Gospel Story Finder

I will share with you an experience I had before I was a General Authority which affected me profoundly. I sat in an airplane next to a man who so strongly expressed his disbelief in God that I bore my testimony to him. “You are wrong, I said, “there is a God. I know He lives!”
He protested, “You don’t know. Nobody knows that! You can’t know it!” When I would not agree with him, the man, who was an attorney, asked perhaps the ultimate question on the subject of testimony. “All right,” he said in a sneering, condescending way, “you say you know. Tell me how you know.”
I felt perhaps, that I had borne my testimony to him unwisely and was at a loss as to what to do. Then something came into my mind. I said to the man, “Let me ask if you know what salt tastes like.”
“Of course I do,” was his reply.
“When did you taste salt last?”
“When I just had dinner here on the airplane.”
“You just think you know what salt tastes like,” I said.
He insisted, “I know what salt tastes like as well as I know anything.”
“If I gave you a cup of salt and a cup of sugar and let you taste them both, could you tell the salt from the sugar?”
“Now you are getting silly,” was his reply. “Of course I could tell the difference. I know what salt tastes like. It is an everyday experience.”
“Then,” I said, “assuming that I have never tasted salt, explain to me just what it tastes like.”
After some thought, he said, “Well, I suppose you could say that it is not sweet and it is not sour.”
“You’ve told me what it isn’t, not what it is.” After several attempts, of course, he could not do it. He could not explain, in words alone, so ordinary an experience as tasting salt. I bore testimony to him once again and said, “I know there is a God. You ridiculed that testimony and said that if I did know, I would be able to tell you exactly how I know. My friend, spiritually speaking, I have tasted salt. I am no more able to tell you in words how this knowledge has come to me than you are able to tell me what salt tastes like. But I say to you again, there is a God! He does live! And just because you don’t know, don’t try to tell me that I don’t know, for I do!”
Since that day, I have never been embarrassed or ashamed that I could not explain in words alone everything I know spiritually. The Apostle Paul said it this way:
“We speak, not in the words which man’s wisdom teacheth, but which the Holy Ghost teacheth; comparing spiritual things with spiritual.
“But the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned.” (1 Cor. 2:13–14.)

As we develop these necessary attributes, how do we still keep our own personality? As I mentioned, I have not completely developed the Christlike attribute of patience, especially on the road. I do not usually cut people off or yell, but as I pass, you may see me saying to myself, “Come on, people, let’s go!” I don’t think my frustration makes me a horrible person, but it definitely is not Christlike.

A while ago I decided to start listening to Spanish teaching podcasts while driving to help with my impatience. Now if you see me talking in my car, I am no longer asking you to go faster. Instead, I am practicing very important phrases, such as, “¿Dónde está el queso?”

This practice of trying to become more patient has also taught me to learn by listening and repeating. I have always been the type of person who needs to see things in addition to hearing them. Now I have the capability of learning in a new way. Thus, in the process of becoming more Christlike in patience, I have developed a new personality trait that defines who I am, and it is one that I am much more proud of than road rage.

It was a cold, blustery Sunday afternoon. I was away from home serving in the South African army, and the 10 men of our section had gathered in our tent to visit and relax after having just completed some chores. Unfortunately, much of the conversation became crude, as often happens among young men in such circumstances.
I was uncomfortable and thought about leaving. My eyes turned toward the tent door, which was flapping wildly in the wind and failing to hold back the chill of winter. The sight immediately convinced me it would be foolish to leave, so I decided to remain inside and read my scriptures. Although it had not been uncommon for me to read from them in the presence of these men, on this day it would prove to be difficult. The discussion soon took a turn for the worse as my friend, something of a ringleader in the group, began telling some dirty stories.
My immediate impulse was to object out loud. However, I was checked by the thought that others might consider me self-righteous and accuse me of trying to spoil their fun. After a few troubling moments, I decided to do the only thing I thought possible under the circumstances: shut my ears and concentrate on my reading. This approach worked somewhat. Yet I could not shrug off a feeling of uneasiness.
Time has a way of clouding our memories, and within a few weeks I forgot about the experience. Then, two years later, my friend did something that brought the memory of that day back into focus. We were in the presence of a number of soldiers who were drinking beer. In the group was a man I didn’t know. He began teasing me for not joining them in drinking a little alcohol. My friend rose to my defense and added with an earnestness that surprised me, “Chris Golden is the only true Christian in our group.” Others who knew me joined my friend in defending me, which silenced my critic.
Later, as my friend and I walked back toward our foxhole on a gray, half-moonlit night, he suddenly stopped and looked at me with a seriousness I had not been accustomed to during our friendship. He recalled the event of earlier that evening and said, “I meant what I said. In fact, I have never met an individual who has been more true to his faith in God than you, Chris!”
This was unexpected. Even though I had always tried to live the gospel, I felt I had not done more than many Latter-day Saints would have done in similar circumstances, and I had always tried to do it without drawing attention to myself.
Still, he had more to say: “You have let me down only once.” My shock at his matter-of-fact accusation was matched only by the speed with which my mind raced through all of the events we had shared together. I finally remembered that blustery, cold Sunday two years earlier. My friend’s words exposed painful memories of a day I would rather have forgotten.
He continued, “Do you remember that cold Sunday afternoon when we were sitting inside our tent and telling stories, some of which I now feel quite embarrassed about?”
I nodded a little numbly in acknowledgment. Standing opposite him, I hoped that the shadows of the night hid my discomfort.
He said, “While I was talking, I had been silently praying that you would ask me to stop telling those dirty stories—but you did nothing.”
During the long silence that followed his stinging condemnation, a deep sense of disappointment welled up within me. I had let not only him down, but I had failed the Lord—and myself.
Ever since that day, I have tried not to make the same mistake. I was taught an important lesson about the true meaning of the Lord’s command to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). Observing that “no man can serve two masters” (Matt. 6:24), the Savior counseled us, “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness” (Matt. 6:33).

Sh. Purevsuren was introduced to God and Bible stories while studying at a university in the Soviet Union. (Mongolians ordinarily go by their first name, with initials of the surname in front for official purposes.) He bought a Bible from a fellow student because the book had Russian on one page and the same text in English on the facing page. Purevsuren read surreptitiously at night to learn English; reading the Bible openly would have meant expulsion.

His father had taught him Buddhist principles of honor and right, and Purevsuren had always tried to live by those. His spiritual interest in the Bible came only after he returned to Mongolia, married, and was a university professor. In connection with his work, he visited India. A Christian he met there gave him a Bible and shared feelings about the divinity of Jesus Christ. Purevsuren remembered his father’s teachings about a life following this one. “I had a fundamental belief about God from my father,” he says, and he began to wonder how God would want him to prepare for the next life.

As the head of a consortium of Mongolian educators, he was invited to visit the United States, where he first saw the Book of Mormon. In Utah, a Church member who hosted the tour group gave him a copy of the book. Purevsuren read in it briefly, then put it aside.

In September 2000, his family came into contact with LDS missionaries in Mongolia and listened to the missionary discussions. This time he read the Book of Mormon with new eyes and found truth he had been seeking. He and his wife were baptized and confirmed that November. Only a week or two later, he was called as branch president.

Their children were not interested at first in this new church. Their son, then in high school, was especially resistant, but, obediently, he agreed to his father’s request to listen to the missionaries. Eventually, both children were baptized and confirmed. Their son served a mission in Idaho.

Now Purevsuren is deeply involved in teaching young people as coordinator of the Church Educational System for Mongolia, a position he was given in 2001.

There are about 600 institute students in Mongolia and some 700 in seminary. Those numbers have grown by about 300 percent since 2001, even though students often face opposition from family members, and the cost of attendance, in time and transportation, is high.

What is the most rewarding part of his job? “The best thing, I think, is seeing so many kids joining the Church through seminary” as students bring their friends.

After his family joined the Church several years ago, 13-year-old Diogenes Gallegos of the Rio Kaw Branch, Lenexa Kansas Stake, was sealed to his parents and siblings in 1998 in the St. Louis Missouri Temple.
“My impression of the temple was fantastic,” says Diogenes. “When they did the sealing part, it was very spiritual and I started crying. My mom and my dad were crying, too. When it was over and they asked us to look at our eternal family in the double mirrors, even my eight-year-old brother started to cry. We were all so happy to be a family together for eternity.”

Sister Beck: When I was a young girl, my father served as president of the only mission in Brazil. There were fewer than 4,000 members—most of whom were full of potential yet not prepared to lead. Only a handful of branches had a Relief Society.

My mother was called to be the district Relief Society president. She spoke no Portuguese and had no manuals. What she did have was a testimony of the gospel and of Relief Society. She and her counselors began by helping sisters learn how to be visiting teachers.

They started their training in a small branch in São Paulo. Seven humble women attended the meeting. My mother’s counselor, a Brazilian, greeted the sisters. After the prayer, she stood with trembling hands and read a message explaining visiting teaching. Then my mother stood. She knew four sentences in Portuguese: “I know that God lives. I know that Jesus is the Christ. I know that we have a living prophet. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” The meeting ended. She hugged the women and bade them good-bye.

What a humble beginning to such a great work! Eventually, a Relief Society was established in every branch in Brazil. The sisters worked to prepare for a stake and the first temple in South America. They learned about ordinances and covenants and how to save souls.

In part, because the Relief Society sisters helped further the Lord’s work, the Church in Brazil now numbers over one million members. Like these sisters in Brazil, we must do our part. No one can do it for us. We cannot delegate our responsibility for building the kingdom to anyone else. It is our work. Let us embrace it and excel in building faith, strengthening families, and giving relief.

Robert spun around the living room like a tornado, picking up the blocks and pillows scattered around the floor as he raced from one side of the room to the other.
He checked the clock on the wall. 4:59! He had only one minute left until the new show he wanted to watch was going to start, but he knew his chores needed to be finished before he could watch.
With a final rush of energy, Robert picked up his socks, hurried to his room, and tossed them into his clothes hamper with the precision of a three-point shooter. Perfect shot! He raced back into the living room just as the show started.
“Phew!” Robert thought. “Made it!”
Mom sat down with Robert and his brothers, Walter and Michael, to watch the show. Dad would be home in about half an hour.
The show started off pretty funny. Even Mom was laughing!
Then there was a mean joke. Then a gross joke. Robert looked at Mom. She wasn’t laughing any more.
Mom picked up the remote and turned the TV volume all the way down.
“Mom!” Robert exclaimed. “Why?”
Even though Robert asked the question, he already knew the answer.
“Do you think we should keep watching this show?” Mom asked.
Robert looked at the floor. “No,” he sighed.
“Why not?” Mom asked.
“Because they’re saying rude things,” Robert answered.
Mom and Dad always encouraged Robert and his brothers to be happy and enjoy good humor, but they said that jokes that were rude or gross didn’t count as good humor. Dad always told Robert and his brothers that it was important to keep their speech “above the line.”
Robert wasn’t exactly sure what “above the line” meant, but he had a pretty good idea of what Dad was trying to say. Language that didn’t make people feel good was below the line. Language that did make people feel good was above the line.
Robert jumped up from the couch and turned off the TV. He was disappointed the show had some rude language, but he knew it probably wasn’t a good idea to watch it.
The next day at recess, some of Robert’s friends were using the same kinds of words that had prompted Mom to turn down the volume on the TV. They weren’t curse words, but they still made Robert uncomfortable.
As Robert walked away to go play somewhere else, he imagined a horizontal line in the air in front of his friends. He imagined the words his friends were saying dropping like bricks from their mouths and immediately falling below the line.
Robert decided to go play basketball with some of his other friends. After rebounding the ball, Robert made his first shot. Then his second! Then his third!
“Great shooting!” his friend Zach said. “You’re on fire! But not for real. That would hurt!”
Zach laughed. So did Robert.
Those words made Robert feel good about himself. He imagined these were the kinds of words that would float up above the imaginary line Dad always talked about.
“Thanks,” Robert said. “You’re shooting really well today too.”
Zach smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been practicing.”
Robert could tell his words made Zach happy. Just saying the words made Robert happy too.

Eighteen years ago, my wife and I received a phone call from President James E. Faust, then Second Counselor in the First Presidency. He called us to serve as mission president and companion in Portugal. He told us that we had only six weeks before we started the mission. Although we felt unprepared and inadequate, we accepted the call. Our most important concern at the time was to obtain the visas required to serve in that country because, according to past experience, we knew the process took six to eight months to complete.

President Faust then asked if we had faith that the Lord would perform a miracle and that we would be able to solve the visa problem faster. Our answer was a big yes, and we started making the arrangements immediately. We prepared the documents required for the visas, took our three young children, and went to the consulate as fast as we could. A very nice lady met with us there. In reviewing our papers and getting acquainted with what we were going to do in Portugal, she turned to us and asked, “Are you really going to help the people of my country?” We firmly answered yes and explained that we would represent Jesus Christ and testify of Him and His divine mission in the world. We returned there four weeks later, received our visas, and landed in the mission field within the six weeks, as a prophet of the Lord had asked us to do.

Recently I interviewed an exceptionally stalwart priesthood holder for a temple recommend. I asked him if he sustained his bishop, his stake president, and the president of the Church. Of course his reply to each question was sincere, humble, and strongly affirmative. Then I asked him if he sustained his wife in her calling. He paused to think about it for a minute before answering that he did.
Then he added, “President, this has been very hard for me. In the past I was the one who held important, executive positions in the Church, but now our roles are reversed. My wife is an auxiliary president; the phone calls are all for her, she goes to the leadership meetings, she is in the forefront of action. I’m the one now who stays home to take care of the children often while she’s doing Church work. I’m doing my best to support her, but this is a new experience.”
We counseled together about the eternal importance of husbands and wives working together as a team, sustaining and supporting each other in all aspects of their lives, and then concluded the interview.

One Christmas carol was written, set to music, and performed for the first time all in one day. On Christmas Eve in 1818, the organ at a small Austrian church was not working. Knowing music was needed for the evening service, Joseph Mohr, an assistant parish priest in Oberndorf, Austria, wrote the words for a new hymn in a flash of inspiration. He took the lyrics to the church organist, Franz Gruber, who wrote a melody to be played on his guitar. Franz and Joseph performed their beautiful new hymn “Stille Nacht,” or “Silent Night,” that evening. Its popularity spread quickly throughout the world. (See Hymns, no. 204.)

Shakespeare from Miss Whitney had been a calculated accident that went awry. I had my credits for graduation. All I needed was an elective to fill space. There were a lot of classes that would have been acceptable, and I still could have maintained my GPA. With the schedule I had my senior year, I wanted something easy for the last hour of the day. Just a filler.
At Washington High I ranked fifth in a graduating class of 509. For the last three years I had been on the honor roll with straight A’s, and there were scholarships to consider. All were reasons for keeping my grades up and taking an easy class to fill in that one elective gap.
“I know what we ought to do,” my best friend Shan Stuart suggested the second day of school as we ate in the cafeteria. “Let’s take Shakespeare from Miss Whitney.”
I laughed. “Why would I want to take Shakespeare from Whitney? Or anybody else?”
Shan thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, shrugging, “I figure we need a little culture.”
Cultural refinement had never been high on Shan’s list of priorities, so immediately I was dubious. “I’ve got all the culture I can handle with chemistry and trig,” I responded dryly.
“But Shakespeare will be a snap. Read a few plays,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“What does Shakespeare have that we can’t get in wood shop?” I asked.
Shan smiled slyly. “Well …” He cleared his throat. “Penny Simms.”
“Penny …” I stopped in mid-sentence. My eyes narrowed in recollection. “She’s not the new girl, the one …”
“With the reddish blond hair,” Shan cut in dreamily, “and the blue eyes, and the smile …”
“I know who she is,” I stopped him. “If you’re dying to know her, meet her at lunch. Why sign up for a semester of Shakespeare?”
“You don’t get it, Holdaway,” Shan answered. “It’s going to be a small class. Obviously we’ll need to spend some time studying old Bill and his plays.” He grinned deviously. “A small study group of three or four after school could prove helpful. In more ways than one.”
“Just one problem. There are two of us and one of her.”
Shan shrugged and smiled, “That’s the challenge.”
“I’ll stick to wood shop.”
I don’t know how he did it, but Shan actually conned me into taking Miss Whitney’s Shakespeare class. And all because of Penny Simms.
“So what brings you to Shakespeare?” Miss Whitney asked coolly, looking down at our add cards. Shan and I stood in front of her desk, fidgeting. This was Shan’s idea, so I was determined to let him do the talking.
“Do you have a genuine interest in Shakespeare?” she asked, taking off her glasses. She had commanding blue eyes that latched onto us.
I had seen Miss Whitney around school and had always thought her to be rather plain. She was in her mid-30s, probably an inch or so taller than I am, and trim. Up close her plainness was no longer prominent. In fact, as she looked up at us, I detected a shade of beauty behind the scholarly sternness.
All during my high school career I had steered clear of her English classes because it was rumored that she didn’t give anything higher than a B, unless, of course, the student could walk on water, academically speaking. I figured that in her Shakespeare class, though, it being an elective and all, she would loosen up and I would be able to pull my A without a sweat.
“Michael and I were just talking yesterday,” Shan began. I could tell he was about to launch into one of his famous snow jobs. “We were saying how little we know about Shakespeare. We’ll be getting ready to go to college in a year, and we really aren’t familiar with one of history’s greatest writers.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips, deep in thought. “I guess what it boils down to is that we want a more balanced education.”
“How admirable,” she commented, leaning back in her chair and biting down on her glasses. “Rarely do we see that kind of intellectual drive in our students these days. It will be a privilege to have you in class,” she replaced her glasses and signed Shan’s add card. I waited for her to do the same to mine, but she handed Shan his card, and then turned to me. “And, Mr. Holdaway, what is your interest here?”
I was taken by surprise. “Well,” I laughed half-heartedly, “Shan explained it pretty good.”
“Yes, he expressed himself quite well.” She emphasized the well and I made a mental note to be more careful with my grammar when speaking to her. “I would like to know how you feel.”
I groped for words as her penetrating gaze bore into me. “I thought it would be a … well, you know,” I stammered. “A good challenging course for an elective. Some real meat and potatoes so to speak.” I forced myself to grin. She wasn’t amused. “I want to expand my knowledge and understanding,” I pushed on lamely, wondering why she didn’t just take Shan’s word for everything.
“So your main reason is learning?”
“Of course.”
“And if things become difficult?”
I was insulted by the insinuation. “I’ve handled tough classes before,” I said. “Schoolwork comes easy enough for me.”
“You’ve never taken a class from me,” she pointed out.
“I can handle the load,” I bragged, suddenly irritated.
“Then if things get tough, you won’t just back out of Shakespeare?”
“No,” I declared, “I won’t back out. I can handle any class at Washington High. Even yours.”
She smiled, actually smiled as she picked up my card, signed it, and handed it back to me. “I demand work.”
“I’ve done all right so far,” I said, still simmering. “I’m not exactly at the bottom of the class.”
“She’s as bad as everybody said,” I muttered to Shan as we walked down the hall afterward.
“Penny Simms will sweeten things up for us.”
The following day, seventh hour, Shan and I swaggered into class and dropped into the back corner seats. The class was small, only 16 of us, and within minutes we discovered that Penny Simms was noticeably absent.
Miss Whitney called the roll. Penny’s name wasn’t on it. As Miss Whitney took the absentee slip to the door, Shan raised his hand and asked, “What happened to Penny Simms?”
“Penny withdrew from class this morning,” Miss Whitney said simply.
“I can’t believe it,” Shan grumbled as we left class. “We juggle our schedules to accommodate her and she backs out on us.”
I was amused and laughed. “Maybe you should have talked to Penny to see if our change met with her approval.”
“Well, if anybody thinks I’m going to endure Miss Whitney for my cultural enjoyment, they’re crazy. I’m getting out.”
“But we just got in.”
“I’ll find a way. We have until the end of the week to change classes.”
By noon the next day Shan was out of the class.
“Did she hassle you?” I asked him.
“Didn’t say a word. Just signed the withdrawal slip and wished me luck.”
I attended Miss Whitney’s class that afternoon, but I worked on my trig all hour because I had a withdrawal slip ready for her to sign. I had almost resigned myself to the challenge of Miss Whitney, to prove to her that I wasn’t afraid of her, but I finally concluded it would be easier and safer to get out now. I had a big enough load as it was.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked as I handed her the withdrawal slip.
“My schedule is heavier than I thought,” I said without looking at her.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
I wet my lips, surprised by the question. “Yes.”
“I knew another young man of your faith. He wasn’t nearly as talented as you. But he was honest. Completely honest. I don’t mean to imply that Mormons have a monopoly on honesty, but this particular young man’s most striking characteristic was his honesty. That always impressed me.” She looked up at me. “You remind me of that young man.
“The other day when you and Shan came in here, you couldn’t lie to me. You were willing to remain silent and let Shan lie for you, but you wouldn’t lie.” I could feel my cheeks glow warmly, and I shuffled my feet. “Do you realize,” she continued, “that the other day when I allowed you into my class, you promised to stay?”
“I said I wanted to get into the class, but I …”
“No,” she cut in, “you promised to stay, regardless of the work.”
“Miss Whitney,” I began, feeling embarrassed and frustrated but wanting to be completely up front with her since she had dragged my religion and honesty into our discussion, “I feel dumb telling you this, but the reason Shan and I wanted to get into this class was …”
“Because of Penny Simms,” she cut in.
I shrugged, and nodded. Her face didn’t change expressions.
“The fact remains, Mr. Holdaway, you promised to stay.”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked, irritated by her insistence.
“I don’t like students running away from my class—especially good students.” She breathed deeply and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I can promise you two things if you stay. One, you’ll learn something. And two, I’ll make the learning interesting. That’s not a bad deal.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you understand. I have a heavy schedule. I have a straight-A average, and I want to keep my class ranking. I have to think of a scholarship.”
“And you want all of those the easiest way possible. Do you ever wonder about learning?”
“I study all the time.”
“For grades? For class rankings? For scholarships? Do you ever study for learning’s sake?” I stared at her without answering. I wasn’t sure how to answer. “When you came to me, you wanted an easy class. Well, I don’t offer one.”
I tossed the withdrawal slip in the trash can on the way out, angry and unwilling to beg her to let me out of her class. I’d handle it, I told myself.
The first two weeks of class were easy enough. Even interesting! The first play we read was Richard the Third, and I was immediately fascinated by this villain king who had so much potential and yet chose to follow a path of willful destruction.
I had been exposed to Shakespeare in other English classes, but the study of his writings had always been dry and tedious there. Miss Whitney had an intriguing way of resurrecting characters from the tombs of the written page. The playwright and the characters were like old friends of hers. I actually found my interest sparked in her class.
But even though I read my assignments and followed the discussions with quiet fascination, I contributed very little to the class. I was sure Miss Whitney wondered if I was grasping the material, but I refused to satisfy her curiosity by opening my mouth. She’d find out how much I understood when I took her first test. And I was determined to blow the top off of it.
However, at the conclusion of Richard the Third, Miss Whitney made an announcement. “I have an aversion to tests,” she said. “Tests are inadequate for measuring a person’s understanding. I prefer a good composition. At the conclusion of each play I will ask you to write a paper. If you have read and understood the play, you should do well.”
Writing had always come easy for me. I had never had a problem in my other English classes scribbling out an A paper. I was convinced that I could do the same here. The night before the paper was due, I stayed up an hour later than usual so I could finish it.
Three days later, I got my paper back, fully expecting an A. Across the top and next to the bold red C- was scrawled, “This is not writing; this is rambling. I do not want to have to search for your meaning among the heaps of hollow verbiage. I will not allow you to peddle garbage. Even if this class is an elective!”
“What’s wrong with my paper?” I demanded as the others filed out of the room.
“You can write better than that, Mr. Holdaway.”
“Some of those others had B’s on their papers. Are theirs better than mine?”
“For you that is a C paper.”
“This would get me an A in any other class,” I came back.
“Mr. Holdaway, I don’t just give a grade. You must earn it here.”
“You’re just trying to make it tough on me because I wanted out of your class, aren’t you?” I burst out. “I need an A in this class.”
“You don’t care about learning?”
“I care about my grades.”
Miss Whitney thought for a moment. “Then you will have to earn them.”
For the next five weeks I fumed and fretted about Shakespeare. I was caught. I couldn’t drop the class without losing all credit. If I stayed in the class, I would be lucky to pull a C, unless I worked hard, harder than I’d planned for this elective. During those five weeks I wrote two more papers.
The best I could do was a C+ on my last one.
“What is this?” I demanded, exasperated as I threw my paper on her desk after class.
She looked at it and answered, “It looks like a C+.”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Your ideas are clearer now, but all you’re doing is coughing up someone else’s ideas. If you want your A, tell me what you have learned, not what you’ve been told.” The words weren’t spoken in rebuke. I detected a genuine concern on her part.
At first I resented being forced to stay in the class, but as Miss Whitney walked me through the world of Shakespeare, I began to look forward to that last hour of the day. My other classes were important to me because they were my solids; I needed them and I studied them with that objective in mind. I didn’t really need Shakespeare—except for the grade—but it was an intriguing break for me. I even accepted the compositions. It became a challenge for me to write something that Miss Whitney would accept as quality work. The turning point came while we were studying Hamlet.
All my life I had heard the famous line from Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.” For one of the first times in a class discussion my hand shot up and I burst out, “But those words are a mockery coming from Polonius. He’s not true to himself. It’s pure hypocrisy.”
“Can’t a hypocrite speak the truth?” Miss Whitney questioned.
“Sure, but all these years I thought that some great, wise person spoke those words. It’s a let-down to know that they come from … from a villain.”
“But the words are true, though the villain was not,” Miss Whitney pointed out. “Do we sometimes speak words of truth while leading lives of hypocrisy?”
The question was spoken gently, but the barb penetrated. Was I like Polonius? For my composition I chose to analyze Polonius. He fascinated me because I wondered if I would catch a glimpse of myself in his character. I went back and reread the play, not for a grade but for personal understanding. After reading it three times and reviewing parts of it many more times I was ready to write.
One full weekend I wrote. Page after page of rough draft was revised, improved, and discarded. But when Monday afternoon arrived, the paper was finished.
The following Friday the papers were turned back, face down on our desks. Curiously, even nervously, I turned mine over. A!
“I’d like to know something,” I asked at the end of class. “Did I earn this?”
Miss Whitney pursed her lips. “I don’t give anything.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”
Swelling with pride, I turned to leave, holding the A paper in my hand.
“Mr. Holdaway,” she called. “I’ve read better student papers in my life.” Some of the pride I had felt wilted. I turned to face her. A faint smile touched her lips, and she added softly, “But not many, Mr. Holdaway. And not for a very long time. I knew you could write a paper like that.”
From then on I was determined that everything I did in that class would be my very best. I didn’t want Miss Whitney to see anything less than that.
Then one day I wrote a paper for my history class. As I read through my final draft the night before the paper was due, I remembered thinking that it would easily get me an A. But I knew that if I were to submit it in Miss Whitney’s class her red pen would bleed it pitifully. I’d be lucky to get a C+. The words from Hamlet rang in my mind: “To thine own self be true.”
It was almost ten. The paper was due second hour the next morning, but I was determined not to turn in an inferior effort. I knew I had the A, but the A wasn’t good enough. I had to turn in my best.
For the next few hours I struggled with a rewrite, not for points or grades but for pure satisfaction. And when I turned it in the following morning, still sleepy and worn out, I was satisfied.
As I went around to my classes at the end of the semester and picked up my grades, I was not disappointed. I had straight A’s in my first six hours.
Miss Whitney waited until the end of class before handing out grades. The bell rang before I received mine. I waited at my desk. When all the others had received their grade cards, she turned to me and asked me to come to her desk. We were alone. She had two grade cards in front of her.
“I have struggled with your grade,” she confessed, looking up at me. “You’ve improved tremendously. You’re not the same young man who walked in here at the beginning of the year. I usually grade the work at the end of the semester more heavily than that at the beginning. You struggled in the beginning weeks, but you’ve come a long way since then.”
She took a deep breath. “When I figured out your grade, it ended up being a B. A solid B, a high B, but a B nevertheless.” She wet her lips. “I have struggled with that. Had you taken an easy class you would have received your A. You would maintain your class ranking and not jeopardize your scholarship.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m stingy with A’s. When I give them, I want them to mean a great deal. I coerced you into taking this class. I feel responsible. You’ve worked hard. I’d feel good giving you this.” She picked up the card to her left and handed it to me. It was an A. I studied it for a moment.
“And the other one?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I reached down and turned the other card over. Our eyes locked. I had wanted that A. A few weeks earlier that grade would have been the all-important thing, but the familiar phrase from Hamlet was anchored in my mind. I replaced the A card and picked up the B. “I only take what I earn,” I said. “It’s something I learned from you.”
Miss Whitney swallowed and blinked twice. I detected a faint mist in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I’ll keep the A for myself.”
I shrugged. “Thank you.” I smiled. “And you earned the A.” I started for the door; then stopped. “By the way,” I said, “I’ll be back next semester.”
“I was hoping you would,” she said softly, and I left the class with Miss Whitney’s B.

My grandfather was a hero of mine throughout my life. He passed away a few years ago. I had watched his health decline from a strong former football and basketball star to a wheelchair-bound elderly man whose body had suffered the ravages of cancer, Parkinson’s disease, and other debilitating conditions. Through the years of his decline, what I remembered most was the strength of his testimony. Even when he could barely talk loud enough to be heard at family reunions, he would still bear his witness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Restoration, and the true Church.
For years when I visited their home, I would notice my grandparents’ temple recommends sitting on the mantle above their fireplace. I knew that their health seldom allowed them to attend the temple, and eventually Grandpa was too weak to go at all. But still he kept a current temple recommend. He always wanted to be “ready.”
As a teenager and throughout my life, I have remembered Grandpa and Grandma’s example of always being ready and worthy to serve the Lord.

I worked on the old car with grandpa that whole week. And as we worked, he would tell the stories I had heard so many times. The years seemed to turn backwards and sweep us away with them.
I was cleaning the carburetor when grandpa said, “Bobby, did I ever tell you what happened when I first got this old car? I’ll never forget the look on your grandma’s face when I took her for her first ride.” He chuckled to himself, then went on. “Bobby, you’ve never seen a woman more scared in all your life. The whole time I was driving she was yelling. ‘Look out for that fence! Look out for the ditch!’ Sometimes I thought she’d yell herself hoarse. I’d swerve all over the place, and she’d scream like a baby pig caught in a fence. I learned my lesson though. The next time I tried to scare her, she gave me one. She reached over and grabbed the wheel! That woman nearly ran me into the barn!”
He laughed out loud as he remembered. Then, eyes twinkling, he was off into another story. This time it was about how he had won the motorcar race at the county fair three years in a row. Then another about how some city slicker had tried to con him out of his car and how he had “showed him a thing or two.”
The week passed quickly, too quickly in fact, and it was soon time for the fair. I picked Margie up early; I was showing a calf, and I had to be there as soon as possible.
I won a blue ribbon and was pretty proud of myself, but when I showed it to Margie, all she did was smile that same smile she had given the kids at the dance the other night. But now I knew what it was that bothered me so much about it. Her smile was one of polite disinterest, as if to say, “You guys are nice and everything, but you’re so different, so uncool.” My stomach lurched inside me and my heart sank down to my toes. The old Margie was gone, gone forever. Somehow, she had gotten lost in the city.
We didn’t talk very much on the way home. She hadn’t had a good time (she’d nearly been kicked by a cow and run over by a Tennessee Walker), and I was depressed by my discovery.
I never saw Margie again after that. I saw her grandfather in town a few days later, and he said that she had gone back to the “big city.”
The days dragged by, even though I was working on the car with grandpa. He saw by my halfhearted enthusiasm that something was wrong and tried to cheer me up with his funniest stories. I listened and slowly began to feel better.
That week we finished the work on the engine. Grandpa was excited and wanted to take her for a trial run before we started on the body. So, I opened the barn doors up all the way and stood back to watch. He got in and gently ran his hand over the seat. The gleam in his eye reminded me of the excitement of a father watching his only child take its first few steps.
He tried to start it up, but the engine just sputtered and fell silent. He tried again, and again it died.
“Third time will be the charm,” grandpa yelled.
But as he tried to start it, a terrible rasping noise came from inside along with billows of black smoke and a deafening crash.
I ran to the car. Grandpa, coughing from the smoke, got out and sat on a bale of hay. I opened the hood and peered down into the remains of the engine, all black with burnt oil and grease. It was hopeless to think of fixing it again, and I knew it would hurt grandpa deeply when I told him.
But as I glanced over at him, I knew he already knew. His face trembled as he buried it in his hands. His back was bent, like a crooked cane, and he looked so old, so lost, so alone.
I went and sat next to him with my arm on his shoulder. Looking up, he mumbled, “I only wanted to bring it back, make it new, make it the way it was when grandma and I went riding in it.”
He sat there shaking, his heart crying out for the days of the past, somehow thinking that they could be brought back, rebuilt like an old car, this old Ford.
Gently I shook his shoulder.
“Grandpa,” I said. “Grandpa. Sometimes things just can’t be brought back or rebuilt. Sometimes we can only call back the memories.”
I sat there a while longer, then left him alone to sift through his days long past. Walking out of the barn, I could hear the cows softly mooing in the pasture and the hens clucking to their little ones. The sun was warm on my face, and suddenly I knew that everything would be all right for the both of us.

For some time the rumors had been coming in from Salt Lake City, but confirmation of the facts was difficult. Finally, the official word came in a brief telegram signed “Hinckley.” The word spread quickly amongst the members of the Israel Group—“President Lee is definitely coming. The Prophet will be here in the Holy Land.” And so there we were, at the airport, waiting in the VIP room with representatives of the Ministries of Tourism, Foreign Affairs, and Religious Affairs. With fewer than thirty Latter-day Saints in the entire country, the prospects of a meeting with President Harold B. Lee, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, and President Edwin Q. Cannon, Jr., of the Switzerland Mission—along with their wives—was exciting, to say the least.
President Lee had come to retrace the footsteps of the Savior during a brief trip that took him to several countries and a number of conferences of the Church. President and Sister Cannon had been invited to join the party in Athens and to accompany them (the Switzerland Mission having authority over branches in the Middle East).
I had met President Lee before, as had some of our other members—including group leader David B. Galbraith. But this visit was different, for he now came as the Lord’s anointed. There had been many visits to the Holy Land by General Authorities of the Church since Orson Hyde’s visit in 1841, and several of the present-day leaders of the Church had met with us in our Sacrament meetings. But this was the very first visit of any president of the Church in this dispensation to this land where the head of the Church, our Lord and Master, spent his mortal life.
In the hustle and bustle of the official reception and introductions, I was particularly impressed by the humble spirit displayed by the man for whom all the fuss was being made. Extending his hand he said, simply, “Hello. I’m Brother Lee.”
“Brother Lee”—a simple, yet somehow exalted title. Laying aside his title of president of the Church, he chose to represent himself in his most important role—that of a spirit-child of God, a true brother to all of us. His deference to others was continually displayed in the way he courteously assisted his wife at all times, even when it was inconvenient for himself. At one meal, while we were eating fish, President Lee arose from his place—leaving his own meal to cool—and carefully took the bones from her fish.
During their visits to sites where Jesus had lived and taught, both President Lee and Elder Hinckley were occasionally seen sitting in silent meditation, often with tears in their eyes, as they contemplated the mission of the man who had called them into his service. On several occasions, President Lee tried to play down the activities of the noisy crowds of tourists who poured into the holy places.
We found the President both firm in his convictions and willing to listen to the ideas of others. Brother Galbraith drove the car for President and Sister Lee and Elder and Sister Hinckley, explaining to them many things of interest along the way. On one occasion Sister Lee said, “Dear, I haven’t heard you say a word for the past forty minutes.” To this the President replied, “Darling, I learn much more by listening than by talking.”
Such a great lesson it was, and he taught it not by word but by example, as a true disciple of Christ should. He set the example for us in many ways. One evening, after a long tiring day, President Lee was so bothered by an ailment that it was difficult for him to go to sleep. He called upon Elder Hinckley and President Cannon to give him a blessing, which resulted in great relief. Here indeed is a man who takes the priesthood for what it truly is—a blessing from God to be put to use and not merely hidden away until Sunday morning.
Most impressive to us members was our meeting with three presiding brethren in the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem on September 20. Their strong testimony of Jesus, given in this sacred spot from whence he arose from the dead, moved us to a greater determination to do good. And this being one of the essentials of the calling of a prophet, we can thereby further testify that Harold B. Lee is deserving of that title.
At that time the small group of Saints was officially organized as the Jerusalem Branch, President Cannon calling for the sustaining votes. Brother Galbraith was set apart as branch president by President Lee, and Elder Hinckley set me apart as first counselor. I have received numerous blessings in the Church at the hands of the priesthood but none so inspiring as that given to me on this occasion. Elder Hinckley’s words concerning matters that he could not have known without revelation from the Lord, and the subsequent fulfillment of two specific promises given in that blessing, are additional evidence of the Spirit that guides the leaders of the Church.
I made a deliberate attempt to gain some idea of the reaction of the brethren when the call was made for sustaining votes, and hence looked in President Lee’s direction. I have often sat in conferences of the Church and raised my hand to sustain the prophet of the Lord. But this was the first time I had ever witnessed a prophet raising his hand to sustain me. It was something I’ll never forget, something which, embedded in my memory, will remind me of my responsibilities if ever I hesitate to do that which the Lord requires of me.
Words cannot really express my feelings at spending these several precious hours in the presence of God’s chosen spokesman and his close associates. But somehow I have felt the need to try in order that others may profit in some small measure from the Spirit that was and has remained with us since the Prophet of God visited. I hope that all who read these words will come to appreciate the sincere love and concern of President Harold B. Lee for each member of the Church and for all mankind—a love that makes him most fitting as the channel through which God extends to mankind the means whereby salvation and exaltation may be attained.

Juanita and Miguelito live with their parents in a small house in Guatemala. They love each other very much. Each Sunday Juanita and Miguelito go to Primary and learn about the Savior and His teachings.
The Veliz family just moved into a big house close to Juanita and Miguelito’s house. Juanita and Miguelito like to play with the Veliz children. The Veliz children have toys that are bigger and more expensive. Their toys seem to be more fun, too.
One day Juanita and Miguelito were alone in the Veliz’s playroom. Miguelito put a toy racing car he liked to play with in his pocket. “Don’t say anything,” he told Juanita. “They have so many toys. They will never know if I take just one.”
“Miguelito, one of the commandments is ‘Thou shalt not steal’ (Ex. 20:15). Don’t you remember what Sister Campiz said in Primary?” Juanita asked.
“Sister Campiz said when we keep the commandments, we show Heavenly Father that we love Him and are willing to obey Him,” Juanita continued.
Miguelito kept playing. He pretended he didn’t hear his sister. “You choose!” Juanita told him.
After a few minutes, Miguelito took the car out of his pocket and put it with the other toys. He smiled at Juanita.
Before they went to bed that night, Juanita heard Miguelito praying. “Heavenly Father,” he said, “I am thankful to have the commandments to help me choose between right and wrong.”

Some years ago I was asked to talk in the state penitentiary. We had a pretty good crowd there; there was nowhere else for them to go. And because of that meeting there was quite a group that came up to visit with me. One was a grandson of one of the Presidents of the Church, one was the grandson of one of the Presiding bishops (not related to me), one had been a ward clerk, one had been a district president in the mission field, and they were there because they had sowed to the flesh. I tell you, my heart went out to them under those conditions. When I was there, I was invited to return again to talk to the Alcoholics Anonymous group. (I made sure I got a round-trip ticket so I could get out once I got in there.) When I came I said, “I’d like to hear from you men. How do you feel? What can you tell me?”

And the man in charge of that group stood up and he said, “I thank God for the privilege of being in this institution.” Can you imagine? That’s what you get when you sow to the flesh. He thanked God for the privilege of being in that state penitentiary. He said, “Before I came here, I was no good to my family, I was no good to my country, I was no good to my church. I was just no good, period. Now, I have hopes that when I get out of here I’ll be worth something to somebody.” That’s what it means to sow to the Spirit.

Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.

“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”

Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.

Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.

“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”

Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.

“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”

That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.

“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”

A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.

After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.

“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”

“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”

Heavenly Father, I need $20 to buy a Web pet. It would take forever to earn that much. Please help me!
I found twenty dollars! The answer to my prayer!
Is it OK to keep this money if it’s an answer to prayer?
But what if somebody’s praying to get it back and I’m part of the answer to that prayer?
Wait! I’m just looking for an excuse to do the wrong thing. Heavenly Father would never want me to steal. It’s not my money, and I won’t take it!
You’re an honest girl, Mandy. A lot of people would have been tempted to keep this.
I know. I’m one of them, but I wanted to be honest.

My good friend introduced me to the Latter-day Saint missionaries. At the time I met them it was hard to understand English, but my friend helped me to understand them and the teachings they brought. When the missionaries invited me to be baptized, I found it hard to leave my old culture and teachings. They shared their testimonies and said I needed to ask the Lord for a testimony, too.
One night I prayed after reading the Book of Mormon, and I received the confirmation by the Spirit that what I had been taught was true. I was baptized in June of 1998. I felt a strong spirit that day.

During one of the most difficult times of my divorce, I was called to serve as an institute teacher. I wondered how I could effectively serve when I was facing such enormous challenges in my personal life. But as I prepared lessons, I was strengthened in my own difficulties and could empathize with my students’ difficulties. I came to know my young single adult institute students over those several years, and the testimonies they shared gave me courage as I tried to move the mountains in my life.5