Gospel Story Finder

The following story is shared with permission. In the year 2001, the same year Ricks College became BYU-Idaho, terrorist attacks were made in New York City at the World Trade Center and in Washington, D.C., at the Pentagon. 9/11 was a staggering day. Those in the administration building watched events unfold as we gathered around the television in the Public Relations Office. The destruction and devastation seemed surreal and yet distant from our safe Idaho locale—that is, until the next morning. As I got to work, I was greeted by a worried co-worker, “Have you heard from the Howells? They can’t find Brady.” Ken Howell was our former director of public relations. He had retired and was just returning from serving a mission with his wife, Jeanette. Their son Brady was an intern and civil officer for the Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C., assigned to work in the Pentagon.

Soon others became aware of the situation and reached out to me as well. People on campus recognized as Ken’s assistant for some ten years, I had developed a sense of family with all of the Howells. I had even helped Brady with a mail merge for his and Liz’s wedding invitations. As he hand-fed envelopes into the printer, we talked about his ambitions, his love for Liz, their upcoming temple wedding, and the great future they would have together.

Assigned by then-President David A. Bednar and in behalf of the university, I was able to make contact with Ken; and he confirmed Brady was listed as “unaccounted for.” All flights were grounded, and they were not sure how to get to D.C. to be with Liz. Ken asked if I would field all calls and be their family spokesman so they could focus on their immediate situation.

How could I have known the emergency public information course Ken had encouraged me to take some three years prior would now play such a significant role? I hope you are considering how each element of education and training you are accumulating along with the rapport you are building with others may contribute to unfolding events in your future.

I felt the Lord’s strengthening hand through the next week as I fielded calls and made lists to report to the Howells of the growing concern expressed from friends and neighbors, the media, government officials, and Church leaders both locally and from headquarters in Salt Lake City. The uncertainty lingered on. Nearly a week later, it seemed a tender mercy when the first Pentagon victim identified was Brady, a verification made possible by his temple recommend.

Blessed power, peace, and comfort can come even in times of great turmoil. I personally witnessed a grieving family at a time of national upheaval and fears; and yet their response was calm, controlled, and with a gospel-centered perspective. As Brady’s plight became evident, one of his brothers who knew his eternally positive personality best commented something like this: “You know there are about 3,000 people whose lives were changed in an instant and who are probably pretty confused by it all. I can just see Brady enthusiastically waving them forward toward the pearly gates saying, ‘Come on, I’ll show you the way!’” What a reassuring outlook of eternal life with ongoing purpose!

A year later, Ken wrote, “I’ve learned I can’t do all things alone. I have to get together with those around me, those with whom I share love and confidence, and sometimes those I haven’t known before and say, ‘Together we can do this,’ and we do. . . . I have learned that people without belief are often people without hope. God, family, and a caring community is the balm that heals our wounds.”

In the October 1988 general conference, Sister Grassli, the Primary general president, reported: “Nine-year-old Matt spoke in church about something he had learned from the scriptures that brought him peace. He said, ‘When my father told our family that we would be moving from Denver to Wisconsin, my mother reminded us of Lehi’s family. Like them, I was leaving the only home I had known, all my friends, my school, my ward. Luckily we were able to bring all our possessions with us, though they were in storage for three months and we missed having a house and our “precious things.”

“‘My mother reminded us of how Nephi accepted this challenge—willingly—knowing that the Lord would “prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them.” (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)

“‘I have learned that I can do without things, but not without my family. My brothers and sisters and I have tried to be more like Nephi than his complaining brothers. I am grateful for the things that the Book of Mormon teaches us.’”

Matt was comforted by the story of Lehi’s family from the Book of Mormon. As you read or listen to stories from the scriptures, which stories bring you peace?

Let me share with you an experience that taught me this lesson very well. My mission call was originally to Brazil. When I arrived at the old LTM in Provo, I was the only sister who would be learning Portuguese. The biggest problem was studying the language. The rules forbade elders studying with sisters and I didn't see how I was ever going to learn to speak Portuguese if I couldn't practice with someone. Finally, as a compromise, I was allowed to study with an elder if we sat in the cafeteria. Generally though, I spent much of my study time alone. One day I was studying the discussion about the Savior's role as Creator and Redeemer. I was alone with my thoughts and with the truths of the lesson. In that tiny classroom I had one of the most significant testimony building experiences of my life. The sweetness of redemption and the love of the Savior filled my heart and I felt his encouragement.

Because we were unable to get visas to travel to Brazil, my district was sent to the New York City Mission. When we arrived the mission president told me that I was creating severe problems for him because he now had an uneven number of sisters and no apartments in the mission would accommodate three sisters. After a few days of pondering, however, he sent me to Manchester, Connecticut.

It wasn't long after arriving in Manchester that I met Jane, a young woman who was investigating the Church. Unfortunately I had replaced her favorite sister. She even wrote to the mission president about having me exchanged for her favorite sister but the mission president denied her request. One night Jane had come to our apartment for a lesson. It just happened to be that lesson on Jesus Christ, the Creator and Redeemer. From the minute we started the lesson something was wrong. Jane was acting flippant, almost rude. She wouldn't answer questions except with silly or inane answers. I tried to be patient, but finally, I could stand the mockery no longer. I slammed the flip chart shut and said, "this is too important to me to continue with you acting this way. Either cut the smart stuff and listen or get out."

Jane accepted my gentle invitation and got out. We didn't see her for days. My companions were sure that I had offended our golden contact and driven her from the Church. I was almost sure I had. It was gloomy. I wondered why the Lord had called me to Brazil, sent me through an intensive language course, just so that I could go to Connecticut and offend people in English.

After what seemed forever, but I think was really only about two weeks, Jane called and invited us to her home for a slide show. We arrived somewhat wary but Jane launched into a history of her family vacations. Jane's travelogue covered most of the eastern seaboard and then headed west. Suddenly, a slide of Temple Square in Salt Lake City flashed onto the wall. Jane said, "This is Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, the headquarters of the Church I want to join."

We were amazed and thrilled. Jane was baptized and two months later I was reassigned to the Phillippines, the Church having given up on getting me a visa to Brazil. Jane served a mission in Arizona a few months later. After her mission she called me. She said that on that night I had told her to listen or get out she had made up her mind to try an experiment before she came to the discussion. She had read the Book of Mormon completely and knew it was true. She knew what we were teaching her was true. But, she said, "I didn't know if it was important." She decided to test us by being obnoxious. She told herself that she would know whether the truth was important by how we responded to her rude behavior. She then told me that she knew that the sister I replaced would probably have been so afraid of hurting her feelings that she would have let her be rude all night. She then said, "you made me know how important the gospel was and the reason I had to get out of the room was that I knew I had to make a life-changing decision."

Did I waste my time in the LTM learning a language I never used? Were my three months in the New York City mission a waste? Maybe if I were to use the world's measures the answers would be yes. How inefficient to study a language I would never use. How ridiculous to send me to Connecticut in a frozen winter dressed in my tropical Brazilian wardrobe when the Church could have just sent me straight from the LTM to the Philippines instead. But, if measured by what the Lord considered to be important for my learning and growth and for Jane's learning and growth, every experience I had better prepared me to be the Lord's instrument. Would he do all that for one soul? Or two souls? Yes, I believe he did.

They also enjoy playing music together. Naomi plays the drums, and Natascha plays the fife. They practice playing musical instruments with bands of children, or cliquen, all year long and then perform in February. That’s when Swiss people celebrate carnival for three days, symbolically scaring away winter and welcoming spring. Natascha and Naomi wear costumes and parade through the streets of Basel playing their music.

While I was growing up, my father was a very busy man because he had a demanding job as a truck driver for construction projects. But he always took time for me. When I was in high school, my father would ask my five sisters when he came home from work, “Where is Benjamín?”

My sisters would come to me and say, “Father wants you.”

I would leave playing with my friends and run to ask him, “What do you need, Father?”

He would say, “Bring your scriptures, and come with me.”

Two or three times a week we would read the scriptures together like that. He was a master teacher of the scriptures. At that time we did not have seminary in Mexico. Now I think of those study sessions as my own seminary class with my father as the teacher.

While reading the scriptures and hearing my father explain them to me, I learned for myself what the Spirit feels like in my heart and in my mind. Many times the Spirit was very strong as he would explain the scriptures.

These kinds of experiences with my father were the beginning of my own testimony of Heavenly Father and the Church. I always thought that the Church was true, but just thinking so was not enough. My father took my hand and put it on the iron rod. His manner of taking care of me was the key for my testimony and my inner security in the gospel.

During those meetings, not only did I learn many things from him about the scriptures, but I learned that my father loved me in a way that I couldn’t quite understand at the time. Many other times he would invite me to a movie or to eat, and I know that I was protected by my father’s care for me. Now I am a father, and I know that he loved me in a special way.

When President Thomas S. Monson was about 14, he loved raising pigeons. He captured them and kept them in a loft built from scrap lumber. Tom held the Aaronic Priesthood, and Harold Watson was the adviser of Tom’s priesthood quorum. Brother Watson raised pigeons too, but his were beautiful, expensive Birmingham roller pigeons that somersaulted through the air.
One day Brother Watson offered Tom a pair of Birmingham rollers. The female was a small pigeon that had lost an eye to a cat. “Keep your two pigeons inside for about 10 days,” Brother Watson said, “and then release them to see if they will remain at your house.”
Tom was thrilled. He followed the instructions. After a little more than a week, he released the pigeons. The male strutted about the roof of Tom’s pigeon loft and then ducked back inside to eat. But the female flew off immediately. Tom called Brother Watson to see if she had flown back to his loft.
“Come over and we’ll have a look,” Brother Watson said.
As the two walked to the loft, Brother Watson said, “Tom, you’re the president of the teachers quorum. What are you doing to help Bob come to church?”
“I’ll have him at our quorum meeting this week,” Tom answered.
They found the one-eyed pigeon. “Keep her for a few days,” Brother Watson said as he handed her to Tom. “Then try again.”
The same thing happened the next week. Again, Tom went to Brother Watson’s house. “Good job getting Bob to priesthood meeting,” Brother Watson said as they searched for the pigeon. “Now what are you going to do to help Bill come to church?”
Each week the pigeon flew back to Brother Watson’s house, and each week Brother Watson asked Tom about members of the quorum who weren’t attending church.
When President Monson grew up, he realized that Brother Watson was teaching him something more important than how to take care of pigeons. He was teaching him how to watch out for others and serve the Lord.

I would like to share an example from my life where righteous persistence yielded eternal blessings and happiness.

I met my best friend in high school. He was agnostic and I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Despite these differences, we respected each other’s beliefs and personal journeys. On my mission during COVID, I began formally teaching him the gospel. The adversary knew the righteous path my friend was on and put great effort into misdirecting him. This led to delays, confusion, and hesitation towards learning. I pleaded with the Lord to help my best friend build a relationship with God like he wanted.

After returning home, I encouraged him to talk to the missionaries, and continue reading the Book of Mormon and attending church. 18 months after I came home, my best friend was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. I’m grateful that I didn’t give up on my friend, just as Christ never gave up on me.

But the blessings didn’t stop with his baptism. I enjoyed further blessings one week ago today when I participated in proxy temple baptisms with my best friend. He was able to perform the baptisms. The reward of seeing him enjoy the eternal blessings of the temple and the priesthood overcame any difficulty we faced in the previous years.

In our family, Dad works hard. He works a full-time job, devotes many hours to his Church calling, makes repairs around the house, fixes the car, changes diapers, and is involved in a multitude of other activities. But does Dad ever have time to play?
When Dad comes home from work, the children exclaim, “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!” He comes in, hugs the children, and kisses his wife, but too often he sits down in his chair and is too tired to get up again. When we found that Dad’s busy schedule was allowing him less and less time and energy for family activities, we brainstormed ways to work around the problem. The following suggestions help our family stay close to Dad. Some ideas may apply to single-parent families, too.
Take time with each child. In our home it is always easier to promise to do something later than to do it right now. So instead of making and breaking a promise to play later, Dad schedules time every week to be with each of the children. That way, even if something comes up to change plans to play, the children don’t miss out on time with Dad. If a call comes from the elders quorum asking for help in moving a new family into the ward, Dad simply takes a child along with him. It may not be playing, but it can still be fun. They might stop on the way and have a doughnut and hot chocolate. When the time comes to take a break, they might go to a nearby park and have a picnic. Whether it’s work or play, just being with Dad is a treat in itself.
Cut down on television time. We found that even though watching television is relaxing, it doesn’t give us quality time as a family. We decided not to watch television between the time Dad comes home from work and when the children go to bed. After we got used to having the television off, we were surprised at how much interaction we had as a family. We began communicating and feel closer to each other than we used to.
Plan surprise activities. If Dad comes home from work tired and worn out, falls into his chair, and doesn’t get up until dinner, we know it’s time to plan another surprise activity. We love to kidnap Dad when he leaves from work or steps out of the car at home and take him on a family outing. Our activity might be as simple as going to a park for a picnic dinner. Sometimes we make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, throw in a bag of chips, kidnap Dad, and drive to a local point of interest. Even though they aren’t elaborate, our activities are always fun and spontaneous—and Dad loves being the center of everyone’s kidnapping scheme.
Take time in the daytime. Some dads might work at night or have schedule obligations that make it hard to be with the family in the evening. If this is the case, Dad could spend time with the children in the daytime. After arranging with the child’s school, Dad could take one of the children to lunch. On a school holiday perhaps a child can spend some time with Dad at work so that when Dad needs to rest or have some time alone at home, the children will understand better why people get tired from working all day.
No matter what Dad does in his work, in his Church calling, or in his spare time, being a dad is a full-time job. By creatively planning ways to spend time together as a family, and by Dad’s scheduling time with individual members of the family, we have come to know each other better. And because we often sacrifice to be together, we have learned to love and appreciate each other more.

As the sun rose one June morning, a couple started their day with a prayer of thanksgiving. This day they were witnessing the answer to 13 years of earnest prayer. Their 27-year-old son and his wife had worked with loving bishops to put their lives in order so they might be worthy to enter the temple. That morning they would be sealed for all eternity.

This grateful mother reflects: “The joy we felt was unspeakable. As we sat in the temple with our son and his sweet companion, my mind was taken back to the time when this boy was 14 and began making choices that drew him away from the guidance of the Spirit. The time came when we needed extra help from a loving Heavenly Father.

“Attending the temple had always been important to us, and we felt prompted to pray for our son in this holy place. Each time we attended the temple, we placed our son’s name on the prayer roll.

“We wanted our prayers to be answered today—or tomorrow at the latest. But years passed, and our son remained less active. We were not left without hope, however. We often felt the comforting influence of the Holy Ghost. One evening while my husband and I were praying in the temple, the Spirit let us know unmistakably that our son was being watched over and that he would eventually repent and return to Church activity. We were also taught that we must never give up and never stop loving him. Our faith was strengthened, and a great peace settled into our hearts.

“And then came that sacred day when our prayers were answered.”

The antique mower just wouldn’t get the edges on that patch between the cracked, roller-coaster sidewalk and the curb. The blades kept catching on the walkway to Aunt Ella’s house. All in all, I guess it did do a pretty good job, and it made the neatest noise when I pushed it. But I always had to make two passes on the driveway between the wheel tracks.
I checked my handiwork. Not too bad for 50¢. I had taken extra care around the rhodo-whatever-it-was, and I hadn’t even knocked one bloom off the ferny “jungle path” to the backyard. I liked the jungle path; it looked like every plant in the world must be back there. It was cool and misty on hot summer days playing hide-and-seek with birds, snails, and my cousins—a dark green Africa.
Aunt Ella’s garage was all of wood. Separate from the house and ever dark, it seemed to sit and brood. It kind of scared me to put the mower away. I never put the mower in the back, always right next to the pale, pink Studebaker, warily regarding the gray-on-brown-on-rust monsters that lay deeper in the tomb.
Those pesty bees about stung me every time I walked around the bottlebrush plant to get to the back door. The jungle slowly encroached upon all mobile things there. I always wondered how Aunt Ella could keep out of its clutches while she filled her bird feeder and cracked nuts on the dirty, pink tablecloth. Why, she was already 83!
The back door creaked as usual when I went into the porch. The washboard in the sink was really starting to rust. An old ladder led to the attic, where jars of apricot jam were stored. I sometimes climbed up there to check for gold and treasure.
I liked the white porcelain handles on the sink in Aunt Ella’s kitchen (even if they were a little loose) and the deep basin. When I would get the blue porcelain plates out of the cupboard, I had to be careful because the latch didn’t work very well. But what could you expect from old wood? Aunt Ella’s fridge was the only round, white one that I’ve ever seen. At least you never hurt yourself if you bumped into it. Her bathtub had feet on it, but they looked like witch’s claws.
Aunt Ella always sat in her rocker and let me eat all the hot chocolate chip cookies I wanted. I usually wandered by the perpetually black TV set, looked at all the pictures of people I had never known on the mantle, played with her black phone with the frayed cord, and tried to catch the two little birds that zipped around free in the house. I would finally plop down in the purplish pink, overstuffed chair next to the brass lamp with the fringe on it. It tipped over easy, so I had to be careful.
I made dust clouds from the chair’s arm while listening to Aunt Ella talk and waiting for Mom to pick me up. When I heard the beep I didn’t even remind her that she forgot to pay me. I said, “Bye, Aunt Ella!” opened the creaky screen door, jumped all five steps at once, hopped in the car, and waved to Aunt Ella on her dingy white and gray porch.
Later on, Mom said that Aunt Ella was getting pretty bad. I didn’t cry at her funeral, not even out of duty as I passed her open coffin.
The other day I drove by her house. The lawn was clipped to perfection, the rhododendron was gone, and the jungle path just wasn’t there. A new car was parked in the driveway, and on the porch the fancy screen door glinted in the dusky light.
Then, I cried.

Just before my ordination to the office of a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, an important event transpired in our family. Early one evening Dad received a telephone call. At the conclusion of the call, he privately visited with my mother. She immediately began to tidy up the house, a sure sign we were going to have visitors. In a short while three well-dressed gentlemen knocked at our front door. Before we could tell who the callers were, mother whisked us to the rear of the house and shut the doors to the living room. After a few minutes of discussion with the men, Dad came and asked Mother to join them in the living room. Mom’s departure allowed me the opportunity to go into the kitchen and sit on the floor with my ear next to the living room door to hear what was being said in the next room. It was soon apparent that my dad was receiving a call to serve as the bishop of our ward. What a shock to a prospective deacon!

Sarah sat in her room playing with her dolls. She was changing them into their best clothes for a Christmas party she was hosting. Everyone was invited: Mr. Snuggles, the teddy bear; Chocolate and Caramel, the raccoon twins; Lady Juniper, the ladybug; and many of their friends.
As Sarah began to introduce her guests to each other, Mom walked into the room.
“Sarah, Dad and I were talking about what service we could do this Christmas. We thought we could give gifts to the children’s home down the road.”
“OK,” Sarah said.
“We were wondering if you would like to donate some of your toys,” Mom said. “I know that it would mean a lot to the children. They probably won’t be getting many new toys for Christmas.”
“But I don’t want to get rid of my toys! I love them all!” Sarah said.
“What about this stuffed cow?” Mom asked.
“Not Moo-Moo!”
“I’ve never seen you play with her. Are you sure you want to keep her?”
“What if I decide I want to play with her after I give her away? Then I won’t have her anymore!” Sarah said.
“The purpose of serving is to think about the needs of others before yourself,” Mom said. “When you make a sacrifice to help someone else, you are becoming more like Jesus Christ.”
“I am?” Sarah asked. “How?”
“What did Jesus do when He was on the earth?”
“He helped people.”
“Right! He spent His life serving others,” Mom said.
“So if I give away something important to me to help others, I am being like Jesus?” Sarah asked.
“Exactly,” Mom said.
Sarah knew Mom was right, but she was still a little nervous about giving up Moo-Moo.
That weekend, Sarah and Mom and Dad went to the children’s home with a big bag of gifts. As the children opened their presents, their smiles grew bigger and bigger.
One little girl picked up a box wrapped in shiny red paper. Sarah watched as the girl carefully unwrapped the present. Inside the box was the stuffed cow.
“Her name is Moo-Moo,” Sarah said to the girl. “And she loves parties.”
A smile spread across the face of the little girl. She hugged Moo-Moo tight and looked up at Sarah. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ve never had my own stuffed animal before.” The girl skipped away with her new toy.
Sarah felt happy. She imagined Jesus must have felt happy too when He helped people.
“I want to come back next Christmas,” Sarah said as she and her parents left the children’s home. “I think I have more toys I can give away next year.”

“We had a General Authority, Joseph Anderson, who lived longer than any other General Authority in the Church. He lived to be 102 years of age. He served as private secretary to President Heber J. Grant for many years. President Grant had a stroke and became very seriously ill, and Joseph Anderson went up to see him at night, and the President said to Joseph, ‘Joseph, have I ever been unkind to you?’ And Joseph said, ‘No, President Grant, you have never been unkind to me.’ And the President, with tears rolling down his face, said, ‘Joseph, I am grateful if I have never been unkind to you.’ He died the next day. But what a marvelous thing that a man who had worked with him for so very many years could say that the man who directed his efforts had never been unkind to him.”9

Our mission president had been admonishing the missionaries in the Ghana Accra Mission to “stay focused.” He was famous for using this phrase. At one of our zone conferences, he suggested ways we could do this, and a key point in his list was having a favorite hymn.
He told us to select a favorite hymn, memorize it, and sing it at times we may be tempted or down. This statement echoed in my memory throughout the day.
I was homesick. Nobody in my family had written to me recently, and I felt depressed. I had been less focused. This was the moment I needed to select a hymn to uplift my spirit. I was familiar with many hymns in our green hymnbook, but which did I love the most?
That night, I took an old hymnbook and flipped through the dog-eared pages, searching for a hymn that had a comforting meaning to me. Immediately, I had an idea. Elder Sheldon F. Child of the Seventy, then Africa West Area President, had visited our group in the missionary training center and spoken about the Atonement. He concluded, “If all you young missionaries understood the Atonement of our Lord Jesus Christ, there would be no need of mission rules.”
That was the kind of hymn I needed. I was no longer confused. If I had a hymn about the Atonement, I would feel the love of my Savior, be comforted, and stay focused on what He wants me to do.
I finally chose hymn number 136, “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.”
Today I am grateful to my mission president for his wise counsel. Now I have a favorite hymn memorized, which I ponder always and remember to sing in times of depression, trials, and difficulties. “I know that my Redeemer lives. What comfort this sweet sentence gives. … He lives to bless in time of need.”

I have discovered a profound and noteworthy fact. When girls hit high school age, fathers often hit bottom on daughters’ priority lists. It’s not that we stop loving our fathers; it’s that we have more important male individuals on our minds. Unfortunately, dad is sometimes forgotten for a while.
I was no exception to this phenomenon. During my senior year of high school, I met, dated, and was totally devoted to Mr. Wonderful. We attended most of the dances and other major school events together. But the summer after we graduated, Mike hit me with speech number 36. You know, the one that goes something like “We should date other people more often, but we can still be friends.”
I suppose this was Mike’s way of cutting the ties that bind and branching out a bit. After all, Mr. Wonderful should not hide his light under a bushel. He simply must sacrifice and share his wonderfulness with others. I know I sound bitter, but you see, the decision to part was one-sided (his), and the breakup shattered my little world. I cried my eyes into red puffiness.
Now parents are very perceptive people. Somehow they saw right through my heroic effort to carry on. (Maybe my chin dragging on the ground gave me away.)
“Is there anything wrong, dear?”
“No,” was my typical teenage answer.
Teenagers usually say no. They could be wounded and near death, and when you ask if anything is wrong, they will say no. Persistently and patiently, my parents got to the root of the problem.
They were reassuring and loving as they expressed their regret. Looking back now, I realize they were probably very happy, but they had the good sense to act woeful. My mother said something about these things happening to almost everyone at some time in their lives. She also said I would live through it. Dad added the old favorite, “Time heals all wounds.”
Now I knew all of this. I had said the same thing to girlfriends going through this same tragedy. But none of that lessens the pain at the time.
I went to work the next day feeling tired and dejected, and I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care. And every time the telephone rang, I pounced on it, hoping it would be Mike.
Around two that afternoon, a man in a uniform came up to the desk where I was working.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“Are you Carol?” he said as he thumped a bouquet of beautiful flowers on the desk.
Oh, Mike, you’ve come to your senses, I thought as I grabbed the enclosed card and ripped it open.
“Can I be your new friend? Love, Dad.”
I will never forget the effect those simple words had on me. Each time I read that card, I felt love. My heart was full with the knowledge that my father loved me. He laughed and cried, hurt and rejoiced right along with me. He was concerned and interested in my life. But I had been too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of my high school existence to include him, and that was my loss. My father climbed to the top of my priority list that day.

During the next year, however, the Lord was able to teach me how to keep the spirit of Christmas. We served among a humble group of people living in nearly abandoned milling towns scattered along small rivers. And we loved serving among these people immensely.
We decided to share our Christmas with an investigator, Alice, and her family. Alice supported her three teenage boys, a daughter, and a granddaughter all with her income working at a fast food place. Needless to say, her budget was tight. So instead of focusing on ourselves at Christmas, we decided to serve someone else.
My companion at the time, Elder Werner, felt there were basically two things that would bring joy into the world: the gospel and good food. When we showed up on Christmas morning to cook a simple breakfast, we were hailed like Old Saint Nick himself. Her extended family was there, and everyone was laughing, joking around, and wanting to help us cook. Since our families were allowed to call on Christmas, Alice and my mom were able to talk on the phone together. Watching her speak with my family was far more of a gift than the three meals I participated in the year before. It connected someone I was serving to my family and helped my family share my mission with me. The morning was filled with a feeling of familiarity that was almost tangible. I knew I was where I was supposed to be.
During that morning, I came to appreciate the true spirit of Christmas. And it has everything to do with the example of our Savior and the teachings of the gospel. The excitement wasn’t about us as missionaries; it wasn’t even about our gesture of making breakfast. That morning was about sons and daughters of God simply sharing with one another. I wasn’t given a feast of food, but my soul was full of joy.

I am sure that the skills and discipline and soul-power that result from overcoming the challenge of material shortages open the door for extraordinary blessings. I offer one small personal example. As poor graduate students in Chicago, my wife and I did not have the resources to telephone home, except for very short calls on special holidays. We had to keep in touch by long, weekly letters, which each of us typed to both sets of parents each week. The composition of those letters developed writing skills that have blessed each of our lives for the ensuing forty-some years. We would have been deprived of a blessing of significant growth if we could have simply picked up the telephone and communicated in the almost effortless and sometimes almost thoughtless way that would have been available if we had had more money. I am an advocate of letters among loved ones, and my preference has been reinforced as I have written family histories and rejoiced in the details of loved one’s lives that have been preserved in writing rather than lost on some electronic highway.

Football season was over, but the glory lingered on. The high school team had enjoyed an undefeated season, romping over each opponent by at least two touchdowns.
Even after the season ended, the team stuck together. Some of them ate lunch on the balcony that overlooked the main dining area of the school cafeteria. Originally the tables on the balcony had been used by teachers so they could eat and still keep an eye on the students, but with a new addition to the building, the teachers moved into a faculty lounge, and the tables became available. There was no official reservation for the team to sit there, but it was just something understood by other students.
Kevin, a sophomore, was the only Mormon on the team. He wasn’t as mean as some of the others, but he was faster. He played end and had caught eight touchdown passes during the season.
It had taken the team a while before they could accept him. After the season was over, they couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t drink with them on weekends. To make matters worse, he was the only one who worried about grades.
One day in January, as Kevin set his food tray on the table, the quarterback, Craig Williams, stood looking at the students eating lunch in the main dining area below them.
“Why are there so many ugly girls?” Craig asked.
“Look who’s talking,” someone shot back. “You’ve got a face like a Halloween mask.”
“Well, that’s different,” Craig said with a grin, “I’ve got character and style. Besides, guys don’t have to be good-looking, but girls are supposed to.”
Kevin sat down and ate his lunch.
“Now you take that girl, for instance,” Craig continued. “I bet she’s the ugliest girl in school.”
The fullback, who loved competition, rose to the challenge. “You’re crazy. I see one who’s twice as bad as yours.”
The competition continued as Kevin ate. Five of the team stood by the railing and bantered back and forth over their choices for the ugliest girl.
Finally they decided on one girl.
“If ugly were money, she’d be a millionaire,” one of them said with a grin.
“She’s easily the world champion,” Craig agreed. “She deserves a trophy or something.”
“How about a sweater with no opening for her neck so it’d hide her face?” someone joked.
“No,” Craig laughed, “but why not give her an award? Maybe a corsage with a card telling her what we think about her. We could leave it taped on the outside of her locker. It’d be anonymous.”
They all agreed it would be the perfect thing to do.
“Kevin, you’re a scholar. Write us a poem for the award.”
“What kind of poem?” he asked, finishing his custard pudding.
“A poem telling her how ugly she is,” Craig answered.
Kevin took a napkin from his tray and began to work on a rhyme. He enjoyed the feeling of being part of the group. In a few minutes he finished and read it aloud.
“When we speak of ugly, you’re the subject of talk.
You’ve got a face that could stop a clock.
Accept this gift for what it’s worth;
We think you’re the ugliest girl on earth.”
They broke up into spasms of laughter.
“All right!” Craig shouted, still laughing.
“It’s perfect! Let’s all chip in some money, and I’ll get a corsage on Saturday. We’ll give it to her Monday.”
“Who’s going to give it to her?” someone asked.
“Does anybody know who she is or where her locker is?” Craig asked.
Kevin stood up to see who they were talking about. The girl sat alone, eating quickly, with her head lowered. He recognized her. She had a locker next to Colleen, an LDS girl he was dating.
“I do,” Kevin said.
“Okay, you can deliver it. I’ll get the corsage to you Monday in history class. You put your poem with it and tape it to the outside of her locker just before the bell rings.”
After school Kevin drove Colleen home. She was one of five other LDS students in the high school.
When they got to her home, she invited him in for some cookies and milk.
“What’s the name of the girl who has a locker next to yours?” he asked between bites of a chocolate-chip cookie.
“That’s Mary Beth Allen. Why?”
“She’s really awful, isn’t she?”
“Is she? Do you know her?”
“No, I’ve just seen her around. She’s ugly, though, that’s for sure.”
“She’s not so bad when you get to know her.”
“Who’d want to do that?” he joked.
“I don’t know. If she’d just do something with her hair, she’d have more friends.”
“Don’t tell anybody,” Kevin said, “but the guys on the team have chosen her the ugliest girl in school. We’re giving her a corsage and a special poem I wrote.”
He recited the poem to Colleen. When he finished, she looked at him in shock.
“You’re not really going through with this, are you?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Do you know how that’s going to make her feel?”
“I don’t care how she feels.”
“Kevin, you’re the only member of the Church on the team. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It’s taken me all this time for them to accept me as part of the group. I’m not going to preach to them and destroy everything.”
“But you’re willing to destroy that girl, aren’t you?” she asked.
“She’s ugly. Even you agree to that,” he shot back.
“She’s a child of God.”
“Okay, but she’s an ugly child of God.”
“I can see ugliness, but it’s not in her. It’s in you and your vigilantes!”
“What right have you got to be my conscience?” he asked.
“I’m not your conscience. If you feel guilty, that is your conscience.”
“No girl is going to tell me what to do!” He got out of his chair, full of anger.
Before he left, he remembered they had a date. “Oh, what about tonight?” he asked.
“Forget it!” she said.
He spent a dateless weekend.
On Sunday during priesthood meeting, he made sure to volunteer to bless the sacrament in Sunday School, mainly to spite Colleen so she’d know that he didn’t feel guilty about the award.
Before the sacrament song, the Sunday School president got up. “We should all be thinking about the Savior during this time. These young men who bless and pass the sacrament stand in the place of the Savior in this sacred ordinance. Let’s see if we can’t all be a little more reverent today.”
After he finished breaking the bread, near the end of the sacrament song, he looked over the congregation to find where Colleen was sitting.
Finally he found her, in the back row with Mary Beth Allen sitting next to her.
“Why is she here?” he thought. “She’s not a Mormon. She’s not supposed to be here. Colleen must have invited her to get back at me.”
He felt his face turning red and perspiration breaking out all over. His vocal cords tightened up, and he started to cough. He was sure he couldn’t get through the prayer.
“Will you give the prayer on the bread?” he gasped to the other priest, who nodded his head.
The prayer was given, and the deacons lined up to receive the trays.
The room became quiet as the sacrament was passed.
Kevin sat down and leaned forward so he couldn’t be seen by the congregation. His eyes fastened on the sacrament prayer he was to give, and it was as if he were reading it for the first time in his life.
“What would the Savior do about Mary Beth Allen?” he thought.
Once the question was asked, the answer was obvious.
By the time he was to offer the prayer on the water, he’d made up his mind. He would have no part in humiliating Mary Beth. He’d tear up the poem.
During Sunday School class, Colleen introduced Mary Beth. “Mary Beth and I have lockers next to each other, but we never really knew each other very well until yesterday when I phoned her. I asked her to come today because she’s such a good person. I found out that she works with handicapped children every day for a couple of hours as part of her Christian service.”
“That’s wonderful,” the teacher enthusiastically said.
“Oh, they’re such special children,” Mary Beth said. “I love them all.”
After Sunday School and lunch, Kevin drove to Colleen’s house. She let him in, and they talked about everything else but Mary Beth, until finally he pulled out a white handkerchief and waved it.
“I surrender!” he said with a grin. “I’ll make sure we don’t give her the award.”
“Oh, but I want you to give her an award. You’ve already bought the corsage. No use wasting it.”
“Girls,” he muttered. “I’ll never understand them.”
“All we need to do is to change the message on the card. I’ve already written it.” She handed him a small card:
“A group of athletes want you to know that we think you’re a special person. Thanks for giving of yourself to work with handicapped children. You set a good example for all of us. We have chosen you the winner of our Extra-Mile Award.”
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s not exactly what the team had in mind. They’ll kill me if they find out.”
“You can handle them.”
“Are you kidding? They’re animals.”
“I have faith in you.”
On Monday, a little before lunch, Kevin received the corsage from Craig. He hurried to her locker before classes let out and taped the corsage box and the card onto it.
“Well, that’s over,” he thought, happy to get rid of the whole business.
“Did you give her the award?” Craig asked at lunch.
“Yes,” Kevin answered without explaining any details.
On Tuesday, during announcements on the PA system, the principal gave the usual list of upcoming events and then, in addition, said, “A girl has asked me to thank the anonymous group of guys who gave her a corsage. She wants them to know that it means a great deal to her.”
Kevin knew he was in trouble.
The team was waiting for him at lunch.
“All right, what’d you do?”
“I didn’t use the poem. I used a different message.”
They stood menacingly around him.
“What kind of message?”
“I told her she was special.”
“I knew we never should’ve let a Mormon do it,” the fullback complained.
“Special? Are you kidding? What’s special about her?”
“She works with handicapped children every day without getting paid.”
“Why would she do a dumb thing like that?”
“I don’t know,” Kevin said. “She says she loves them.”
Just then, Mr. Graham, the principal, climbed up the stairs toward them. They all felt threatened by him.
“Hey, Mr. Graham, how’s it going?” one of them said sheepishly.
“I’m trying to find the group who gave Mary Beth Allen a corsage.”
“Why?” Craig asked warily. “There wasn’t anything wrong with the corsage, was there? You know, like a tarantula hiding in it?”
“No, but her mother called and asked me to thank them personally if I could find them.”
“Oh,” Craig said quietly.
“You see, Mary Beth has a kidney malfunction. In order to stay alive, she has to go on a dialysis machine periodically. Sometimes she gets discouraged. The award was the nicest thing that’s happened to her for quite some time.”
“You mean she’s going to die?” someone asked.
“No, but she’s had to face the possibility of an early death. It’s been difficult for her.”
“Then why does she work with children?” Craig blurted out.
“How do you know she works with children?” Mr. Graham asked.
That was the first time any of them could remember Mr. Graham smiling at them.
“I won’t embarrass you by asking if you were the ones who gave her the award, but I want you to know there’s a very grateful mother in this city.”
Mr. Graham left them with their thoughts.
“Where is she?” Craig suddenly asked.
They leaned over the balcony and looked. In a few seconds they found her, sitting alone as usual, but this time wearing a corsage, even though it was now beginning to fade.
They stared in silence at the corsage.
“I’m going down to eat with her,” Craig said, grabbing his tray and heading down the stairs.
“He’s crazy,” the fullback said. “What if someone sees him with her?”
The next day Craig ate lunch with the team.
“Well, how is she?” one of them asked.
“She’s okay when you get to know her. I promised her a favor, and I’ll need you guys to help me.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I promised her that we’d show up in our football gear at the school where those handicapped children go. Some of the kids are real football fans. They’d be really happy if we visited them.”
“I’m not going,” one of the players said. “I don’t want any kids climbing all over me.”
“If they do, play with them. C’mon you guys, help me out.”
They visited the school for handicapped children on Friday. When Mary Beth was with the children, she became a different person, radiating love and enthusiasm. The team helped the boys in the school put on the helmets and shoulder pads and taught them how to throw a football.
On Monday they met at lunch as usual. As Kevin approached the table with his tray, Craig leaned against the railing, looking down at the students below.
Finally he turned to face Kevin. “You know, it’s strange.”
“What is?”
“Well, we pick the person in school who everybody agrees is a loser, but then she turns out to be okay once we get to know her.”
“So?” someone asked.
“Okay, maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’ve been thinking. What if it isn’t?” Craig turned to view the crowded cafeteria. “What if every one of them turns out to be special in some way?”
“They’re all children of God,” Kevin finally dared to say.
The fullback swore and then said, “You guys are crazy! Life’s very simple. There are winners, and there are losers. We’re the winners, and the girls we date are winners. The rest are all losers.”
“But what if the things that make them winners aren’t so easy to spot?”
The fullback shook his head, muttered something, and left. Several others followed him.
Craig and Kevin and a few others leaned over the railing and looked down at the other students again. There were so many of them—guys and girls in a variety of clothes and hair styles and shapes and nationalities, yet each one somehow important.
Finally Craig said quietly, “Let’s give the award once a month.”

The day after my 16th birthday I went out to my mailbox feeling that I needed a spiritual push in the right direction. There were some mysterious packages, the kind you usually receive on your birthday, but the thing that really caught my interest most was my May 1976 New Era. It’s the best birthday present I have ever received. Inside were more beautiful gifts than I could imagine. Each article said something to me or helped me do something to improve myself. “Youth Speak Out on Standards” reminded me to keep my clothes to Church standards and not think that just because I am 16 I can be slack. “Teacher, You’re My Best Friend” reminded me of how last summer I put on a play with kids six to twelve years of age, and how much those kids benefited from it. I then realized that I couldn’t let those kids down this year, and I did another play that raised 80 dollars for a charity. “How to Gain a Testimony” really shot out at me, because as an investigator I really need to realize how important it is to gain a testimony, and since then I have been striving hard for one. “Soldiers of God” reminded me to stick to the morals and values that I chose for myself four years ago—that is, to be chaste. “A Service Project with a Special Meaning” reminded me of a close call with death from which I escaped with a stronger testimony that God lives. “Hong Kong School Girl” reminded me of my Chinese friend who thinks that “there are many paths to the kingdom of heaven, and no matter which one you take, you will still get there.” That made me realize that I should share more of the Church with her. She’s interested, so I hope I will be able to let her see for herself the truths of life that I enjoy. “A Fable” built my morale and my ability to withstand criticism. Oftentimes my family members or nonmember friends are hard on me about the Church, and this article really gave me encouragement and strengthened my will not to let anyone persuade me to stop living the gospel.

A young woman found that she had developed a spirit of criticism. She felt that this was hampering her spiritual growth. As she partook of the sacrament, she promised the Lord that she would not criticize anyone in her family for one week.

Each week she renewed her effort and asked for the Spirit to be with her. She overcame this weakness, though it was not easy and progress was slow. Her friends now use her as an example of one who never speaks unkindly of others.