Gospel Story Finder

Last year, while on vacation with our two youngest children, Julie suggested we do proxy baptisms in both the St. George and San Diego Temples. I murmured—to myself—thinking, “We attend the temple at home, and now we’re on vacation. Why not do something more vacation-like?” After the baptisms, Julie wanted to take pictures outside the temple. I silently murmured—again. You can guess what happened next: we took pictures.

Julie wants our children to have memories of how we helped our ancestors, and so do I. We didn’t need a formal lesson on the importance of temples. We were living it—thanks to a mother who loves the temple and wants her children to share that love.

Sheryl Hague of Yakima was also at church when the volcano erupted. “I thought it was a blessing that we were all in church when it happened, in a safe place,” she said, “I go to a singles’ branch, but I knew my family was in church at their ward, and my dad, who’s a stake president, was in church somewhere. My bishop was making sure we had wet paper towels over our mouths so we didn’t breathe the dust in, and people were making sure that everyone who wanted a ride home had it and that we were all okay. Right away we organized a calling committee to make sure that everyone had food and any help they needed.”
Many of the Young Adults at Sheryl’s ward opted to stay at the institute building where church was being held, until things quieted down. Food was brought in to the group by the Relief Society and elders quorum presidents.
“The prophet tells us constantly to be prepared, but often we don’t really listen until something like this happens, which is too bad,” added Sheryl. “During the first day especially I thought a lot about the Second Coming and how if you’re not prepared you’re going to panic, like a lot of unprepared people here did. I found out how important food storage is, too. Some people here didn’t have enough food to last them for even a couple of days. On the radio people were advised to store water, which our family had already done long before. We stored quite a bit more, though, including a bathtub full.”

The outlines of this story are well known. In late 1827, working with the gold plates and the Urim and Thummim, Joseph Smith began translating the “reformed Egyptian” characters found in the book of Lehi on the large plates of Nephi. As part of this early work, he transcribed some of the characters as a sort of alphabet or reference guide. His primary scribe was then Martin Harris—a well-known and respected Palmyra farmer, an early and keen supporter of Joseph Smith’s work, and later one of the Three Witnesses. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which was the resentment of his wife, Lucy, at his growing involvement, Harris persuaded Joseph to let him take a transcription to New York City, as historian B. H. Roberts wrote, “to submit them to men of learning for their inspection.”3 Roberts says Harris submitted “two papers containing different transcripts, to Professors Anthon and Mitchell [sic], of New York, one that was translated and one not translated.”4

According to Anthon’s own accounts, Harris first visited Mitchill, who wrote him a letter referring him to Anthon,5 who in turn “stated that the translation was correct, more so than any he had before seen translated from the Egyptian” and that the characters “were Egyptian, Chaldaic, Assyric, and Arabic; and he said they were true characters . . . and that the translation of such of them as had been translated was also correct.”6 However, when Harris said that an angel had given Joseph the book, Anthon tore up his certificate, vehemently denied the possibility of heavenly manifestations, and told Harris to bring him the plates, which he would translate. When Harris replied he could not do so and that parts of the plates were sealed, Anthon brusquely responded, “I cannot read a sealed book.”7 Harris promptly returned to Mitchill, “who sanctioned what Professor Anthon had said respecting both the characters and the translation.”8 Sometime later this entire episode came to be interpreted as fulfilling Isaiah 29:11, which speaks of “the words of a book that is sealed, which men deliver to one that is learned, saying, Read this, I pray thee: and he saith, I cannot; for it is sealed.”9 Whatever else Harris gleaned from these leading scholars, they confirmed his beliefs and encouraged him to devote his time, energy, and resources to the translation and publication of the Book of Mormon. If he left Palmyra wondering and inquiring, Harris returned supporting and defending.

Luther Bradish
William W. Phelps recalled that Harris went to New York City by way of Albany, the state capital.10 Pomeroy Tucker mentioned that “he sought . . . the interpretation and bibliological scrutiny of such scholars as Hon. Luther Bradish, Dr. Mitchell, Professor Anthon, and others.”11 Why was Harris interested in this man Bradish?

Thus Bradish was more conversant with contemporary American interests in the Middle East and with Egyptian archaeological excavations and the emerging field of biblical archaeology than any other contemporary American. Though not a linguist by training or profession, he knew firsthand of the rising interest in Egyptian hieroglyphics and antiquities. This fact coupled with the strong likelihood that Martin Harris and Luther Bradish were acquainted and that Bradish knew men in New York City renowned for their learning may explain why Harris visited Bradish in Albany before continuing on down the Hudson to New York City.

It’s November, but in Nevada it’s still hot. Hot enough that most teenage boys would rather be inside than sweating out a Saturday morning service project.
Why are these young men braving the burning desert sun? It’s not for the free can of soda pop. What began as a project to fill a Duty to God requirement, became a lesson in the joy of service.
For one of their activities, the young men in the Desert Breeze Ward, Las Vegas Nevada Lakes Stake, came to the aid of recent convert, Kyoko Fuller, an 82-year-old widow who speaks mostly Japanese.
The young men cut dried-out fronds from three neglected palm trees behind her house, stripped away the overgrown bark, and hauled off the piles of dead growth.
“How much I pay?” she asked when the young men told her they’d clean up her yard and take care of the palm trees. “Oh no,” she said when they told her it was free. “I pay how much?” They didn’t take any money, but they enjoyed the drinks she offered after they had worked under the desert sun for two hours.
“This was fun,” says Matt Erickson, a teacher. “Kyoko’s great, and it was fun to help her out. The work was kind of hard, but it went fast.”

Sara slipped into the long, soft, blue robe that she was to wear in the Christmas program. Pulling the matching hood over her brown curls, she turned to Jennie. “Do I look like Mary now?”
Jennie grinned. “You sure do, except for your size. It won’t matter, though, because Joseph is only eight too.”
Sara giggled at Jennie’s joke, then sobered. “I really wanted to be Mary in the program, but now that it’s time, I’m kind of scared.”
Jennie reached out to straighten the folds on Sara’s robe. “You’ll do just fine. Everything went well at rehearsal this morning.”
Sara’s stomach gave a little lurch when she heard the organ begin playing “Silent Night.” That was her cue to go on stage.
Sister Perkins came over and smiled at both girls. Looking at Sara, she said, “The curtains will be opening soon. It’s time for you to take your place.”
Sara hurried to her spot and sat down on a bale of straw. Eric, who was playing Joseph, was already there beside the manger. As Sara bent to arrange the blankets around the doll representing Baby Jesus, she heard the music change and the gentle strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” swell.
The curtains slowly opened on the quiet scene. A single spotlight highlighted Mary and Joseph admiring the Baby Jesus. Neither Mary nor Joseph had to say anything. Brother Egger stood out of sight with a microphone and told about the events of Jesus’ birth as they were silently portrayed on stage. The organ played softly while he spoke: “And it came to pass in those days, …”
Sara was distracted by something moving just below the stage. She moved her eyes carefully, trying not to turn her head and spoil the scene. There, climbing the stairs to the stage was her four-year-old sister, Katie.
Sara’s heart sank as Katie came toward her. What shall I do? she wondered. Why isn’t Katie sitting with Mom and Dad? Sara sneaked a peek at her parents. Her mother wore a stricken, helpless look. Sara felt Katie brush against her knees as she bent to look into the manger. Katie’s going to ruin the Christmas program! Why did she have to do this?
Sara was startled out of her thoughts by Katie’s awed “Oh! He’s beautiful!”
As Katie continued to just stand and intently watch the doll in the manger, Sara swallowed and felt calm. There was something about the spell around Katie that Sara couldn’t bring herself to break. I think the best thing to do is just let her stay, Sara decided. She’s being quiet.
So Sara reached out and slipped her arm around her sister’s shoulder and nestled Katie next to her on the bale of straw. Katie relaxed against Sara, still gazing lovingly at the Baby Jesus.
Katie sat watching quietly as the shepherds came. The organist played “The First Noel,” and Brother Egger read from the Bible about the shepherds coming to see Jesus. Even after the shepherds had left and the Wise Men had entered, Katie leaned against Sara, enraptured.
Katie really loves Baby Jesus, Sara thought. I don’t blame her for wanting to get close and see better. She gave Katie a little squeeze. I’m really glad now that she came.
When the curtains closed, Sara gently whispered into Katie’s ear, “It’s time for the next scene, so you must go back to Mommy and Daddy.”
Katie looked at her sister. “OK.” She started to leave, then paused and turned. “Thanks, Sara. I liked looking at Baby Jesus with you.”
Sara smiled. “I’m glad.” She led Katie to the side stage door. “Now go back to Mom.”
After the program the students looked through the crowd for their families. Just as Sara found her parents, she overheard an elderly man speaking to her mother. “I’m so glad I came. Because of your girls, I caught a glimpse of the Savior tonight that I’d never seen before. Thanks.”
Nobody at home said anything about Katie’s unexpected appearance in the program until Mother tucked Sara into bed. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Katie,” Mother said, “but I’m really sorry she barged in on your program. She’d slipped off Dad’s lap, and by the time we realized what she was doing, she was up in front, and it was too late to stop her.” Mother sat down beside Sara on her bed. “I hope it didn’t ruin things for you.”
“No. It was fine, Mother.” Sara squeezed her mother’s hand.
“I really admire the way you handled it,” Mother continued. “It’s hard to know what to do at times like that. What you did was beautiful. Usually people giggle when something unplanned happens, but people got especially quiet after Katie said how beautiful the baby was.”
“At first I was really worried,” Sara admitted. “I didn’t know what to do. Then I realized that the real Mary would have wanted her sister, as well as shepherds and Wise Men, to see her baby. Anyway, there was something special about Katie tonight. It was as though she really understood about Baby Jesus somehow.”
“You’re right, Sara.” Mother’s voice was soft. “Several people came up to me afterward and said the same thing. Even though Katie’s part in the program wasn’t planned, I think it touched people’s hearts. I think a lot of people will never forget tonight’s program.”
Sara settled back on her pillow. “I’m glad.”
Mother bent to kiss Sara. “I think you’re really special too. You taught us older folks a lot in the kind way you treated your sister. I’m sure Jesus was pleased with how you represented His mother tonight.”

Also, in listening to the Spirit and trusting the Lord in choosing nursing as my profession thirty years ago, I have been greatly blessed as I have been able to care for the diverse medical needs of my family, friends, and neighbors. A few weeks ago the whisperings of the Spirit led me to pick up on early signs of pneumonia and sepsis that were affecting my father as we came back from one of his weekly dialysis sessions and to get him to the hospital—a course of action that led to the early intervention that he needed to stave off a much more severe and possibly life-threatening set of circumstances.

Of course, our arms are full, although for the time being the birth mothers’ arms are empty. How shall they embrace—and be embraced—in safety? The answer to that question requires more time than I have available. A partial response comes in the pleas of a three-year-old whom we have taught to pray for her and her sister’s birth mothers. A few months ago she told us: “Mommy loves me. Daddy loves me. Lizzy loves me. Everyone loves me.” Pressing her cheek next to her mother’s, she promised, “I will not break your heart.” Then, with an eye to eternity that sobered us, speaking of her birth mother, she said, “I will not break her heart either.”

I believe in the power of a child’s prayer. I believe in a loving Father’s equity that promises that all arms will be full, if we will wait patiently on the Lord. I know that sometime in eternity our daughters will finish the process of their birth mothers’ healing. These finishings will be intimate restorations.

Maybe a modern example makes Nephi’s actions even more real to us.

Many years ago our daughter spent the night at a friend’s house. She drove her car there and parked it in front of the house. Other cars were parked there as well.

The next morning she got up, ate breakfast, and went out to her car, but it was gone. Her friend had forgotten to tell her that no one was supposed to park on the street after dark. Her car had been towed away. The puzzling thing was that hers was the only car that had been towed.

Our daughter called home, and my ­husband went to pick her up. He got the number of the ­towing company and called them. He was informed that he would have to pay $85 in cash to get her car back and was given the address.

“Come any time after 4:00,” the man said.

My husband asked him why all the other cars weren’t towed away. The man promptly hung up on him.

We felt that we had been wronged and certainly treated unfairly. We were upset, yes, even greatly enticed!

We had to wait nearly four hours to retrieve the car. During that time my husband prepared a lesson for priesthood meeting. Listen to the excerpt he studied from the President John Taylor manual as he was preparing that day:

If men, by taking a wrong course, act imprudently and seek to injure us, shall we seek to injure them? No, we will try to do them all the good we can. “But that is not natural.” But then we ought to be changed from nature to grace. . . .
. . . If there be trouble existing between me and anybody else, I would meet them halfway, yes, I would meet them three-quarters or even all of the way. I would feel like yielding; I would say, I do not want to quarrel, I want to be a Saint. I have set out for purity, virtue, brotherhood, and for obedience to the laws of God on earth, and for thrones and principalities and dominions in the eternal worlds, and I will not allow such paltry affairs to interfere with my prospects. I am for life, eternal lives and eternal exaltations in the kingdom of God.

With that enticing reminder ringing in my husband’s head, he and our daughter drove to retrieve her car. As my husband walked into the yard with all the towed vehicles, he spotted a little shack that had an office sign hanging in front. A long-haired gentleman in overalls stood there, looking as if he was waiting for a great verbal altercation. Our daughter stayed behind, not wanting to witness the probable confrontation.

My super-enticed husband walked up to the man and said, “Well, I imagine you get pretty tired of people coming in here and yelling at you just for doing your job, don’t you?”

The man’s heart seemed to melt. A big smile appeared on his face, and a friendly conversation followed. My husband made a new friend and retained control of his agency at the same time.

“Do you want to help me in the garden today?” Mike’s grandpa asked.
“Sure!” Mike said.
Mike loved gardening with Grandpa. The garden had all sorts of flowers, but their favorites were the roses. Mike helped Grandpa water and trim the rose bushes all summer. It didn’t feel like work—it was too fun!
When fall came, Mike and Grandpa trimmed the rose bushes one last time for the year. When they were done, Grandpa said, “These bushes look so healthy! I think next year’s garden will be our best yet.”
That winter Mike’s grandma passed away. At her funeral Mike put his arm around Grandpa when he saw him crying. “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I love you,” he said.
“I love you too,” Grandpa said with tears in his eyes.
Day after day, it was hard for Mike to see Grandpa look so sad. One day Mike thought Grandpa might enjoy walking through the garden. But as soon as Grandpa saw the frozen rose bushes, he turned around.
“You go ahead. I don’t like seeing my rose bushes so bare,” Grandpa said.
Mike helped Grandpa walk back to his recliner. Maybe he’ll be happier when spring comes, Mike thought. Then we can work in the garden again.
When spring came, Mike came to help Grandpa trim the rose bushes. They worked in the garden just like before, but Grandpa hardly ever smiled.
Mike prayed to know how to help Grandpa feel happy again. One morning an idea popped into his head: Look in the newspaper.
That’s strange, Mike thought. How would that help Grandpa feel better? Then the thought came again. So he looked through the newspaper.
This is a waste of time, Mike thought. Then something caught his eye: “Now taking nominations for Gardener of the Year.” Mike didn’t understand the word nominations. But it said that readers could send in a letter about a gardener they knew. The newspaper editor would read the letters and choose a Gardener of the Year.
Mike asked Mom to write a letter about Grandpa. “Well, it’s your idea,” she said. “So maybe you should write it. But I’ll help you.”
Mike wrote about how Grandpa was a great gardener. He wrote about how much fun they had working together in the garden. And he told about how happy his grandpa would be if he won the award.
Three weeks later Grandpa got a surprise visit while he and Mike were working in the garden. A newspaper reporter said that she was writing a story about him.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because you’ve been chosen as Gardener of the Year!” she said.
Grandpa smiled big and said, “What? I can’t believe it!” Mike had missed seeing Grandpa smile like that.
Later that week Mike, Mom, and Grandpa went to a special dinner to honor Grandpa. The people from the newspaper gave Grandpa an award and asked him to give a speech. Grandpa talked about how he enjoyed gardening with Mike and how much he loved flowers. Just before he sat down, Grandpa smiled right at Mike and said, “This year, we’re going to have one of the best rose gardens ever!”

1. The Venice Project in Los Angeles. For the past two years Mormon students at UCLA have held successful Christmas parties for underprivileged children in Venice, near Los Angeles. First, they contact the California State Service Center and receive the names of seventy-five children between five and twelve years of age. The day of the party, all seventy-five children are gathered by the center at one locale. Merchants donate cookies, ice cream, and presents. Decorated trees are given to the children’s families after the party. Said one student leader, “We learned that many people outside our own group were anxious to help. We also learned that you need plenty of games to hold the interest of everyone.”

Before our conversion to the gospel, my parents moved to the city in search of better opportunities for us. In Guatemala, in those years, children did not have a guaranteed space in school. At the beginning of every school year, my mom would get up at around 3:00 a.m. to register us at the only elementary school in La Florida. From my mother’s example, I knew early in life that education was important, and I wanted to become a teacher someday. In the middle of our material limitations, I was able to finish high school with a vocational certificate to teach elementary school.

I wanted to get a college education, but I did not have the forty-five dollars needed in those days to register for college. My older sister was living in Illinois when I graduated from high school, and she sent me sixty dollars to buy my graduation ring. I used the money to pay for my college registration at La Universidad de San Carlos de Guatemala in the College of Chemical Engineering. I had very little resources but many dreams I wanted to accomplish. Remembering the words my father had taught me to “be strong and of a good courage,” I walked for the first time onto a university campus, scared and confused but full of hope.

Dressed in old clothes—pants and shirt that bright yellow paint can’t ruin—James Bridges is sitting with nine of his closest friends saying the following sentence: “Service is fun.”
He says it with absolute sincerity, and the other nine nod in agreement. They are gathered at their church in Anchorage, Alaska, getting ready to restripe the parking lot. Perhaps very few will actually notice their work, but, still, it’s a job that needs to be done. And they were happy to volunteer.
Looking from one to another, waiting for someone to break ranks about what James just said, is useless. No one is going to suddenly say, “Just kidding.” They mean what they say. For the priests quorum of the Anchorage Sixth Ward, service is right up there with playing rugby in the snow and going fishing on Ship Creek. It’s fun.
How can it be? Why would these 10 young men be willing to give up time on their computers or playing their music or practicing for basketball season to do things for people just because they need to be done? And then how can they actually call it fun, no matter how dirty or hard the work?
“Even the most mundane service projects can be fun,” says Nick Anderson, “if you have enough people.”
One service that needs to be performed repeatedly in Alaska is snow shoveling. “We do drive-by shoveling,” says Mike Killary. “We each grab a shovel and pile into a van.” Then they pick someone in the ward or neighborhood who hasn’t been shoveled out from the latest storm. They quietly sneak out of the van, shovel like crazy, and try to make their getaway before they are discovered. In the meantime, if they throw a little snow at each other, all the better.
They also remember with great enjoyment the day they had to dig an old car out of the ice to get it ready to be donated to a family in the ward. They had to literally chip it out of a winter’s worth of snow that had hardened to ice. Even though the temperature was below zero, they remember being warm—warm from hard work and the satisfaction of doing something good.
How did the members of this quorum get to this point where they feel a sense of unity, where they are spending time together doing good things?
When someone moves into the ward, or young men are advanced, they automatically have friends. “Friendship is built in,” says Mike. “You move in and you become our friend, and eventually you’re friends with everybody.”
No one is left out. Jacob Christensen explains how it happens on the first Sunday someone new comes to church. “Brother Derrell Smith, our Young Men president, lets us know if someone is coming into the ward. He clues us in.”
Then Aaron Ekstrom adds, “We go from there.”
Jacob continues, “We make them feel welcome. We make them feel like we want them to be there. We do want them there.”
“Brother Smith told us to invite them to other activities besides church,” says Aaron, “like to football games or going to play basketball. We work our way from there to church.”
And they call before every activity to let everyone know what’s happening and when. “It’s pretty irresistible when you keep getting called every week,” says Nick.
“We’re just all friends,” says Zach Milliman. “We have a leader who keeps us in line. He doesn’t let people make fun of other people. We get to know each other without any animosity getting in the way.”
“I came here about four years ago,” says Neal Lefler. “It’s become like our family. This place is small compared to a lot of places, but we’re just like brothers. We keep track of each other.”
Indeed, that is true. James remembers his first Sunday. “I shook everybody’s hands. They wanted to know who I was. It made me feel better because I’d moved from a place I had lived for 16 years. They were trying to get me to go out and do things with them. I was kind of shy at first.”
Neal recalls an event when James wasn’t with them. “I remember one time we were playing basketball. The only person who wasn’t there was James. We called him up and dragged him out of bed. We took him to play basketball. It was fun.”
“When a bunch of guys call, it makes you feel good. Since then, I’ve become friends with all of them. It has helped me grow a lot spiritually.”
“It helps when you have a support group of LDS friends you can go hang out with,” says Mike.
“We’re all just friends,” says David Sullivan, “It’s pretty natural for us to be one big group of friends.”
Aaron and Jacob were recently released from the leadership of the priests quorum. They learned one big lesson about how to make a quorum work effectively. “It’s a big commitment,” says Aaron. “You have to show up and be there to everything.”
“Even stuff you don’t want to go do,” adds Jacob. “If it doesn’t sound like fun, you go and make it fun. You show the others it can be fun. You mess around a little, but you get the job done. Make it fun for everyone.”
Mike is now the new first assistant. He’s just learning about his assignment. “I call people, get a count of who is coming, and help plan activities. Actually we all sit in and plan activities.”
But more than that, this priests quorum leadership knows what’s going on in each other’s lives. On the night of the parking lot painting project, they know that one of the priests is out of town to attend his grandfather’s funeral. They know that two new priests are attending one last activity night with the teachers quorum. They know who’s sick or injured. They know who has a concert or game or match going on. And sometimes they will choose to attend to show their support. “Anything is fun to go to,” says Zach, “if you go together to support someone.”
Their hand of fellowship and brotherhood is extended to a special member of their quorum. Nick Schwan was recently baptized. He is mentally challenged and attends the special education classes at their high school. Both at school and at church, he’s one of them. They treat him with kindness and listen to what he has to say. “At first,” says Joe Carson, “we didn’t think Nick really knew what was going on around him, but after a while we realized that he picked up on things and he doesn’t really forget anything. He’s just a normal guy. He’s just a little …” Joe is at a loss for words. He knows how the quorum feels about Nick, and the feeling is good and supportive.
Right now there are 20 full-time missionaries serving from the Anchorage Sixth Ward.
Okay, just 19 of the them are elders, but the Young Men claim the young lady serving from their ward because they suspect that their good example helped encourage her to consider a mission.
And there are 10 to 12 priests getting ready to follow in their footsteps in the next couple of years. They readily admit there are other wards in the Church with as many or more full-time missionaries serving, but for a relatively small ward away from a large LDS population, they feel pleased with the tradition of service they are setting. They know just as they progress from deacon to teacher to priest, the next step is a mission.
Bishop Wesley E. Carson says, “We’ve put a positive spin on peer pressure. Serving a mission has become a family tradition; it’s become a ward tradition; and it’s become a quorum tradition.”
Back to the parking lot. “It’s a serious activity,” says Brother Smith. “I don’t want to see anyone’s initials out there. I want you to be proud that when you drive in on Sunday, the stripes are straight.”
The yellow stripes will be straight. Members of this priests quorum know all about following guidelines and doing a good job. They know where service leads—to feelings of worth. And they know the ones that have set the example for them are now in the mission field. The lines are straight, and they’ll follow.

I shall always be grateful that almost sixty-five years ago the good bishop of our ward came to me and asked me to be Scoutmaster of twenty-four boys in the Whitney Ward. We all received our handbooks at the same time. This was a great group of young men with a lot of musical talent.
In those days we had in the Mutual various cultural activities which were competitive. Among them were boys’ choruses. Each ward was expected to have a chorus, and ofttimes the bishop would invite the Scoutmaster to take the responsibility for getting the boys out to practice. So it was in our ward.
As is often the case when a man is asked to do a job, I sought out the help of a good faithful woman who could play the piano and knew some musical technique. Under her direction we started our practices. The song to be sung in the competition was assigned by the general board and was the same throughout the Church—“The Morning Breaks; the Shadows Flee,” by Parley P. Pratt (Hymns, no. 269).
For weeks before and after Scout meetings we prepared. Finally the time came when we would meet in competition with the ten other wards of the Franklin Stake. We were successful in winning in the stake, and then we were to meet the winners of the six other stakes in Cache Valley in the tabernacle in Logan.
I shall never forget approaching that great tabernacle that evening. We went inside and drew for places. We drew last place, which only prolonged our anxiety.
Finally the time came that our group was to march up to the platform. As our accompanist played “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” those twenty-four boys went up the aisle single file and formed in a half moon on the stage while I crouched down between a couple of benches to try to give them some leadership. Then they sang as I’d never heard them sing, and of course you can imagine that I’d not be telling this story had we not won first place in Logan.
We went home literally walking on air. We were so happy that this little community of fifty families had won over the other stakes and wards of the valley.
In the first Scout meeting following our victory, those boys (never forgetting anything that is of value to them) reminded me that in a moment of anxiety I had promised them that if we won in Logan, I would take them all on a hike over the mountain thirty-five miles to Bear Lake Valley.
Since a promise made is a debt unpaid, we began planning our hike. During the meeting one little twelve-year-old raised his hand and said very formally, “Mr. Scoutmaster, I would like to make a motion.” That was a new thing in a Scout meeting—or at least it was for me—but I said, “All right, what is it?”
He said, “I’d like to make a motion that we all clip our hair off so we will not be bothered with combs and brushes on this trip.”
I noticed three or four of the older boys start to squirm in their seats. They had reached that very critical age in life when they were beginning to take notice of the girls, and they knew a clipped head would be no asset to them with the women.
I put the question and it carried, with these three or four older boys dissenting. Then it was agreed that if they did not submit willingly, there were other ways of enforcing the rules of the troop. So they submitted.
Then, true to form—never forgetting anything if it was to their advantage—one of the older Scouts said, “How about the Scoutmasters?” It was our turn to squirm.
The following Saturday at the county seat, two Scoutmasters took their places in the barber’s chair while the barber very gleefully went over each head with the clippers. As he neared the end of the job, he said, “You know, if you fellows would let me shave your heads, I would do the whole job for nothing.”
So after our session with the barber, we left on that great thirty-five-mile Scout trip to which I had made commitment as an inducement to get the boys out to practice their singing—twenty-four boys with heads clipped and two Scoutmasters with heads shaven.
It was a glorious three weeks together with those wonderful boys out in the hills and in the mountains and on the lake. I wish I could follow for you the life of each one of those boys from that time until the present. I am proud of them.

Eritai learned about hydroponic sustainability while attending Brigham Young University–Hawaii. He spent hundreds of hours developing that idea into a solution to take to his people.
In 2017, he returned to Kiribati and introduced innovative hydroponic gardening to families and communities in response to the challenges faced in accessing healthier food options. He explained that “it provided a healthy alternative to the processed foods that people were eating.”

Dan nervously checked his appearance in the hall mirror and then knocked on the door of Elizabeth’s dorm apartment.
Inside the apartment, Elizabeth finished with her hair, stepped back to examine the effect, and told her roommate, “Well, it’ll just have to do, won’t it, because that’s Dan now. Will you get the door? Tell him I’ll be ready in a minute.”
A short time later, her roommate came back. “Wow! Where did you find him?”
“We are both on a stake Young Adult committee.”
“And you think he likes you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth smiled, “I think he does.”__________
“I hope I’m not too late,” Elizabeth said as she greeted Dan in the dorm living room.
“The way you look tonight,” Dan said, standing up to greet her, “I’d wait a long time just to catch a glimpse.” They walked to his car. “Have you ever heard of a restaurant called L’Epicure?”
“No.”
“It’s several miles from here, but it’s nice. French cuisine. I’m afraid I picked up the taste for European cooking on my mission. Are you interested?”
“It sounds fun,” she answered. “It also sounds like you’re a connoisseur of good food.”__________
As they drove to the restaurant, Dan turned on the radio for a minute to hear the score of the university football game. “Do you like football?” he asked.
“A little. I used to know a boy in high school who played. Were you on the football team in high school?”
“Yes,” he smiled, “for two days.”__________
“Did you go steady with your friend who played football?” Dan asked Elizabeth.
“No. At one time he said he was interested in me, but we never got along very well.”__________
“But my cousin says that you are a good athlete,” Elizabeth said to Dan.
“I play racquetball. I’ve been state champion three times. Since I wasn’t cut out to be a football player, I substituted racquetball.”
As he opened the car door for her outside the restaurant, she gave him a broad smile.__________
“Elizabeth, you have the most beautiful smile.”
The hostess showed Dan and Elizabeth to a table. Dan helped her be seated.__________
“Elizabeth, what would you like?”
“Everything looks good. Any suggestions?”
“May I suggest,” he said with a flourish, “La Suprême de Chapon Montmorency?”__________
“Elizabeth, what are you majoring in?”
Dan asked. “Computer science.”
“How did you ever decide on that?”
“To tell you the truth, I can’t remember. I know that I liked math in high school.”__________
“And what are you majoring in?” Elizabeth asked Dan.
“Business.”__________
“You’re from Minnesota?” Dan asked over salad. “Is that where you went to high school?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Just outside Minneapolis.”
“The great carefree happy days of high school,” Dan said with a laugh. “Was it that way for you?”
“No, often it was painful.”__________
They talked about high school over dessert.
“I never did feel very comfortable around girls,” Dan confided.
“And I was busy with my classes and other activities,” Elizabeth recalled, “but socially it was like I was watching my friends make bad choices. Eventually their choices caught up with them.”__________
“Did your friends in high school learn from their bad choices?” Dan asked Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid not.”__________
Dan paid the check and took Elizabeth’s arm as they left the restaurant. “Lisa, we can go to the movies like we planned, but there’s something else I’d rather do.”
“What’s that?”
“Take me to your computer,” he said with a metallic ring to his voice.
The remote computer terminal on campus looked more like a typewriter than a computer. Dan sat beside her as she turned it on.
“How do you address a computer?” he asked. “Hi, big fella?”
“That would work if it were programmed for that. For this one, a simple combination of numbers and letters will do.”
“Sounds sinister,” he said.
As she enthusiastically tried to teach him some computer games, he found himself just smiling, nodding his head, delighting in watching the features of her face.
“You really like this, don’t you?” he asked as they left the building.
“I really do. And your male ego isn’t threatened by a girl who enjoys computers?”
“No. Someday when I have a chain of stores all over the West, maybe I can get you to show me how to use a computer in business.”
“It’s a deal,” she answered. “Now, sir, it’s my turn. I want to learn how to play racquetball.”
“Now? The way we’re dressed?”
“Just show me where you play and explain the rules. Okay?”
Finding an empty court, they took off their shoes and entered the room. He explained the rules and strategy to her.
“Okay? I’ll serve.” Standing between the two painted lines in the room, he served an imaginary ball. In graceful slow motion, she returned his serve.
“Where’d it go?” he asked.
“It bounced off the wall an inch from the floor.”
“Wow!” he laughed. “Nice return.”
They played with the imaginary ball until they both collapsed side by side in laughter.
“Elizabeth, you know what?” Dan said while they were still sitting on the floor. “I feel terrific, just being with you. Everything is so natural. I don’t have to prove anything with you. I feel that I could tell you anything about my hopes and dreams, and even some of the dumb things I do, and you wouldn’t reject me.”
“I know. I feel the same way.”
“Let me tell you some deep secrets,” he said with a grin. “I love apples, and I use the ash tray of my car to store my apple cores.”
“I can take that,” she smiled. “Here’s one for you. About once a year I buy a can of pitted black olives, go in my room, put an olive on each finger, and pop them one by one in my mouth.”
“Here’s one,” he said. “Once I was asked not to sing in a youth conference chorus. You know, they always say we don’t care whether or not you can sing. Well, I volunteered and was told to just move my lips.”
“I know how to change the oil in a car,” she confessed.
“One of the most successful elders in our mission was Elder Reed. Once at a zone conference I got a chance to meet him. I really was excited. I walked up to him, stuck out my hand, and said, ‘Hi there, I’m Elder Reed.’ He looked at me strangely. I realized my mistake and then said, ‘No, wait. You’re Elder Reed.’ He looked at me like I was crazy and walked away.”
“I love to waltz,” she said.
“Teach me. Now.”
“Here?” she said, looking around at the empty racquetball court.
They waltzed in stocking feet to her songs and his regimental one, two, three, one, two, three.
On the way out, they decided to walk through the tunnel connecting the two buildings used for athletics.
“Have you ever heard the legend of this tunnel?” he kidded as they walked down the long hall.
“When a couple who are going to become very good friends walks down this hall, legend says they hear an echo.”
“Really?” she giggled.
“Dan and Elizabeth are falling in like!” he yelled. An echo returned his voice. “See that?” he asked. “It’s the legend of the tunnel.”
“Falling in like?” she asked.
“Sure, it’s one step before falling in love.”
They ambled down the long hall, holding hands, talking happily, the echoes of their voices, and their past, returning again and again back to them.

Third, we can come to know the Lord and trust Him as we serve others. I share the following story with permission from Amy Wright, who came to understand the principle of serving even amid a terrifying and life-threatening illness. Amy wrote:
“On October 29, 2015, I found out I had cancer. My cancer has a 17 percent survival rate. The odds weren’t good. I knew that I would be in for the fight of my life. I was determined to give it everything I had not just for myself but, more important, for my family. In December, I began chemo. I was familiar with many of the side effects of cancer-fighting drugs, but I did not know that it was possible for someone to be so sick and still be alive.
“At one point, I declared chemotherapy a human rights violation. I told my husband that I was done. I quit! I was not going back to the hospital. In his wisdom, my sweetheart patiently listened and then responded, ‘Well, then we need to find someone to serve.’”
What? Did he miss the fact that his wife had cancer and couldn’t take one more bout of nausea or one more moment of excruciating pain?
Amy goes on to explain: “My symptoms gradually worsened to where I generally had one or two ‘OK’ days a month [when] I could somewhat function as a living, breathing human being. It was those days when our family would find ways to serve.”
On one of those days, Amy’s family distributed chemo comfort kits to other patients, kits filled with items to cheer and to help relieve symptoms. When Amy couldn’t sleep, she would think of ways to brighten someone else’s day. Some ways were big, but many were just small notes or text messages of encouragement and love. On those nights when her pain was too great to sleep, she would lie in bed with her iPad and search for ordinances that needed to be completed on behalf of her deceased ancestors. Miraculously the pain would subside, and she was able to endure.
“Service,” Amy testifies, “saved my life. Where I ultimately found my strength to keep moving forward was the happiness I discovered in trying to relieve the suffering of those around me. I looked forward to our service projects with great joy and anticipation. Still to this day it seems like such a strange paradox. You would think that someone who was bald, poisoned, and fighting for [her] life was justified in thinking that ‘right now it is all about me.’ However, when I thought about myself, my situation, my suffering and pain, the world became very dark and depressing. When my focus turned to others, there was light, hope, strength, courage, and joy. I know that this is possible because of the sustaining, healing, and enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”
Amy came to trust in the Lord as she came to know Him. If she had leaned even a little to her own understanding, she might have rejected the idea that she serve. Service enabled her to withstand her pain and afflictions and to live this scripture: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”6

As a boy, he had been one of those little children, so common in Korea, who follow the missionaries everywhere. The elders lived near Daeyoon’s home in Chinhae, so he would pester them for conversation, treats, games, any kind of fun. They were always patient and kind, so he came to like them. After a while, he started following them to church. When he was twelve, some missionaries taught him the discussions, and he was baptized. Because of the recurring warmth and loving attitude of the elders, he continued to be active in the Church.

When I was a boy growing up in Denmark, my friends and I liked to play tag. But one day we grew tired of playing the same old game, so we sat down and tried to think of something new and exciting to do.
“Let’s go to the harbor,” one friend suggested. “We can look at the boats and watch the fishermen.”
We all liked that idea, so we hopped on our bikes. Sure enough, there was a lot more action there! Sailors washed their boats while other fishermen cleaned and sold fish. Until the fish were sold, they were kept alive in well boxes—floating crates with small holes to allow water to flow in and out. The boxes bobbed between the boats and bumped into each other as the waves rushed in.
It wasn’t long before we were bored of just watching.
“Let’s play tag,” a friend suggested.
“Again?” another boy groaned.
My friend pointed to the well boxes with a sly grin. “Out there.”
Soon we were all leaping from box to box, which was much more exciting than playing tag at home. The slippery boxes jostled with each incoming wave. One time I fell off and landed with a splash. Sputtering seawater, I pulled myself back onto a crate and leaped onto another one. My foot broke right through it! Fish nibbled at my toes. It tickled, and I shrieked in laughter.
“Hey, you boys!” a gruff voice called. I looked up to see an angry fisherman coming toward us. “Get away from those well boxes before you break them. If you don’t get out of here, I’ll tell your parents!”
We scrambled back to shore, took off our wet socks and tied them to our bicycle handlebars, and took off. Our clothes dried in the wind as we pedaled home.
My clothes may have dried, but the smell of fish gave me away. When I walked in the door, Mother took one sniff and asked what had happened.
“I went to the harbor with my friends. I was playing on a well box, and I slipped and fell in the water,” I admitted.
To my surprise, Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Jens, you must never play there again. Think of what could have happened! You could have been hurt or even drowned.” She hugged me tight. “I would be so sad, Jens. What would I do without you? You must promise never to play there again.” I gave Mother my word.
But a few weeks later, my friends came over and invited me to go with them to the harbor. Remembering the fun we’d had last time, I got on my bike and followed them. I forgot all about the promise I had made to my mother.
“You’re it!” A friend tagged me and jumped onto a bobbing well box.
I was about to chase him when suddenly I saw my mother’s face, just as if she were right in front of me, her eyes filled with tears. My heart stopped. I had broken my promise!
“I have to go home now,” I called to my friends.
“What?” one of them whined. “Why? We just got here.”
“I have to go home,” I repeated, climbing onto my bike.
My friends complained and tried to coax me into staying, but I wouldn’t listen. One by one, they all headed for home, too.
I put my bike away as quietly as possible and went to my room. I felt sick with shame that I had gone where I had promised Mother I would not go.
After a while Mother came into my room. “I can tell something is bothering you, Jens. What’s wrong?”
Lowering my head, I said quietly, “I went to the harbor with my friends today. I forgot that I had promised you I wouldn’t. But as soon as I got there, I remembered. I came right home. So did my friends. Mother, I’m sorry I forgot!”
When I looked up, Mother was beaming. “Jens! I’m so happy you remembered. Because you did, you set an example for your friends and none of you were hurt.”
A while later she brought me a glass of milk and a piece of freshly baked cake. Mother made the best cake in the whole world. I was grateful for the warm treat—but more grateful for the warmth of remembering to do right.

Consider the power to love. I remember a mother I met once as I made a professional house call. This woman was confined in an iron lung. The ravages of polio had effectively destroyed all the breathing muscles so that her life was completely dependent upon this large metal tank and the electrical motor that powered its noisy bellows.
While there, I watched her three children as they related to their mother. The oldest interrupted our work to ask permission to go to a friend’s house for an hour. Later the second child asked her mother for help with arithmetic. Finally the youngest child, so small that she couldn’t see her mother’s face directly, looked up at her image in a mirror that had been placed over the mother’s head and asked, “Mommy, may I have a cookie?” I’ve never forgotten that lesson on the power of love. This woman, virtually disabled and certainly incapable of any degree of physical enforcement of parental authority, sweetly influenced that home solely with the power to love!

President Grant was also known for his willingness to work on areas of his life where he felt he needed improvement. His example teaches us that in addition to developing the natural talents that are ours we can even strive to make progress in those areas where we don’t seem to be over-laden with talent.

There is a familiar story from his life when he determined he would learn how to sing. He was apparently not gifted in singing but practiced and practiced until he could sing some hymns. He tells of one instance when he was traveling with two other apostles.

Upon my recent trip to Arizona, I asked Elders Rudger Clawson and J. Golden Kimball if they had any objections to my singing one hundred hymns that day. They took it as a joke, and assured me that they would be delighted. We were on the way from Holbrook to St. Johns, a distance of about sixty miles. After I had sung about forty times, they assured me that if I sang the remaining sixty they would be sure to have nervous prostration. I paid no attention whatever to their appeal, but held them to their bargain and sang the full one hundred. One hundred and fifteen songs in one day and four hundred in four days, is the largest amount of practicing I ever did.[9]

President Grant eventually was able to sing some hymns, but never got good enough that he would have been invited to sing in the tabernacle choir. We too can make progress in areas where we don’t have much natural ability.