’t.”
“I just don’t want you going around saying we do that.”
“I won’t.”
“People do things like that though. Sometimes when I go in a store, salespeople stare at me like I came to shoplift. Maybe one time they caught one of us shoplifting, and now they think we all do that. That’s wrong.”
Jason paused. “When I was nine years old, I got a bike for my birthday. Two days later it was stolen. The police found it on Del Marco Street, all smashed up. After that I figured every Mexican kid was the one who’d stolen my bike.”
“Hey, it wasn’t me, okay?” she teased.
They started laughing.
“What’s it like to be … like you are?” he asked.
“It’s great on our side of town. It’s only when we cross over we get hassled.”
“Sometimes I wish my skin was dark like yours.”
“Why?”
“I can’t ever get a tan. I’m either white or sunburned. When I go swimming my stomach looks like the underbelly of a dead fish.”
She started laughing.
“You’re very funny, but in a nice way. What’s your name?”
“Jason Miller.”
“That’s a good name. It kind of fits you.”
“What’s yours?”
“Rita Sanchez.”
“Rita’s a nice name too.”
They walked for a time without talking and then she said, “This is so strange.”
“What is?”
“Me taking a walk with a guy named Jason Miller.”
“I know what you mean.”
“If we saw each other on the street, I never would have talked to you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t have talked to you either. But it has nothing to do with prejudice. I don’t talk to many girls anyway.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Bashful I guess.”
“You shouldn’t be bashful. You’ve got more to offer than most guys.”
“Me? What’ve I got to offer?”
“You’re a nice guy. There aren’t many nice guys around anymore.”
“Maybe I could see you once a week and you could pump me up by saying things like that to me.”
She paused. “Sure. On what side of town would we meet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could talk on the phone.”
She nodded her head. “Sure. Except I should tell you I’m going with someone. He doesn’t like Anglos, and he doesn’t like me talking with other guys. His name is John.”
“Is John big?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it. Big John. And mean too, right?”
“To others, but not to me.”
“Big and mean, huh?” Jason paused.
“Maybe if you just send me a letter once in a while.”
She laughed.
“You’re so funny.”
“Nobody else laughs at what I say.”
“I can’t believe you were willing to get yourself beat up just to try to protect me. I wish my parents could meet you. I know they’d like to thank you too. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime.” She paused. “Would you come if we asked you?”
“Sure. I love Mexican food.” He paused. “I’ve got a question. When ever I go out to eat, I always get Mexican food because it’s different from what my mom fixes most of the time. So I was wondering, well, like if you go out to eat, do you ever order mashed potatoes, canned peas, and roast beef?”
She looked at him strangely and then started laughing again.
“I didn’t think it was that funny,” he said, pleased that she appreciated him.
“Why do our two schools hate each other so much?” she asked.
He thought about it for a minute. “I guess because we don’t know each other.”
“It’s not right to hate an entire school, is it?”
“No. Especially if there are people like you at Central.”
“And people like you at Ridgewood.” She paused. “Jason, you know what? I’m really sorry I broke in. I was brought up better than that.”
“I know. I can tell you’re basically a good person.”
“We ought to try to change the way things are,” she said.
“How?”
“I don’t know. Like if I could talk to the kids in my school and you could talk to the ones in your school. And we could tell them it’s not right to hate somebody just because of the color of their skin.”
“Sure, why not? I could ask to speak to the band sometime and tell them that.” He paused. “It might make a difference.”
There was a prolonged silence.
“Do you really think it would make any difference?” she asked.
He sighed. “No, not really. I guess everybody’s got to find it out for themselves. Like we did tonight.”
They made it to the highway. Across the street was a truck stop. They would have to cross the highway and walk inside and ask to use their phone. He knew people would stare and make jokes at their expense. After they phoned, her parents would come and her father would use a hacksaw to free them and then they would be separated and it would never be the same for them again.
“Looks like we made it,” he said quietly.
“Thanks for being such a good person.” She looked at him and smiled. “You’d make a good Catholic. You could even become a priest.”
He smiled. “Hey, you forget, I already am a priest.”
“Father Jason,” she teased.
“They don’t call me that.”
“What do they call you?”
“Mostly just Jason.” He paused. “Well, sometimes they call me brother.”
“Then I will call you brother too,” she said.
They walked across the highway to the glaring lights of the truck stop.

Imagine putting in that kind of time and effort for an entire year. That’s what Erin Johnson of the McLean Virginia Second Ward did. She got up close and personal with the Mormon pioneers so she could make a presentation for National History Day.
“I read 45 books for the project. I got some of the books from the library, and people loaned some of them to me. I also read journals from ancestors and relatives,” says Erin.
The work didn’t stop when Erin finished reading, though. She then put together a ten-minute dramatic presentation depicting the struggles the pioneers experienced as they crossed the plains.
During that ten minutes, Erin takes the audience through trials on the plains such as a mother burying her small child by the side of the trail, and then on to Utah, where the Saints set up an orderly, productive society.
“Each family member had a job on the trail, even the children,” says Erin in her presentation. She presents a short account of a pioneer child gathering buffalo chips to burn. She points out that everyone’s job was important on the trail—glamorous or not.
All her hard work paid off when Erin won third place in the Junior National competition, as well as a special award in her state division. High praise for a 12-year-old who had to prepare, set up, and perform her presentation with no help from anyone.
“I think it’s important to be well educated and work hard,” says Erin. “I also have a much greater appreciation for my ancestors and what they went through after doing this project.”
Erin says she now also appreciates her own family even more than she did before.
“They’ve helped me a lot,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without their support.”

Even worthwhile endeavors need evaluation in order to determine if they have become distractions from the best goals. I had a memorable discussion with my father when I was a teenager. He did not believe enough young people were focused on or preparing for long-term important goals—like employment and providing for families.
Meaningful study and preparatory work experience were always at the top of my father’s recommended priorities. He appreciated that extracurricular activities like debate and student government might have a direct connection with some of my important goals. He was less certain about the extensive time I spent participating in football, basketball, baseball, and track. He acknowledged that athletics could build strength, endurance, and teamwork but asserted that perhaps concentrating on one sport for a shorter time would be better. In his view, sports were good but not the best for me. He was concerned that some sports were about building local celebrity or fame at the expense of more important long-term goals.
Given this history, one of the reasons I like the account of Lucy playing baseball is that, in my father’s view, I should have been studying foreign policy and not worrying about whether I was going to catch a ball. I should make it clear that my mother loved sports. It would have taken a hospitalization for her to miss one of my games.
I had decided to follow my dad’s advice and not play intercollegiate sports in college. Then our high school football coach informed me that the Stanford football coach wanted to have lunch with Merlin Olsen and me. Those of you who are younger may not know Merlin. He was an incredible all-American tackle on the Logan High School football team where I played quarterback and safety and returned kickoffs and punts. In high school Merlin was recruited by most football powers across the nation. In college he won the Outland Trophy as the nation’s best interior lineman. Merlin was ultimately the third overall pick in the National Football League draft and played in an amazing 14 consecutive Pro Bowls. He was inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1982.20
The lunch with the Stanford coach was at the Bluebird restaurant in Logan, Utah. After we shook hands, he never once made eye contact with me. He talked directly to Merlin but ignored me. At the end of the lunch, for the first time, he turned toward me, but he could not remember my name. He then informed Merlin, “If you choose Stanford and want to bring your friend with you, he has good enough grades and it could probably be arranged.” This experience confirmed for me that I should follow my dad’s wise counsel.

Recently, my husband and I took our almost twelve-year-old daughter to the House of the Lord for the first time to perform proxy baptisms for the dead. I couldn’t help but look at her as she stood in the font with her dad and remember her own baptism day four years ago. She’s grown physically as well as spiritually—I see her discipleship is defining her—preparing her to participate in saving ordinances for others. Through the Young Women organization, she will help prepare sacred spaces for the sacrament, hold doors open, and quietly serve as others renew their covenants. It’s a holy practice of sorts, quietly going about doing good to make covenant-making and keeping more focused for herself and others.

From the moment my feet hit the floor that morning, I could tell something was off.
Do you ever have one of those days—almost like a beat-yourself-up kind of day? I spent that entire morning criticizing myself for every single decision I had made.
As the morning progressed, I couldn’t seem to shake my feelings of inadequacy and failure. So I prayed to my loving Heavenly Father, begging for a change in attitude, the strength to get through the day, and opportunities to serve.
Afterward, the morning started to pick up pace. Before I knew it, I had completed almost all my duties for the day and was standing in my kitchen, preparing a yummy treat to give to my bosses for “Boss Day.” As I poured melted chocolate over rice cereal, an interesting thought came to my mind:
“You should give Sister Jones (name has been changed) some of your treat!”
I immediately pushed that thought aside. I counted off the people I had already dedicated a treat bag to and determined there wasn’t enough.
“I’ll send her a text and ask her how she’s doing,” I thought. “At least then she will know I was thinking of her!”
Well, as He often does, the Lord wanted me to do something I didn’t necessarily want to do. I finished making my treat and divided it evenly into just enough bags for the people on my list. As I arranged the treats, something made me pause. I counted and recounted the number of treats and was taken aback by what I found.
Somehow I had ended up with one extra bag. I smiled, knowing exactly who that treat bag was for.
But as I looked at my schedule for the rest of the day, I realized I just didn’t have time to deliver the treat.
“It will still be good tomorrow, or even the next day!” I thought. But suddenly, I felt this unexplainable urgency come over me. I knew I needed to go and deliver that treat, right then and there. So even though my hair was a mess, the meat for lunch still wasn’t defrosted, and this sister lived in a different town, I found myself looking up her address.
You know what is amazing? When you are on the Lord’s errand, you can truly feel His hand helping you. My hair never looked so good in so short a time, I was able to make a different meal for lunch, and it just so happened that my dad had filled up my car with gas a few days earlier. The Lord helped prepare the way for me to serve this sister.
But even with all that, as I headed down the highway, I thought of all the reasons this was the wrong idea. What if Sister Jones wasn’t home? What if she was home? What if she didn’t like chocolate? What if she caught me trying to covertly sneak it into her mailbox? What if an animal got it? Endless scenarios came charging through my mind, and honestly the only reason I stuck to the plan was because I was already over halfway there.
I finally pulled up to her house and mustered all my courage to go knock on her door. When there was no answer, I stuck the treat inside her doorway and raced back to my car.
Immediately, an overwhelming sensation of peace and happiness enveloped me. I felt so good! It was such a stark contrast to the dark mood I had woken up in, and I felt joy as the rest of the day sped by.
If you would have told me that adding a 30-minute trip into my crazy schedule would turn out to be a blessing, I would have laughed. However, that is exactly what it turned out to be.
Heavenly Father answered my humble prayer in a way I did not expect. He knew I needed an opportunity to serve so I could gain some perspective by putting someone else first. Honestly, I don’t think Sister Jones needed the treat; I, however, needed to give it to her. I cannot tell you how much peace came from that one simple act.