Gospel Story Finder

Like most boys from Whitney, “T” had outstanding parents. His mother was noted for her sense of humor and sunny disposition. She had a unique gift for teaching a boy without criticizing him. One day on the way home from school, “T” took exception to the way his cousin George was treating Joe, “T’s” younger brother.

“I finally said, ‘If you do that once more, I’ll hit you.’ He went on teasing Joe, and as a result we got into a fight. We had quite a struggle in the dirt as well as on our feet, and I made George’s nose bleed.

“It finally ended, and George went home as we did. When I arrived home Mother noticed the blood on my hands and on my shirt and asked what had happened. Of course, I explained. She didn’t chastize me for defending my younger and smaller brother, but she did say, ‘T,’ I was going to bake some bread, but I’m right out of yeast. I want you to go over to Aunt Lulu’s (George’s mother) and get some.’ I said, ‘Mother, don’t ask me to do that after I’ve had this fight with George.’ She said, ‘That makes no difference. I need the yeast and I want you to go to your Aunt Lulu’s and get the start.’”

In having to go to his aunt’s home and face his cousin George, “T” learned more about settling disputes than a lecture could have taught him.

When I was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to be secretary of my deacons quorum. I prepared the records I kept very carefully, for I wanted to do my very best in that calling. Doing all I can, to the very best of my ability, has been my goal in every calling I have ever held.
One day the bishopric asked me to take the sacrament to a man who could not leave his house. That special Sunday morning, when I knocked on Brother Wright’s door, I heard his weak voice call, “Come in.” I went into his humble home. His room was filled with the Spirit of the Lord.
I went to Brother Wright’s bedside and carefully placed a piece of sacrament bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water so that he could drink. As I left, I saw tears in his eyes as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me. He helped me appreciate the sacred emblems of the sacrament and the priesthood that I held.

Drusilla Hendricks and her family were camped farther down the wagon train when Brigham and his group arrived. While most of the families of Mormon Battalion members were still in Winter Quarters, the Hendrickses and some others had gathered enough resources to join those going west. More than a year had passed since Drusilla watched her son William march away with the battalion, and she was anxious to reunite with him in the valley—or sooner.32
Already Drusilla’s company had encountered returning battalion soldiers along the trail. The faces of many Saints, anxious to see their loved ones, brightened hopefully when they saw the troops. Sadly, William was not among them.
They saw more battalion soldiers a month later. These men captivated the Saints with descriptions of the Great Basin and let them taste salt they had brought with them from the Great Salt Lake. But William was not with this group either.33
Over the next several weeks, Drusilla and her family labored over mountain trails, crossed rivers and streams, climbed steep hills, and navigated canyons. Their hands, hair, and faces became caked with dust and grime. Their clothes, already threadbare and tattered from the long journey, offered little protection from the sun, rain, and dirt. When they reached the valley in early October, some in their company were too ill or exhausted to celebrate.34
More than a week passed after Drusilla and her family arrived in the valley, and still they had no news about William. After the battalion arrived at the California coast, some veterans had stayed behind to work and earn money while others headed east to the Salt Lake Valley or Winter Quarters. For all Drusilla knew, William could be anywhere between the Pacific Ocean and the Missouri River.35
With winter approaching, Drusilla and her family had almost no warm clothing, little food, and no way to build a house. Their situation looked bleak, but she trusted in God that all would work out. One night, Drusilla dreamed of the temple the Saints would build in the valley, as Wilford Woodruff had a few months earlier. Joseph Smith stood on top of it, looking exactly as he had in life. Drusilla called her husband and children to her and said, “There is Joseph.” The prophet spoke with them, and two doves flew down to the family.
Waking from the dream, Drusilla believed the doves represented the Spirit of the Lord, a sign of divine approval of the decisions she and her family had made. She believed that their sacrifices had not gone unnoticed.
Later that day, a group of footsore battalion veterans arrived in the valley. This time, William was among them.36

Tom was worried. He wished now that he had remembered what day it was when he first woke up. He could have pretended to be sick so he wouldn’t have to go to school, even though it would have meant staying in bed all day. But now he sat there at the table, staring at the darkening heap of brown sugar he had piled on his oatmeal. Suddenly his mother’s voice broke the silence. “You had better hurry, Tom, or you’ll miss the bus.” He sat up straight in his chair and began to gulp down the cereal that was now cold.
Upstairs he busied himself with dressing. Then he stepped out into the cold January morning. The weather did nothing to improve his spirits. The overcast sky was a dull gray, and a cold wind was blowing snow out of the northwest. It seemed that the only time it snowed big flakes was when it warmed up.
The bus was late that morning, and for a few happy moments Tom thought that school had been called off. Yet the roads were all plowed, and at last in the distance he recognized the yellow school bus. It was only half full when he got on, and most of the kids were in the front of the bus where it was warmer. He walked to the very back, then laid his books on the seat beside him to discourage anyone from sitting there. He didn’t feel much like talking.
When Jim Winters got on the bus, he spotted Tom right away, picked up Tom’s books, and sat down beside him. “Hi!” Tom nodded, wishing Jim would go away. “Do you think you can whip him?” Jim asked.
“Sure,” said Tom, although he didn’t like the idea of fighting. He wished that the gang had picked someone else as their leader, although he enjoyed the feeling of authority at times. Jim seemed to sense that Tom didn’t want to talk and kept quiet for the remainder of the ride. The bell rang as soon as the bus arrived, and the sound was like a last-minute reprieve. Tom even managed to smile at Miss Culler, their teacher, as he slid into his desk.
Tom went over again in his mind the plan the gang had decided upon to initiate the new boy Marty Simms. Jim Winters and Danny Ryan would tell the new boy at recess that it was his turn to haul wood for the school stove. Tom would be waiting when Marty went out back of the school to get the wood. Tom would tell Marty that if he wanted to get along in the school, he’d have to fight then and there.
The morning recess came all too soon. Pulling on his sweater, Tom slipped out the side door and around to the back of the building. The woodpile was still there, hidden from the school by the huge elm trees surrounding it. This was a pleasant spot in warm weather where the gang usually ate lunch. But today it was a desolate place, with the stiff tarpaulins, like ghostly shrouds, thrown over the piles of wood to keep them dry. Tom sat down on a chunk of wood that had worked loose from the pile and waited.
Marty came around the edge of the woodpile and stopped. Tom knew by the frightened look on the new boy’s face that he sensed he had been tricked. He mumbled something about fetching firewood, and Tom stepped in front of him. Tom could not help feeling sorry for this new boy. He hated himself for being there, but now the rest of the gang had arrived at the woodpile. He looked at Marty, whose face still had the look of a cornered animal, but his eyes shone with a certain pride and defiance that Tom found disconcerting. “You’re going to have to fight me if you want to stay in this school,” Tom declared. Marty said nothing, but moved back several steps and raised his hands.
The boys circled each other there in the shadow of the woodpile, oblivious to the shouting around them. The smaller boy’s arms struck out, but Tom managed to dodge each blow, so that the jabs hit only empty space. Tom waited for an opening and when it came, he smacked the new boy hard. Marty staggered a moment, then grabbed Tom, and they both fell to the ground. They rolled in the snow pounding each other. Tom’s weight soon began to tell. Finally the smaller boy blurted out, “I give! I give!” and Tom stood up, then watched the retreating figure. He did not hear the cheers of the other boys or feel them pounding him on the back. He didn’t feel the least bit like a hero; instead he felt ashamed of himself. Tom vowed that if he had anything to say about it, Marty would be the last new boy coming to the school that had to undergo such rough treatment.
The bell rang to signal the end of recess, and the gang began to drift toward the schoolhouse. Tom could tell that Miss Culler had already heard of the fight, for she gave him a strange look as he sat down at his desk. Finally she walked down the aisle, looked at Marty and asked, “What happened to you at recess?”
Marty looked away from her and mumbled, “I fell on the woodpile, Miss Culler.” She stood for a moment in front of him, then wheeled around and walked briskly to her desk. Tom knew that she was angry and her anger only made him feel worse.
The next several days seemed like an eternity. Marty kept to himself, and Tom did not have a chance to speak to him. On the third day the sun came out, and by noon the snow was soft and packy. It was ideal for making snowballs and the gang soon had a fort built of snow. Tom and Jim were chosen to choose up sides for a snowball fight. It was Tom’s turn first, and as he looked out at the eager faces, he caught a glimpse of Marty standing alone near the corner of the schoolhouse. His voice rang loud and clear across the schoolyard, “I’ll take Marty Simms!”
Marty stood still for a moment as though he couldn’t believe his ears, then proudly he walked forward to take his place with the gang behind the fort.

I shall tell you one more story in closing, one that I think I have told you before. In the days before I went on my first mission, the Saltair Dance Hall was thought to be the finest dance hall in all America. I was there one night, and a young lady came up and said, “LeGrand, we’re having a wonderful banquet downstairs. Wouldn’t you like to join us?”

You know the old saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his tummy. I could not turn that invitation down. So we took hold of hands and went hopscotching down the steps into the north end of that pavilion. As we neared a long table spread, I noticed that by each plate was one of those tall beer bottles they used to have when I was a boy. When I saw that we were headed for that table, I stopped as though I had been shot. The girl I had by the hand looked at me and asked, “What’s the matter? Are you too good to drink a little beer?”

I had to think awfully fast, so I said, “Well, Elsie, I guess I am. I thought you were. Good-bye.” And I went up those steps a lot faster than I had come down.

I have asked myself time and time again if I would ever have become a Presiding Bishop of this Church, to preside over all the young boys of this Church—the Aaronic priesthood and the girls of the same age—if I had sat at that table that day. If one never takes the first beer he never needs to worry about the second one. If he never takes the first cigarette, he never needs to worry about the second one. And so I stand before you here today thanking God for the inspiration of the Holy Ghost that has been my companion through life, that has given me the power to make the decisions that I needed to make so that I can stand here in honor today and advise you to do the same.

A short time after that reunion, young Bruford Reynolds, a son, who was also a bishop, called and said, “Did you know my dad is in the hospital? He had a serious heart attack. He is in the LDS Hospital, and we wondered if you knew.” I had not known. I told him that I would like to see him but I had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. I didn’t see how I could get up to the hospital before I had to leave. He then said, “Oh, that’s okay. Dad is going to be released tomorrow to return home.”
I said, “Tell him I love him, and I’ll drop in to see him as soon as I get back.”
I hung up the phone, thought for only a moment, and decided everything else could wait. I took my briefcase, airplane tickets, and drove to the LDS Hospital to see Bruford Reynolds. As I walked through the door, our eyes met. The love between a great man and boy spanned the years. I went over to him and sat down, and we talked. Then I said, “I know you have been administered to, but would you feel all right if I knelt by your bed and offered a prayer?” I knelt down and together we prayed. When I finished, my eyes were filled with tears, as were his. Then I bent down over him and kissed him on the forehead and left.
Bruford Reynolds died an hour later. I was one of his boys, saying “farewell” to a great adviser one last time.

When I returned to Buenos Aires, my mother realized that I truly wanted to be baptized. Since I had a somewhat rebellious spirit, instead of opposing me, she very wisely took my side. And without even knowing it, she did my baptismal interview herself. Indeed, I believe that her interview was even more in-depth than those that our missionaries conduct. She told me, “If you want to be baptized, I will support you. But first I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard and answer me honestly. Do you commit to attend church absolutely every Sunday?”
I told her, “Yes, of course I’m going to do that.”
“Do you have any idea how long church is?”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
She replied, “Well, if you get baptized, I am going to make sure that you attend.” Then she asked me if I was truly willing to never drink alcohol or smoke.
I answered, “Yes, of course I am going to comply with that as well.”
To which she added, “If you get baptized, I am going to make sure that that is the case.” And she proceeded on in that way with almost every commandment.
My uncle had called my mother to tell her not to worry, that I would get over this soon. Four years later, when I received my call to serve in the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, my mother called my uncle to ask him exactly when I was going to get over all this. The truth is that from the time I was baptized, my mother was a happier mother.

Permit just a personal reference to this. Back in the 1940s my younger brother received a mission call to New England, and (without running through all the details which really don’t matter) he was sent to a little community in Nova Scotia called Kentville. There he labored for most of his mission. As some elders and missionaries do, he came home seemingly a failure in terms of convert baptisms. And you know how older brothers are with little brothers who don’t produce, don’t you? I didn’t let him off the hook at all. Twenty years later, almost to the day, his older brother Paul was called to preside over the same mission. In my first district conference at Halifax, Nova Scotia, a little lady came up to me after the first session. She said, “Elder Dunn, Elder Dunn, do you have a brother by the name of David?”

And I said, “I believe I do.”

And she said, “Was he on a mission in New England?”

I said, “He was.”

And then (missionaries will appreciate this) she opened her purse and shuffled through all her pictures. She lifted one out and said, “Is that he?”

I said, “Twenty years ago, that was he.”

“Oh,” she said, “where is he?”

I said, “He’s in southern California.”

“Oh, I’d like to communicate with him. He’s responsible for bringing me into the Church.”

I said, “No, ma’am, you’re mistaken. My brother didn’t bring anybody into the Church.”

“Oh,” she said, “I hate to correct you, sir, but—.” Then she called six other people over, all with great families, who happened to be the backbone of the district at Halifax. And she said, “All of these are because of your brother. We thank God for him.”

Out of small things great things shall proceed.

Some weeks ago a bewildered father asked, “Why is it I seem to be able to communicate with everyone except my own son?”
I responded with, “What do you mean you can’t communicate with your son?”
“It’s just that whenever I try to tell him anything, he tunes me out,” he replied.
During our private discussion which followed, and very often since, I have concluded that perhaps one of the principal reasons we fail to relate appropriately with family members is because we fail to apply some basics of personal communications. In Hebrews 13:16 we read, “But to do good and to communicate forget not: for with such sacrifices God is well pleased.” Communications in the family will often be a sacrifice because we are expected to use our time, our means, our talent, and our patience to impart, share, and understand. Too often we use communication periods as occasions to tell, dictate, plead, or threaten. Nowhere in the broadest sense should communication in the family be used to impose, command, or embarrass.
To be effective, family communication must be an exchange of feelings and information. Doors of communication will swing open in the home if members will realize time and participation on the part of all are necessary ingredients. In family discussions, differences should not be ignored, but should be weighed and evaluated calmly. One’s point or opinion usually is not as important as a healthy, continuing relationship. Courtesy and respect in listening and responding during discussions are basic in proper dialogue. As we learn to participate together in meaningful associations, we are able to convey our thoughts of love, dependence, and interest. When we are inclined to give up in despair in our efforts to communicate because other family members have failed to respond, perhaps we would do well not to give up, but rather to give and take in our conversations. How important it is to know how to disagree with another’s point of view without being disagreeable. How important it is to have discussion periods ahead of decisions. Jones Stephens wrote, “I have learned that the head does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows today the head will understand tomorrow.”
Let me share with you seven basic suggestions for more effective family communication.
A willingness to sacrifice. Be the kind of a family member who is willing to take time to be available. Develop the ability and self-discipline to think of other family members and their communication needs ahead of your own—a willingness to prepare for the moment—the sharing moment, the teaching moment. Shed the very appearance of preoccupation in self, and learn the skill of penetrating a family member’s shield of preoccupation. Sad is the day when a daughter is heard to say, “My mother gives me everything except herself.”
Too early and too often we sow the seeds of “Can’t you see I’m busy? Don’t bother me now.” When we convey the attitude of “Go away, don’t bother me now,” family members are apt to go elsewhere or isolate themselves in silence. All family members on some occasion or other must be taken on their own terms so they will be willing to come, share, and ask.
It takes personal sacrifice to communicate when conditions are right for the other person—during the meal preparation, after a date, a hurt, a victory, a disappointment, or when someone wants to share a confidence. One must be willing to forego personal convenience to invest time in establishing a firm foundation for family communication. When communication in the family seems to be bogging down, each individual should look to himself for the remedy.
If we would know true love and understanding one for another, we must realize that communication is more than a sharing of words. It is the wise sharing of emotions, feelings, and concerns. It is the sharing of oneself totally. “Who is a wise man and endued with knowledge among you? let him shew out of a good conversation his works with meekness of wisdom.” (James 3:13.)
A willingness to set the stage. The location, setting, or circumstances should be comfortable, private, and conversation-conducive. Effective communications have been shared in a grove of trees, on the mount, by the sea, in family home evening, during a walk, in a car, during a vacation, a hospital visit, on the way to school, during the game. When the stage is set, we must be willing to let the other family member be front and center as we appropriately respond.
Months and years after the score of a baseball game is long forgotten, the memory of having been there all alone with Dad will never dim. I’ll not soon forget a ten-year-old girl excitedly telling me she had just ridden in the car with her daddy all the way from Salt Lake to Provo and back. “Was the radio on?” I asked. “Oh, no,” she responded, “all Daddy did was listen and talk to me.” She had her daddy all to herself in a setting she’ll not soon forget. Let the stage be set whenever the need is there. Let the stage be set whenever the other person is ready.
A willingness to listen. Listening is more than being quiet. Listening is much more than silence. Listening requires undivided attention. The time to listen is when someone needs to be heard. The time to deal with a person with a problem is when he has the problem. The time to listen is the time when our interest and love are vital to the one who seeks our ear, our heart, our help, and our empathy.
We should all increase our ability to ask comfortable questions, and then listen—intently, naturally. Listening is a tied-in part of loving. How powerful are the words, “Wherefore, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath:
“For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.” (James 1:19–20.)
A willingness to vocalize feelings. How important it is to be willing to voice one’s thoughts and feelings. Yes, how important it is to be able to converse on the level of each family member. Too often we are inclined to let family members assume how we feel toward them. Often wrong conclusions are reached. Very often we could have performed better had we known how family members felt about us and what they expected.
John Powell shares this touching experience: “It was the day my father died. … In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when … my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I … told my mother … :
“‘It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.’
“She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: ‘Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.’
“Somehow I knew … that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
“Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her:
“‘I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he was proud of me. He never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied of his heart, but he never told me.’” (The Secret of Staying in Love, Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1974, p. 68.)
How significant are God’s words when he took the time to vocalize his feelings with, “This is my beloved Son,” yes, even the powerful communication, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” (Matt. 3:17.)
Often parents communicate most effectively with their children by the way they listen to and address each other. Their conversations showing gentleness and love are heard by our ever-alert, impressionable children. We must learn to communicate effectively not only by voice, but by tone, feeling, glances, mannerisms, and total personality. Too often when we are not able to converse with a daughter or wife we wonder, “What is wrong with her?” when we should be wondering, “What is wrong with our methods?” A meaningful smile, an appropriate pat on the shoulder, and a warm handshake are all-important. Silence isolates. Strained silent periods cause wonderment, hurt, and, most often, wrong conclusions.
God knows the full impact of continuing communication as he admonishes us to pray constantly. He, too, has promised to respond as we relate to him effectively.
A willingness to avoid judgment. Try to be understanding and not critical. Don’t display shock, alarm, or disgust with others’ comments or observations. Don’t react violently. Work within the framework of a person’s free agency. Convey the bright and optimistic approach. There is hope. There is a way back. There is a possibility for better understanding.
Let a common ground for personal decision be developed. “Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more” (John 8:11) are words that are just as gentle and effective today as when they were first uttered.
Avoid imposing your values on others. When we can learn to deal with issues without involving personalities and at the same time avoid bias and emotions, we are on our way to effective family communications. When a family member makes a decision which may be inadequate or improper, do we have the ability and patience to convey the attitude that we don’t agree with his decision but he has the right of choice and is still a loved member of the family?
It is easy to point out mistakes and pass judgment. Sincere compliments and praise come much harder from most of us. It takes real maturity for a parent to apologize to a child for an error. An honest apology often makes the son or daughter feel surprisingly warm toward the mother or father or brother or sister. “For in many things we offend all. If any man offend not in word, the same is a perfect man, and able also to bridle the whole body.” (James 3:2.)
A willingness to maintain confidences. Be worthy of trust even in trivial questions and observations. Weighty questions and observations will only follow if we have been trustworthy with the trivial. Treat innermost trusts and concerns with respect. Build on deserved trust. Individuals who are blessed to have a relationship with someone to whom they can confidently talk and trust are fortunate indeed. Who is to say a family trust is not greater than a community trust?
A willingness to practice patience. Patience in communication is that certain ingredient of conduct we hope others will exhibit toward us when we fail to measure up. Our own patience is developed when we are patient with others.
“Be patient; be sober; be temperate; have patience, faith, hope and charity.” (D&C 6:19.)
“I get sick and tired of listening to your complaints” and “I have told you a thousand times” are but two of many often-repeated family quotations that indicate patience is gone and channels of communication are plugged.
It takes courage to communicate patiently. We constantly need to express pride, hope, and love on a most sincere basis. Each of us needs to avoid coming through as one who has given up and has become totally weary in trying.
The correction of family members in front of others is to be avoided. Much more notice is taken in quiet, private conversation. Calm endurance is a priceless virtue in one’s relationship with all family members.
When family members tune each other out, communication is not taking place. Words spoken are unheard, unwanted, and resisted when we fail to understand the basics for proper interchange. Each must be willing to do his part to improve, since the family unit is the basic foundation of the Church. Proper communication will always be a main ingredient for building family solidarity and permanence.
I pray our Heavenly Father will help us to communicate more effectively in the home through a willingness to sacrifice, a willingness to listen, a willingness to vocalize feelings, a willingness to avoid judgment, a willingness to maintain confidences, and a willingness to practice patience. “How forcible are right words!” (Job 6:25.) Yes, how forcible are right words shared at the right moment with the right person.
May our gracious and kind Heavenly Father help us in our needs and desires for more effective family communication. Communication can help build family unity if we will work at it and sacrifice for it. For this goal, I pray in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

At an amusement park, my friend and I went on one ride while my mom and my sister went on another ride. After the ride was over, my friend asked if I wanted to go on the roller coaster. I said no because my mother had said to come right back after the ride. He said he would pay me if I went on the ride with him. I said no. He kept adding more and more money. He even said he would pay me $100. I said no. Later, I told my mom what had happened. She was proud of me for obeying her. I felt good that I followed the commandment to obey my parents.

Many years ago, our 15-year-old son Eric suffered a serious head injury. Seeing him in a coma for over a week broke our hearts. The doctors told us they were uncertain about what would happen next. Obviously, we were thrilled when he began to regain consciousness. We thought now everything was going to be fine, but we were mistaken.
When he awoke, he could not walk or talk or feed himself. Worst of all, he had no short-term memory. He could remember most everything before the accident, but he had no ability to remember events after, even things which had happened only minutes earlier.
For a time, we worried we would have a son locked in the mind of a 15-year-old. Things had come very easily to our son before the accident. He was athletic, popular, and did very well in school. Before, his future seemed bright; now we worried he may not have much of a future, at least one he could remember. He now struggled to relearn very, very basic skills. This was a very humbling time for him. It was also a very humbling time for his parents.
Honestly, we wondered how such a thing could happen. We had always strived to do the right things. Living the gospel had been a high priority for our family. We couldn’t understand how something so painful could happen to us. We were driven to our knees as it soon became apparent his rehabilitation would take months, even years. More difficult still was the gradual realization he would not be as he was before.
During this time, many tears were shed and our prayers became even more heartfelt and sincere. Through the eyes of humility, we gradually began to see the small miracles which our son experienced during this painful time. He began making gradual improvement. His attitude and outlook were very positive.
Today, our son Eric is married to a wonderful companion, and they have five beautiful children. He is a passionate educator and contributor to his community, as well as the Church. Most important, he continues to live in the same spirit of humility he gained long ago.

Several years ago I served as a temple worker in the Santiago Chile Temple. During one evening shift I began to experience difficulty breathing, so I reluctantly requested to leave early.
As I walked to the subway station, I prayed that the train I needed would be there so I could get home soon. I thought my prayer was answered when I saw the train stopped at the platform. But as I approached, I saw the train staff rushing to help a passenger who was experiencing a possible heart attack. The words of my favorite hymn pierced my mind: “Have I done any good in the world today?”1 I immediately felt impressed to help.
I hurried to where the staff took the young man to wait for the ambulance, and they allowed me to stay. I prayed to know what to do and pled with Heavenly Father to spare the young man’s life. I didn’t want to leave him alone and scared, so I held his hand and tried to help him remain calm. I assured him that he had a long life ahead and that God had a purpose for him. I found out his family’s phone number, called them, and let them know their son was on his way to the hospital and was not alone.
When the paramedics arrived, I followed them to the ambulance. I felt I should stay with the young man until his family arrived. To my surprise, the paramedics decided I should come with them, so I held the young man’s hand all the way to the hospital.
Shortly after we arrived, they took him to the emergency room, and I went outside to watch for his family. When they came, his mother broke into tears, threw her arms around me, and said she was so glad there are still good people on earth.
A week later I received a phone call from the young man. He told me the doctors said that remaining calm had been critical during that time before he reached the hospital.
Until that day, he did not believe in God. I was speechless when he exclaimed, “You saved my life, and I am forever grateful to you! Now I know there is a God.”
When I left the temple early that day, the Spirit led me to the right place at the right time. I feel grateful to our Heavenly Father for guiding me and giving me courage to do as the hymn says and not let the opportunity pass by, even if the only thing I could do was hold the hand of a stranger.

In the book The Star Thrower, Loren Eiseley writes of the beaches of Costabel and tells how the tourists and professional shell collectors, with a kind of greedy madness, begin early in the morning in their attempts to outrun their less-aggressive neighbors as they gather, collect, and compete. After a storm, people are seen hurrying along with bundles, gathering starfish in their sacks. Following one such episode, the writer says:

I met the star thrower. . . .
. . . He was gazing fixedly at something in the sand.
Eventually he stooped and flung the object beyond the breaking surf. . . .
. . . “Do you collect?” [I asked.]
“Only like this,” he said softly. . . . “And only for the living.” He stooped again, oblivious of my curiosity, and skipped another star neatly across the water.
“The stars,” he said, “throw well. One can help them.” . . .
. . . For a moment, in the changing light, the sower appeared magnified, as though casting larger stars upon some greater sea. He had, at any rate, the posture of a god. . . .
I picked [up] and flung [a] star. . . .
. . . I could have thrown in a frenzy of joy, but I set my shoulders and cast, as the thrower in the rainbow cast, slowly, deliberately, and well. The task was not to be assumed lightly, for it was men as well as starfish that we sought to save. [Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1978), pp. 171–72, 184]

One day I met a young lady from Chile working as an usher during the open house. She was very excited and offered to help wherever she was needed. She told me she was in the United States sightseeing for only a few weeks, and she would soon be returning to her country. I asked her how long she had been a member of the Church and was astonished when she told me she hadn’t been baptized yet.
She must have noticed I was speechless, so she told me her story. On the second day of her vacation, she had seen an ad in the newspaper announcing the temple open house. She was curious and decided to visit. During the tour she felt so moved by the beauty and peace she felt that she could not hold back her tears. When the tour was over, she asked the missionaries to tell her more about the Church. After being taught, she made the decision to be baptized. She had come here on vacation, and the Lord prepared a way for her to hear the gospel. And even though she wasn’t a member yet, she had asked to work as an usher for the open house!

I thought then my mother cared more for that house than for anything else, including me. I was wrong, and it didn’t take me long to find out what was really important to her. That winter we lost the house.
Early in March my father called from work and told my mother he wanted to hold a family council that night.
My mother had built a fire in the fireplace and made us hot chocolate. When my father got home, he walked quietly into the living room and looked at us for awhile. Something was wrong. He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. They were shaking. The room was dead silent except for the cracking sounds of burning wood. The room glowed with the flickering orange light.
“Papa, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
He looked up slowly. His eyes were red. It was a shock to us to see him that way. He’d always been unmovably strong before. I’d thought there was nothing he was afraid of or couldn’t handle. The light from the fire that only a second before had seemed so warm was now dark and ominous.
“I’ve failed you,” he said.
He ran his finger through his hair slowly leaving his hand on his forehead.
“The business—I’ve lost everything.” He took a deep breath and looked directly at my mother. He looked old and defeated.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t true.”
He looked at her for a long time and then nodded his head.
“It’s true.” He stood and walked from the room.
The next day my mother sent me and my brothers down to see if we could help my father at work. We found out his business owed a large amount of money that would take him years to pay off. My father told us it would be hard just to make ends meet, and he didn’t know if we would make it, even with the money we’d get from the house. He seemed very depressed.
When we walked into the house that night, it was filled with incredibly delicious smells. We went into the dining room. The table was spread with a banquet. There was a roast goose, my father’s favorite, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, fresh baked bread, rolls, all of it steaming hot.
My father stood in the doorway. His face went red.
“Mama,” he shouted. “What is this? Have you gone crazy? Do you think Thanksgiving comes in March now?”
She smiled calmly.
“It’s a celebration.”
“What’s to celebrate? The world is going crazy, and we’ve lost everything.”
Mama smiled again.
“Papa, we’ve lost nothing.”
My father shook his head.
“Mama, we’re going to lose the house. I found a buyer. He wants to move in next week! I don’t know where we’re going to go or how we’re going to live.”
Mama wasn’t smiling now. She had the determined look she gets on her face when she wants someone to know she means business.
“We’ve lost nothing,” she said. She was glaring at my father. “Nothing that matters. This celebration is to remind us what is most important to us. The food’s getting cold, so shut up and eat.”
For the first time in weeks my father relaxed. The pain he felt faded. He looked around the table at us and then back to my mother. He smiled.
“I married a hard, crazy woman,” he said. “And since Thanksgiving comes in March this year, I think we should give thanks for it.”
He sat at the head of the table and took my mother’s hands.
“Even if the food does get a little cold,” he said and then started a Thanksgiving prayer more eloquent and longer than any we’d ever heard on Thanksgiving Day.
A week later when my mother first saw the run-down house we rented she said, “I think it needs a little paint.” That summer the royal order of the paintbrush went to work again.

A man walked up to a counter in a hardware store that advertised that it carried everything that one might need for the home. Picking up an item, he asked the clerk, “How much is this?”
“Twenty-five cents,” the clerk replied.
“Then one hundred would be seventy-five cents?” the customer asked.
“Yes,” answered the clerk.
“I need fifty-seven,” said the customer.
“That will be fifty cents,” the clerk told him.
All the foregoing statements are correct. What item was being purchased?
Answer:

Illustration by Jens Magnusson
I didn’t know many people at my new middle school. Most of the kids I knew went to a different school, and the few friends I did have were making some bad choices. I was in a tough spot. I didn’t want to be a loner, but I knew I needed to leave the friends I had in order to do what was right.
I was going to have to make new friends.
That has always been a challenge for me. My self-confidence was awful. I was super self-conscious. Small talk was ridiculously hard. And I’m not comfortable opening up to people. The few times I tried, things just didn’t work out. You know things aren’t going your way trying to find good friends when your most promising prospect ends up asking if he can copy off your test. I was beginning to lose hope.
Yet, the prophet had just promised that God could “raise up friends” for those who turn their lives over to Him.1 That’s what I desperately wanted, but I had no idea what it meant to turn my life over to God—until one day, of all places, in the lunchroom.
My daily lunch routine was a series of painful decisions. Sandwich or mystery meat. Peas or carrots. Sit with friends who were headed the wrong direction or sit alone, making it clear to everyone in the room that I was friendless. Mostly it was sandwich. Sometimes it was peas. Sometimes it was carrots. But I could never bear the shame of sitting alone.
Until one day, as I stood holding my sandwich and peas, I finally decided I would rather sit alone than continue down the path my friends and I were headed. Without realizing it, I had just turned my life over to God. I had chosen what was right over what was easy.
Making the right decision was all He needed me to do. I didn’t even have time to take a step toward an empty table before I heard a voice call, “Hey, Adam! Come sit with us.”
It was Curtis. I was shocked. Not only was he one of the most popular kids in the school, but I also knew he had a strong testimony and high standards. His group of friends made a space for me at their table. They remained my friends through our school years, missions, and temple marriages.
I learned a couple of really important lessons that day. I learned God loved me. I learned He wanted to bless me but couldn’t until I had made my decision to follow Him. And I learned that turning my life over to Him wasn’t easy, but it was simple. I just need to choose Him over me.

Two years later my wife and I drove past the scene of a car accident. I realized that no police or ambulance had arrived yet. I had just completed an emergency medical technician course, so I stopped to see if I could help. When I made my way through the crowd, I saw an overturned vehicle with a small child lying nearby on the ground. There was no one giving her any care. I kneeled beside her and began to assess her condition, which was serious.
As I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the face of a man in our ward who was less active. I realized this was his young daughter, who had attended our Primary. A nurse arrived, and we began CPR. When the ambulance crew took over, I returned to my friend’s side. I learned later that his child had ended up partially under the vehicle and others had pulled her out before my arrival. Her injuries were internal, and she did not survive.

Percy Peacock and his friends lived in the garden of the finest castle in the land. On sunny days people loved to stand outside the castle gate and watch the peacocks.
Percy and his friends held their heads high and strutted around the garden. Sometimes they spread their tail feathers to make colorful fans of orange, gold, green, and blue.
The people clapped their hands. “How lovely!” they cried. “What beautiful colors!”
“It’s true,” Percy said to his friends. “We peacocks are the finest, most beautiful of all birds. Just to prove that’s true,” he added, “let’s have a contest to show which bird is the finest of all. We are sure to win.”
The other peacocks all agreed that it was a splendid idea.
“Each bird must bring seeds, nuts, and berries for the prize,” said Percy. “I’m tired of eating the same old castle food.”
Percy and his friends practiced their proudest walks. They spread their tail feathers, walked down to the lake, and admired their reflections in the water.
On the day of the contest, birds came from many lands. There were small ones and large ones. Some birds squawked and others sang. There were yellow birds, red birds, blue birds, and birds of many colors.
Percy had never seen so many birds.
“There is still no bird as fine as we are,” he told his friends. “Look how fat that one is.”
“Yes, and those others are so plain,” ridiculed another peacock.
All day birds flew into the garden. Soon prize baskets were full of corn, wheat, rice, and nuts. Others were overflowing with plums, cherries, and berries.
“What a feast!” declared the peacocks.
When the robin came, she asked, “Who is the judge?”
“Oh, dear!” said Percy. “I forgot about that.”
An old owl sat nearby. “I will be the judge,” he offered.
That was fine with Percy. “I have heard that owls are very wise,” he said. To himself Percy muttered, “Owls are drab and brown and not beautiful at all.”
So all the birds flew before the judge. They flapped their wings and sang their best songs. A white swan glided on the silver lake. Parrots flashed their bright wings. Eagles soared high above the oak tree.
Last of all were the peacocks. They walked proudly and turned all around so that the judge could admire their colorful tails.
Percy anxiously clicked his beak as he passed the prize baskets. Then he shouted, “Now announce who the winner is!”
All the birds stood around the owl. The owl looked at Percy. He cleared his throat. “It is true that you peacocks have beautiful tail feathers,” he said. “But you are not modest like the robin or sensible like the sparrow. You don’t have the nightingale’s sweet song or the swan’s fine manners. You are not as fast as the hummingbird or as friendly as the canary.”
“Then who won?” asked the parrot.
“No one and everyone,” the owl said wisely. “Each of you is special. Each can learn from the other.”
For once Percy had nothing to say.
Then all the birds asked one another, “If no one won, who gets the prize?”
“All of us,” said the sparrow. “We will share.”
And that is what they did.

When I started my first job following Graduate School, I was hired as a caseworker at the Youth Services Center in St. Anthony, Idaho, which served as the State institution for incarcerated delinquents. I was assigned to work at the cottage which housed the older youth on the campus. When introducing me to the inmates, the psychologist pronounced, “This is Mr. Miyasaki. He has a black belt in karate, so no one mess with him.” I didn’t quite know how to respond, so I didn’t and the legend began. By the way, the only black belt I had was used to hold my pants up. However, rumors flew, and I quite enjoyed the instant respect and fear. Then one night I was called to come in as there was a fight in the dorm. We decided that we needed to place one of the boys in lock-up until the situation cooled down. As I escorting this young man to the lock up room, we first entered a small locked cubicle that was a safety area between the hallway and the lock up room, with just barely enough room to have two people standing together. In these crowded quarters this young man challenged, “Okay, Mr. Miyasaki, let’s see what you got. It’s just you and me.”

A quick twinge of fear of exposing my lack of martial arts skill arose, but I quickly countered with, “Oh, you don’t want to do that because I going to plant this right foot into your left jaw.” He then replied, let me in lock up, I was just kidding. What he didn’t know was if he would of said go for it, I would asked him to kneel down. In contrast with my dependence upon a faulty image, again, the Savior has shown the perfect example of being steadfast and immovable in those situations that were most trying, For in his life despite the world judging him to be a thing of naught; “…wherefore they scourge him, and he suffereth it; and they smite him, and he suffereth it. Yea, they spit upon him, and he suffereth it, because of his loving kindness and his long-suffering towards the children of men.”[19] The Savior never faltered or relied upon worldly measures of power and strength in the end of his mortal existence, for He knew who He was and was steadfast and immovable, as His will had moved to be swallowed in the will of His Father’s. So it is the task of each of us to move to that same state.