Gospel Story Finder

My brother-in-law, Taylor, works in Washington, D.C., for the United States Department of Agriculture. As part of his job, he is expected to attend a number of social functions. These functions almost always have alcohol served to the guests. The people who work with Taylor know of his religious beliefs and commitment to abstain from all alcoholic beverages, and they will often thoughtfully provide something else to drink in their place.
At one particular function, someone had brought a few beverages that claimed to be alcohol free. Taylor was offered one of these drinks, but since the brand and type of drink were unfamiliar to him, he said in a friendly manner, “I’ll have to check that label first.”
Taylor read the fine print on the bottle, and sure enough, the drink contained a small amount of alcohol. “Look,” Taylor said, “it has alcohol in it.”
The person who had offered the drink said, “Let me see that!” After looking for a minute, he turned to Taylor and pointed at the label. “Taylor, it has only 1% alcohol. Can’t you even drink that?”
Not wanting to offend his friend, yet not willing to compromise his standards, Taylor replied, “Well, when you’re 100% committed, 99% just isn’t good enough.” He thanked them for trying to accommodate him but turned down the drink.

An experience I had when I was 15 years old was foundational for me. My faithful mother had valiantly tried to help me establish the foundations of faith in my life. I attended sacrament meeting, Primary, then Young Men and seminary. I had read the Book of Mormon and had always prayed individually. At that time a dramatic event occurred in our family when my beloved older brother was considering a potential mission call. My wonderful father, a less-active Church member, wanted him to continue his education and not serve a mission. This became a point of contention.

In a remarkable discussion with my brother, who was five years older and led the discussion, we concluded that his decision on whether to serve a mission depended on three issues: (1) Was Jesus Christ divine? (2) Was the Book of Mormon true? (3) Was Joseph Smith the prophet of the Restoration?

As I prayed sincerely that night, the Spirit confirmed to me the truth of all three questions. I also came to understand that almost every decision I would make for the rest of my life would be based on the answers to those three questions. I particularly realized that faith in the Lord Jesus Christ was essential. In looking back, I recognize that, primarily because of my mother, the foundations were in place for me to receive the spiritual confirmation that evening. My brother, who already had a testimony, made the decision to serve a mission and ultimately won our father’s support.

The Lord also provided for me by helping me get a job at a doctor’s office. Soon I had an opportunity to certify to work in emergency care. I took the certification class, but the exam fell just two weeks after my baby was born. I had studied and attended class all through the course, but during those two weeks when I needed to study the most, I also needed to take care of my new daughter. I was overwhelmed. Without study time, I wasn’t sure I could pass the exam.
I was about to give up and not take the test, but then I realized that the Lord had blessed me with this opportunity. When I prayed, the Spirit assured me that I had done my part and I would receive the Lord’s help.
Trusting that the Lord would help me, I took the exam. I was relieved to find that it focused on material I knew best. I passed, and the increased opportunities that the emergency certification gave me were exactly what my family needed. I was able to spend more time with my children and earn more money to care for them.

When I was growing up in the Cottonwood area of Salt Lake County; it was the rural part of the valley. One of the men who had the greatest dignity and commanded the greatest respect was an old Scandinavian brother who, after walking a couple of miles, traveled by streetcar to work at the Salt Lake City Cemetery and back every day. His work was to water and mow the grass, tend the flowers, and dig the graves. He said little because he did not speak English well, but he was always where he should be, doing what he should do in a most dignified and exemplary way. He had no problems with ego, or with faith, for while he dug graves for a living, his work was to serve God. He was a man of little status, but of great worth.

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, “but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys in the fifth grade. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Fillmore and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting one time telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY - WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school.
The next day when he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it.” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, What if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned. “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened up on him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was an Eagle Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

Two days later, on December 31, Wilford and Azmon were baptized. The day of their baptism, however, was not calm and peaceful. As Wilford was getting ready to leave, his horse kicked the hat right off his head. If the horse had kicked two inches lower, Wilford probably would have been killed.
Just ten minutes later, while he was driving this same horse and another hitched to a sled, several loose floorboards gave way! Wilford fell through them to the ground. He held on to the harnesses with all his might as the two frightened horses dragged him down the hill, where he was able to stop them without being seriously injured.
When he finally got to the lake where his baptism was to take place, the ground at the lake’s edge was covered with three feet of snow. Chunks of ice were floating in the water. Nevertheless, he eagerly stepped into the water, was baptized by immersion, and came up filled with joy and excitement. He didn’t care if the water was icy cold—he had found the Lord’s Church! He then and there made a promise to the Lord that he would do anything, go anywhere, and sacrifice everything, if need be, for Heavenly Father.
Wilford Woodruff kept that promise. In fact, he was so loyal, so dependable, that he was called Wilford the Faithful. He served several missions for the Church, was a devoted friend of the Prophet Joseph Smith, crossed the plains with President Brigham Young, and later became the fourth President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He died in 1898 at the age of 92.

Sometime, either before, during, or after the call, the Lord confirms to the man being called that his call is of God. One young stake president reported his confirmation this way:
“When I was interviewed, I was 32 years old and had served about four years as bishop. One of those conducting the interviews asked two poignant questions: (1) How did you gain your testimony? and (2) Would you share with us your testimony of the Savior? I shared my experience as a teenager, shortly after my mother passed away, when I learned for myself the truthfulness of the restored gospel, specifically with regard to the Book of Mormon.
“As I shared my testimony of the Savior, I received a witness that I would be called as the next stake president. I drove home and told my wife about my experience. When I told her that I thought I could be called as the next stake president, she responded, ‘You’re good, but you’re not that good.’ The phone rang two hours later, and I was invited to return with my wife, and the call was extended.”

Let me tell you of a recent experience that is part of the lives of General Authorities of the Church. As you may know, the Seventies serve in area presidencies and most live away from here in many nations of the earth. Each year the Quorums of the Seventy receive new or extended assignments for the coming year. Some of these assignments may mean that the General Authority and his wife will spend from three to five years away from their homes and families.

The First Presidency, because of their great love and concern for the Brethren and their wives and children, always have interviewed each Seventy personally before giving him an assignment. During this interview the members of the First Presidency inquire into the many issues that surround the Seventy and his family. These interviews have required great time and effort on the part of the First Presidency.

Recently all of the General Authorities and their wives were invited to a special meeting with the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. There President Thomas S. Monson explained that the First Presidency simply had not had the time to conduct their regular interviews. Then he informed all of us to prepare ourselves because he would announce, from the pulpit, our assignments for the coming year.

The suspense was great as President Monson announced the list of assignments, which would require great sacrifices by those leaving their homes and families. Personally, I have never witnessed a greater demonstration of willing sacrifice. I heard no complaints. I heard not a single negative comment. No one objected to either the method or the nature of the assignment. All of the Seventies and their wives simply returned from that meeting to begin the preparations that would take many from their homes and families for several years.

As a child, I was influenced by a lot of people, especially by my parents and my uncles and aunts, friends, teachers, stake president, and the prophet. But if I were to pick just one person who influenced me, it would be President Spencer W. Kimball. Living in El Paso, Texas, we belonged to the Mt. Graham Stake, which was centered in Arizona. President Kimball was our stake president at that time. His wife, Camilla, was first cousin to my father, so we were related.
Whenever President Kimball came to El Paso on stake business, he stayed at our house. At that time my father was on the high council. One of the things I remember about President Kimball was how businesslike he was and how fast he worked. He typically, like my dad and many of that generation, had bread and milk for supper.
He was a marvelous man. He took a special interest in me—at least that’s the feeling I had. Later I learned that everybody felt like that. He was the first Church leader to invite me to go on a mission. He wrote to me, telling me about his mission, and that influenced me.
When I received my mission call, I traveled to Salt Lake City to enter the mission home. At that time, missionaries were set apart by General Authorities. I was set apart by Elder Spencer W. Kimball, who was then an Apostle.
He also performed the marriage and sealing of my wife and me. On several occasions when we lived in Salt Lake City and there was illness in our family, he responded to a call for a special blessing. And when we lived in the state of Washington, he took time out to visit with us there.
I remember visiting with him after he had been called as President of the Church. What a humble man he was. Here he had been called to be the prophet, yet he and his wife took the time to have a family home evening with our family and all the children.

Juliana was a little bit scared to give a talk in Primary.
Grandma gave Juliana a hug. “Heavenly Father will help you,” she whispered.
When it was her turn, Juliana saw her friends, her teacher, and Grandma and Grandpa all smiling at her. Then she gave her talk.
“I am a child of God. I show that I love Heavenly Father by learning about Jesus, saying my prayers, and helping my family. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After Primary, Juliana gave Grandma a big hug. “I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I knew that Heavenly Father was helping me.”

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Nauvoo! How could they bear to leave their beautiful home? All was cold and gray across the river, but Aurelia remembered how the city had looked when she first saw it.
It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.
Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.
Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.
“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!
All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.
George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.
Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.
Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.
Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.
Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

A couple of years ago a young man—let’s call him John—came to my office, having shortly returned from his mission. He was a student at this university.
He said to me, with great concern, “Elder Clarke, I need help. I loved my mission. It changed me. However, I am losing some of those sacred and special feelings that I felt in the mission field. I live in an apartment of returned missionaries. We don’t pray together, and we don’t read the scriptures together.”
He was pleading, “Can you help me?”
He asked, “What can I do to feel like I felt in the mission field?”
I have seen this happen many times. It is not just a question for returned missionaries. His question was, “What can I do to be happy, feel the Holy Ghost, and be close to the Savior?”
This is a question we all should ask every day.
On that afternoon in my office we turned to James 1:27 and read:
Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.
We then read in Alma 34:28:
And now behold, my beloved brethren, I say unto you, do not suppose that this is all; for after ye have done all these things, if ye turn away the needy, and the naked, and visit not the sick and afflicted, and impart of your substance, if ye have, to those who stand in need—I say unto you, if ye do not any of these things, behold, your prayer is vain, and availeth you nothing, and ye are as hypocrites who do deny the faith.
Pure religion includes caring for the poor and the needy.
...
That day in my office I told John that if he would practice pure religion, he would be happy and feel like he had felt on his mission. We went on to discuss pure religion as defined in James 1:27, Alma 34:28, and John 21.
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John went back to BYU and acted upon what we had discussed. He sent me the following email:

Hi, Elder Clarke.
How are you? I hope all is well. It has been a while since I have written you, and I wanted to see how everything has been going. I feel you should know that I still think about our meeting last January. I felt the Spirit very strong in teaching me life’s principles that we spoke of, and doing so has continued to bless my life. Each month I have learned different things from that conversation and our other conversations since. Visiting the widows and the elderly has been an incredible blessing. I have seen repayments of kindness many times over. I could go on, really, and fill this page with experiences. Thank you. It is truly a blessing to have a great friend.

I would like to share one experience, however, that you might enjoy. A few Sundays ago I went to an assisted-care facility for the elderly to read inspirational stories from the Ensign. The twelve or so of us began with a prayer, and I began to read to them. The Spirit over that hour entered gradually and powerfully, and the simple stories of faith turned into very powerful testimony builders. Many individuals felt a great amount of love and support from the Savior as the Spirit testified of simple truths and testimonies.

It touched my soul to be able to be an instrument for the Lord, because I definitely felt His love for those sweet people. As I was on my way out, a few commented that they wanted to adopt me! I had never known I was capable of feeling such love from and for strangers with whom I had little connection. But I felt the Savior’s love for them, for those kind souls. It appeared clear to me that I would meet these individuals—now riddled by dementia, Alzheimer’s, and physical ailments—on the other side. I would see their husbands and wives, who have been looking over them from the other side of the veil. I felt very much the presence of my grandfather—whom I had never met—as I sat with my grandmother, and his spirit strengthened me and supported me. I knew he was thankful for my simple visit.

Who knew that I could find such tender mercies? It seems so meaningless to come home after something like that and just turn on the TV or tune out in some other way. It has changed me to realize that these tender experiences are available at all moments of the day as we, as Saints, strive to focus and help others in some way.

As I left that room that day, all of the elderly wished for my prompt return. They had bright smiles and warm hearts. They were thankful. In the hallway, your words echoed in my heart: “They will do more for you than you will ever be able to do for them.” What a blessing true service is!

Connie, my wonderful loving wife and mother of our children, is not here with me today. She is home listening to this devotional on the radio as she lies on her couch. She cannot walk. In fact she is unable to sit for more than about an hour a day. Her body is frail and withered, it moves slowly or not at all because it has difficulty responding to the messages sent from her brain, she needs help with the most basic of life's processes. She suffers from the slow, progressively debilitating, and humiliating effects of multiple sclerosis, a disease that randomly attacks and destroys her nervous system.

Once we were young as you are and our hearts were full of dreams and our minds full wonder as we studied and prepared for the future. While attending Ricks College, Connie served as a student body officer and had many wonderful experiences that she shared with me in cherished letters while I served a mission in Finland. Here she is enjoying a devotional luncheon with President Joseph Fielding Smith. One of my dreams was to take her to Finland someday. We did that; in fact, we were able to live there for almost a year. In this picture we are attending an event at the U.S. Embassy in Helsinki.

As a young mother she would share her love of nature with our children walking through the forests and fields naming and explaining the individual characteristics of virtually every wildflower they could find. She loved to cook and I loved her thoughtfully prepared meals. She shared her musical talent with our children as she accompanied their string quartet on many occasions. She even tolerated the emptying of spit valves on her plants as she accompanied our son's Boy Scout brass band practices in our living room.

After our children were in school, she graduated from college and taught kindergarten for 13 years. She was always ready for a good hike into the forest to find a hidden waterfall or a secluded lake. She seemed interested in so much of the goodness and beauty in the world around her. Most of all she loved her family and the people in her life. She was a happy, fun, wonderful mother. She was quick to offer service, to provide a delicious meal, or lend a listening ear.

She can do none of those physical things now. She is confined to her bed and her couch and has difficulty talking but maintains a positive attitude even as the beauty of her smile fades with disease. We have a firm hope in the resurrection and an eternal relationship. I know when she is freed of this disease she will once again fill our home with music and accompany her daughters who now thoughtfully bring their instruments and play for their mother. I hope she will once again cook me a delicious "Connie meal," run with her children and grandchildren, and enjoy all the goodness that abounds in eternity. I have faith and trust in who she really is.

I look at this painting and see a very familiar languishing foot attached to a leg in an unnatural position. I see a familiar weakened reclining posture needing support and protection. I see my wife at the pool of Bethesda with her frail helpless body and constricted hands that can no longer make music, cook food, or move as they once did. I know how desperately she wishes things were different and how patiently she waits to be whole. I also have complete faith and trust that although she can do nothing physically, she does her best and tries her hardest. I know this because that is who she is. My service to her is made easier because I have faith and trust in her.

Then I wish as did Alma: "Oh that I were an angel and could have the wish of my heart" (Alma 29:1). But I am not quite so missionary minded at the moment. I only wish I could take the sorrow and disease away from my dear companion. I wish Christ would have her pick up her bed and walk again as he did with the man at Bethesda. I know He can and I know He will; it just may take more than 38 temporal years. But like Alma I recognize I sin in my wish. I am only a man, only a person, but that is what my wife needs: someone to lift her into the pool. There will be someone in your life who also needs to be lifted or blessed by you I hope you will be sensitive to that need.

I am learning to be content with things which the Lord has allotted me and to have a firm faith and trust in all He has promised: the resurrection into a perfect body, eternal life and progression. And, I cannot deny his hand in blessing our lives for many, many years with all that we ever dreamed of: a companion to love, knowledge of the gospel, a good education, children, a comfortable home, rich memories of good experiences, good work, and opportunities to serve. For this I am eternally grateful.

As my wife's health continues to deteriorate and her condition requires more assistance, I take heart in the fact that I know she is doing all she can physically and emotionally. She has always done her best and worked her hardest. There is no question in my mind she continues to try her best, when her body will not respond to her signals and desires.

The loss of my wife's health and abilities has played an important role in my personal and spiritual growth. The experience has brought me to my knees in tears and pleading on many occasions because I needed further instruction from a wise Heavenly Father. It has opened my heart to truths I had desired to better understand. I do not yet have all the answers to "Why me?" or "Why her?" I do, however, have an increased understanding of many principles; an understanding that is priceless to me.

This morning a brown bird flew in our window at school. It almost got tangled in Rosalie’s long black hair. Rosalie screamed, and then all of us screamed. I guess our screaming scared the poor bird, because it started flying around really fast, not looking where it was going. It bumped into the ceiling light, then banged against the chalkboard.
All of us felt sorry for it, and we were afraid it would get hurt if it kept flying around that way. Then I had an idea. I didn’t know if it was a good idea or not, and I almost didn’t suggest it. But no one else had any idea at all, so I said, “Let’s go out into the hall and leave the bird alone.”
Our teacher, Mrs. Rubin, said, “Good idea, Anna.”
We all got up and tiptoed into the hall. Mrs. Rubin closed the door gently. We sat cross-legged on the floor and waited without making a sound.
At first we heard the bird fluttering and flying and crashing into things. Then it got quiet in the room. Our teacher motioned to me to look through the door glass to see what was happening. I stood on tiptoe and peeked.
The bird was sitting on the back of a chair. I could see how fast its heart was beating through the thin part of its feathers. It looked around, saw the open window, and flew toward it and sat on the sill for a minute. Finally, with a swoop, it was gone. I think it needed time to be alone so that it could decide what to do. Sometimes my mom leaves me alone when I get upset about things. I guess that’s why I knew how to help the bird.
Anyway, when we went back inside and sat down to do our morning board work, it was nice to think about the bird at home in the sky.

I know a young man who just got out of prison—again. Each time two roads diverge in a yellow wood, he takes the wrong one—every time. When he was a teenager dealing with every bad habit a teenage boy can have, I said to his father, “We need to get him to EFY.” I have worked with that program since 1985. I know the good it can do.
His dad said, “I can’t afford that.”
I said, “I can’t afford it either, but you put some in, and I’ll put some in, and then we’ll go to my mom, because she is a real softy.”
We finally got the kid to EFY, but how long do you think he lasted? Not even a day. By the end of the first day he called his mother and said, “Get me out of here!” Heaven will not be heaven for those who have not chosen to be heavenly.

Today he still manages to see the lighter side of things. When I started bringing home fairly respectable grades from my English courses at BYU, dad asked me to tell my professors who my father was. I looked at him, shocked.
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t want to win points that way.”
“You?” He looked at me in surprise. “Look, I wasn’t talking about you. I’m the one who needs to earn points. We football players can stand some good publicity in the English department.”
The fact of the matter is, both dad and mom have always encouraged my brothers and me to work hard in school, to be teachable. Dad demonstrated his own enthusiasm for learning in the summer of 1978 by earning a doctorate in education from Brigham Young University.
My father’s commitment to his family and friends, to his players and his church, is another quality I admire. As my brothers and I were growing up, dad and mom made it a point to attend the activities we were involved with, no matter how marginally. The summer after my senior year in high school, I was cast as a servant in a local production of King Lear. Since I didn’t have a single line in the play and spent more time in the wings handling props than I did on stage, I told dad he didn’t have to come watch me, particularly since mom was out of town and wouldn’t be able to accompany him. Opening night, however, found dad sitting front and center, and he stayed there the entire four hours although I was on the stage for less than three minutes. Now that’s commitment.
This quality of commitment shines in other facets of his life. It is the basis of his relationship with players. One of the ways he demonstrates his commitment to players is by demanding that they give their best on and off the field. He knows, I suppose, that self-respect is attained by giving 100 percent over and over again. Commitment also characterizes his involvement in the Church. A home teacher and a priests quorum adviser, he has lately accepted the additional responsibility and pleasure of speaking to youth groups everywhere from Los Angeles, California, to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
In the final analysis, however, it is his kindness that makes dad a special man, a special parent. I’ve seen him engaged in quiet deeds of goodness from the time I was small: playing catch with a seven-year-old neighborhood girl, writing a personal letter of encouragement to a sixth-grade boy, inviting a nephew to eat with him at the training table. Dad is a man with a great gift for humble acts of kindness. I’ll never forget one evening when this gift made the difference to me. When I was a young girl, our ward used to sponsor an event known as the daddy-daughter dinner date. Now this was an occasion that I looked forward to with a good deal of excitement. Being proud of my father, I naturally seized any opportunity to show him off and the daddy-daughter dinner date seemed like the ideal occasion to do so. After weeks of anticipation, we Primary girls made and delivered invitations to our fathers. I watched eagerly as dad read mine. He looked at the flimsy construction paper I had given him, and then he looked at me.
“I’m sorry, honey, but I’m going to be out of town that week. There’s nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” I tried hard not to show my disappointment. I even opened my eyes wide so that the tears I felt coming would dry before they had a chance to spill down my face. “Well, that’s okay.”
He gave me an affectionate hug. Looking back on it now, I realize that he was as unhappy about the whole state of affairs as I was.
During the week before the daddy-daughter dinner date, my parents made arrangements with our bishop to be my special escort. The day before the event, my father left town after apologizing once again for having to leave.
The day of the dinner date arrived quickly. On the way home from school, listening to my friends chatter excitedly about the evening’s planned activities, I made a silent decision not to go; as nice as the bishop was, I preferred to stay home and feel sorry for myself. When I shuffled into the house, prepared to tell my mother that the whole thing was off, I found a surprise waiting for me in the living room: my father was sitting by himself on the sofa.
“Well,” he said, “is the date still on?”
It wasn’t until some years later that I learned just what my father’s act of kindness cost him in terms of time and money. In addition to losing one day of valuable recruiting time, dad had to purchase another round-trip ticket so that he could fly out once again on the following morning. That night, though, I had no idea of the sacrifice he had made to be my escort—I was too busy having the best time of my life.
No wonder I’ve always considered myself the luckiest girl around.

I was a boat ride away from home when I got the news that there had been a big argument in my family earlier that day. A very big argument.
My wife was angry. My kids were angry. Everyone was hurt. And I didn’t know what to do.
I had taken my work truck early that morning from my home island of Upolu, Samoa, and boarded the ferry to Savai’i, Samoa. This trip takes several hours in each direction.
After I talked with my wife on the phone and heard the anger in her voice, I admit that I had a hard time thinking about coming home to this situation. I wasn’t sure how I could help resolve so many hurt feelings in my family.
I pulled up to the wharf and began to pray. For the next four hours, I sat in my truck, praying about my family while waiting for the boat home.
After a long time in prayer, I received a clear spiritual impression. “Just show your love to your children. Show the love. Tell them, ‘I love you, and God loves you.’”
I’ve always gotten along with my kids. They know that I love them, and they know how much they mean to me. But I understood clearly, through revelation, that showing even greater love would be the only thing to bring my family close again.
When I arrived home late that night, my wife was still very upset. “What are you going to do?” she asked me.
I told her about the revelation I received. I told her that I felt we needed to show our love even more clearly to our kids. “I believe that will be the key to heal the pain everyone is feeling,” I said. We decided to give it a try.
Now, this was the normal night for our weekly family council. Because of the argument, however, most of my family wanted to cancel it that week. My wife and I decided we would hold family council anyway.
At first, nobody said a word. I could tell there had been a lot of tears and emotional pain in my family that day.
Then my wife began talking. “I just want you to know how much I love all of you,” she said. I watched the change in their body language. They had all been sitting on the edge of their chairs. But as soon as my wife started explaining how much she loved them, our children leaned back and relaxed. Soon they opened up as well. I also told them how much I love them and how glad I am that we are a family.
That solved the whole problem. It was incredible. All the anger was gone from our home, and we were able to fix what was broken.
Now, my family isn’t perfect. But we love each other very much. And we make time for each other. Whether it’s getting up early to read the scriptures together, going to church together, playing basketball together, sharing meals, or just listening to music together, we work hard to stay close.
Through it all, my wife and I know more than ever how important it is to show our love for our children.

I would like to mention an experience to indicate what I think he meant when he said, “… unto him will I give power to bring forth my word … and not to the bringing forth my word only, … but to the convincing them of my word, which shall have already gone forth among them.”

While I was on my first mission in Holland, I was invited to speak to a Bible class of businessmen in The Hague. They met every week, holding a Bible class. We met in the home of a prominent furniture dealer; the only woman there was the daughter of the man of the house.

They invited me to speak for an hour and a half and explain our doctrine of universal salvation, which includes the work for the dead. I gave them chapter and verse and let them read these passages from their own Bibles so they would believe more completely, as they seemed to think we have a different Bible. Then I closed my Bible and laid it on the table, folded my arms, and waited for their comments.

The first comment came from the daughter of the man of the house. She said, “Father, I just can’t understand it. I have never attended one of these Bible classes in my life that you haven’t had the last word to say on everything, and tonight you haven’t said a word.”

The father shook his head and said, “My daughter, there isn’t anything to say.” He said, “This man has been teaching us things we have never heard of, and has been teaching them to us out of our own Bibles.”

That is what the Lord meant when he said that the prophet he would raise up would not only bring forth his word, but would bring men to the convincing of his word that had already gone forth among them.

Ric ran his hands across the gold letters on the front of his new book. His friends crowded closer.
“That’s so cool!” Jake said. “I’ve never seen a red Book of Mormon before.”
“It looks like it would fit in your shirt pocket,” Jarom added.
“It does,” Ric said, slipping it into his pocket and then taking it back out again. Just then the Primary president welcomed everyone to sharing time, so the boys stopped talking. But Ric couldn’t help glancing down at his book from time to time.
When Primary was over, Ric stopped by the nursery to pick up his little sister. Dad was already there.
“Have you seen Mom?” Dad asked.
“No, but I hope she’s ready to go,” Ric said. “I’m hungry!”
Ric’s stomach was growling by the time they found Mom, but he smiled when he saw Brother and Sister Bird standing by her. Well, Brother Bird was standing. Sister Bird was sitting in her wheelchair, as always. Mom said Sister Bird had a disease called multiple sclerosis, or MS, which made it hard for her to use her muscles. Sometimes she was in pain, but she always had a smile for everyone. Brother and Sister Bird were some of Ric’s favorite people in the ward.
“Why, hello there, young man,” Brother Bird said, shaking Ric’s hand. “How was Primary today?”
“It was awesome. I got to show everyone this.” Ric held up his small red book.
“What’s that?” asked Sister Bird.
“It’s my new Book of Mormon. My grandparents sent it to me,” Ric said as he handed it to her.
“I’ve never seen one of these,” said Sister Bird, turning the pocket-sized red book over in her hands. “It’s so small and light. I love to read the Book of Mormon, but my hands get so tired holding my scriptures that I have to stop after a few minutes. But I could hold this a long time.” She handed it back.
Ric looked at his cool book. Then he looked at Sister Bird.
“Here, Sister Bird. I want you to have this.” Ric put the Book of Mormon back in her hands.
“Are you sure?” asked Brother Bird.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Oh, Ric, thank you.” Sister Bird’s eyes filled with tears. “Reading the scriptures helps me get through days when I’m in pain. Your little book will really help me.” She reached out and gave him a big hug.
As they walked to the car, Mom said, “You’re awfully quiet. Are you sad you gave your book away?”
“Not really. It was cool, but I have another Book of Mormon at home. Besides, I think that what’s inside the book is more important than what’s on the outside.”
Mom lovingly squeezed his shoulder.
“I just hope Grandma and Grandpa won’t be sad that I gave my Book of Mormon away.”
“Trust me, Ric, they won’t.”
Ric had a feeling his mom was right.

Casey wiped the inside of the bus window, trying to see the frozen world outside through the blinding snow.
“It’s coming down really hard,” Andy remarked beside him.
“Looks like a blizzard!” Casey exclaimed.
“Won’t our moms be surprised at our getting home from school at noon!” Andy chortled.
“I’m going to play video games all afternoon!” Casey announced.
“Lucky you!”
“Ask your mom if you can come over.”
Andy beamed. “OK! If she says no, I’ll call you and moan over the phone.”
Casey chuckled. “Don’t call till after lunch!” He licked his lips. “Mom fixes the best grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup and a glass of cold milk! It sure beats our cafeteria food.”
“It sure does. Here’s my stop—I’ll call you.” Andy hurried to the front of the school bus to get off.
After Casey got off the bus, he scurried along the lane toward his house. As the snow piled higher, his house seemed farther than ever from the road. It sure will be good to get inside! he thought as he reached the door.
“Mom?” He hung up his cap and coat. “School let out early! I’m home! Mom?” He went into the kitchen and circled into the living room. No Mom. He ran into the laundry room and looked for her. Where was she? He was home—cold and hungry!
He looked out the window and toward the garage. The doors were closed, so he knew she hadn’t gone anywhere in the car.
He raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom?” he shouted as he ran to his parents’ bedroom door. Then he stopped abruptly. “Mom?”
He tiptoed to the bed. She was covered with a quilt pulled high around her chin. “Mom?” Gently he touched her shoulder.
Her red-rimmed eyes barely opened. Casey touched her forehead lightly—it was hot! “Mom, you’re burning up! Should I call Dad … or Grandma?”
Her eyelids closed, then reopened. “Water, honey—a glass of cold water,” she said weakly. “With ice.”
Casey hurried downstairs to the kitchen. “Pitcher, pitcher,” he muttered. “Where’s the pitcher?”
He found the pitcher on the shelf beneath the breakfast counter. Quickly he filled it with ice and water and started back toward the stairs. Then he spun around and returned for a glass and a straw.
“Mom.” Casey slid a hand under her head. “Here’s your water.” He lifted her head and put the straw between her lips. “Drink, Mom—it’s ice water.”
She sipped the water, and Casey felt her skin burn beneath his touch.
“I’m calling Dr. Marshall!” he announced.
“I talked to him, honey. He said it’s just the flu.”
Just the flu? She looked awfully sick! “What’d he say you should do?”
“Just take aspirin, drink liquids, and get plenty of rest.”
“Aspirin—did you take some aspirin?”
She nodded, smiled, and closed her eyes.
Casey held her hand for a long minute. Coming home from school, he had only thought of himself. Now he was concerned about her.
Quietly he tiptoed from the room. The phone rang, and he grabbed it right away so it wouldn’t disturb her. “Colby residence,” he whispered with his hand cupped around the mouthpiece.
“Casey?” Dad replied. “What are you doing home, Son?”
“School let out early because of the snow, Dad, but Mom’s sick! She’s in bed, and I gave her some ice water. Can you come home early?”
“I talked to your mother and Dr. Marshall this morning, Casey. He told her to go right to bed and stay there. I’ll stop at the pharmacy on my way home and pick up some things that may make her feel more comfortable, but the doctor said the flu simply has to run its course. I’ll try to get home early, Son, but with the roads as they are, I doubt that I’ll get there much sooner than my usual time. Is everything else OK?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like it that Mom’s sick.”
“She probably got it nursing us a couple weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“If you need me, call. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Casey ate a sandwich and drank some milk, then went back upstairs to check on Mom. Gently he put a damp cloth on her forehead. He felt the heat pouring out of her, and he suddenly felt awful. What if something happened to her? What would he and Dad do without Mom? She was always there for them. Please, Heavenly Father, make Mom better, he prayed silently.
When the phone rang again, her eyelids fluttered.
“I asked Mom, Casey,” Andy said on the other end. “The snow’s let up a little, and she said I could come over.”
Casey sat on the carpet with his back against Mom’s dresser and the phone cupped close to his face. His eyes were on his mother’s sick face.
“Sorry, Andy. Maybe another time. My mom’s sick, and the doctor told her to rest.”
“All your mom’s going to do is sleep, I bet!” Andy said. “Why don’t you come over here?”
Casey thought about how Mom had taken care of him when he was sick. “Thanks, but I’d better stay here. If she needs me, I want to be here. I’d better go now, Andy. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait! My mom wants to know if there’s anything she can do.”
“Tell her thanks, but everything is under control.”
“What about dinner?” Andy asked. “Can she send something?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to make waffles for me and Dad.”
“Waffles? When did you learn how to make them?”
“The frozen kind, Andy,” Casey explained. “Anyone can make them.”
“Well, OK. I’ll talk to you later, Case.”
Casey put the phone back on the nightstand. He pulled the quilt higher around Mom’s shoulders so she wouldn’t get a chill. As he tiptoed from the room, he smiled. It felt nice taking care of her for a change.