Gospel Story Finder

Doug shared his parents’ dismay as they left their car and looked around at the littered highway rest area. What should have been a cool, green oasis for weary travelers looked as though it were part of a garbage dump! There were plenty of trash containers, but most of them were practically empty. Around them were scattered cans, paper plates, and plastic cups and utensils. Napkins and old newspapers blew along the sidewalk ahead of them.
“I don’t know how we can possibly eat our picnic lunch in this dirty place,” Doug’s mother sighed. “And just look at that! Vandals have chopped out the center board of the only picnic table left.”
“It’s disgraceful,” Father said angrily. “It costs the government a lot of money to provide these little mini-parks for the public. The trees and lawns are beautiful and well trimmed. Why can’t people appreciate such facilities and care for them?”
“Because they have no pride,” Mother murmured sadly as she fanned flies away from the baby.
“I’ve read that people in some countries don’t tolerate such abuse of parks and other public facilities,” Mother continued. “Bystanders shame any offender into picking up discarded objects. And if that doesn’t work, one of them picks up the rubbish even though he didn’t drop it. Can you imagine what a terrible impression this mess would make on visitors from other countries?”
“Well, we certainly can’t eat here,” Father said. “We’ll use the rest rooms and then try to find a cleaner spot farther down the highway.”
“Why don’t we clean up this one instead?” Doug suggested. “All the others will probably be just as dirty. We need to stretch our legs after the long ride anyway. The exercise will be good for us.”
His parents looked startled but pleased as their dark-haired son began picking up and depositing handfuls of litter into one of the trash cans. They smiled when they saw two other children from a nearby table join him. Soon other boys and girls scrambled after the litter and suddenly everyone made a game of cleaning up.
A station wagon pulled up and parked. The occupants climbed out and headed for the outdoor drinking fountain. A teenage girl watched the children and then returned to the station wagon and took out an overflowing litter bag. She was careful to see that every scrap was emptied inside the trash can. She stooped to catch a blowing paper and deposited it in the container too.
Doug’s mother smiled. “Neatness seems as contagious as littering. I’ll bet I can clean up this pile of litter before you can gather up that stuff over there by the fountain!” she challenged Father.
A few at a time, the people who had eaten at nearby tables began to pick up around them, some a little self-consciously. Even travelers who seemed in a hurry took time to pick up a few cups or bottles before leaving. Children giggled and raced after the few remaining plates and napkins that tumbled about in the wind.
An elderly couple smiled as they watched. In a very short time the rest area was spotless, and the many travelers from different places had taken time to get acquainted with each other. The people in each car honked and waved as they left to resume their journey.
Doug was very hungry by the time the family had all washed up and spread their lunch on a shaded redwood picnic table. A cool breeze rustled leaves overhead, but there were no pieces of litter blowing about. Everyone had a feeling of pride as they ate their lunch and enjoyed the now-beautiful spot.
A young couple parked their van and got out. “What a lovely place, and it’s so much cleaner than the others we’ve seen,” the blond girl said, stopping in the shade. The man tossed his paper cup at a trash can. It hit the rim and bounced off, scattering ice. The girl dropped a pink tissue and shrugged as it tumbled across the lawn. They looked startled and embarrassed as Doug picked up their litter and deposited it in a trash barrel. “This place was filthy, too,” he explained, “but my family and a bunch of other travelers took time to clean it up.”
A big semitrailer truck pulled into the circular drive and parked. Two weary-looking men got out and started up the walk toward the rest rooms. One man dropped a candy bar wrapper. The young couple was leaving now but the blond girl stooped to retrieve the wrapper and place it in the trash barrel. The truck driver glanced down at the tattered road map he had started to toss, then took a few extra steps to drop it into the barrel. “I’ve never seen one of these places so clean. It’s a nice change,” he said. His driving companion nodded in agreement.
“In a way I hate to leave,” Doug murmured, as his mother folded the tablecloth and packed the picnic basket. “We won’t find another place as nice as this.”
“Then we’ll just take the time to make it as nice,” his mother countered. “Look what happened when you started picking up litter. It started a cleanup campaign like a chain reaction. Maybe all those travelers who worked together here today will keep fighting thoughtless pollution wherever they go. Pride in our country has to start somewhere. Who knows, maybe you started it here today!”
They were back in the car, preparing to leave, when a woman put a leash on her dog and started strolling up the grassy slope where the two truck drivers had spread blankets for a nap.
One man raised up on his elbow and called, “What’s the matter, lady? Didn’t you read that sign? There’s a roped-off area over there for walking dogs. How do you expect to keep rest areas clean unless you keep the rules?”
The flustered lady hurried back down the slope and headed toward the area set aside for pets.
“I guess I did start a chain reaction, didn’t I?” Doug remarked with a grin.

At Deseret Press, Brother Monson helped President J. Reuben Clark Jr. prepare his manuscript Our Lord of the Gospels for publication. They met regularly for months in President Clark’s office. The relationship that developed between them was almost that of father and son. When Thomas S. Monson was called to preside over the Canadian Mission, he took Frances and the children to visit President Clark. As Frances was carrying her third child, the Monsons said it would be named after him were it a boy. When told the child would be called Clark, the president urged, “Don’t be afraid of ‘Joshua Reuben.’” When Clark Spencer Monson was born in Toronto, Canada, the parents informed President Clark by wire. He responded with a classic letter (a Monson family treasure) addressed to the baby.

Illustrations by Steve Kropp
I had been a member of the Church for only one month when I paid my first full tithe. I was the only member in my family, and tithing was complicated for my family to understand. My mother discouraged me from paying tithing and wanted me to give her the money instead.
One day before work, I realized that there was no food in the refrigerator and I’d have to buy something to eat. I didn’t have any money with me, so I asked my mom to lend me money for lunch. She refused and said I didn’t have money because I had paid my tithing.
I went to get my Book of Mormon and told her that this book would give me my nourishment for the day—my spiritual nourishment. I opened it in front of my mother and found 100 pesos (enough to buy some lunch) tucked inside. It was a miracle—I hadn’t put that money in my scriptures. I learned a great lesson: although challenges and temptations are everywhere, I will always be blessed as I pay a full tithe and keep the commandments.

Jovinsky Valcin, from Ounanaminthe, Haiti, is a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He participated in an outreach activity for children with limited resources offered by a local ophthalmology clinic. It was recognized that he was an intelligent boy but struggled to read.
Reading had always been a problem for Jovinsky. It was humiliating and disappointing to him. Reading the notes on the board in class was almost impossible. To read from a book, he had to bring it right up to his face to see the words.
When asked how he felt when studying his notes or looking at the chalkboard at school, he responded, “I feel uncomfortable, and I get discouraged easily.”
When his father was asked if he knew that his son, who was so bright, had a serious vision problem, he said, “I realized that. It’s just that we have to wait a little bit more. But we’re working on [it].” It was obvious that Jovinsky and his family needed some assistance to get him glasses.
When the clinic recognized the problem, they asked Jovinsky and his father to visit their clinic in Ouanaminthe. The clinic ran all the eye tests to see what was medically wrong with his vision and then sent a prescription for glasses to the lab.
The glasses were recently delivered to him. It was one of the most beautiful days the clinic had ever experienced. Before the glasses were delivered, the clinic asked the family to pay 100 Haitian Gourdes (US $0.75). Jovinsky couldn’t believe what he heard and gently asked, “Did you just say 100 Gourdes?” When he realized what he thought he heard was right, the answer brought a transforming smile to his face.
Jovinsky says, “I could not read, but now I can.” He recognizes that the Lord sent angels to him with the miracle of sight. He thanks everyone who were so helpful and generous with him. Now, he enjoys being able to work on his homework assignments. The clinic and his new friends keep in touch with him and wish him all the best.

When she first moved into Relief Society at home, Macie thought it was a challenge to fit in with the older women. Mallory’s home ward tried to ease the transition by periodically inviting the Laurels to Relief Society lessons and activities, so she had a taste of what it was like, but in the back of her mind she still had a fear that they were going to spend a lot of time sewing. However, both Mallory and Macie now understand the reasons for programs like home, family, and personal enrichment and are able to gear them toward the women their age.
“I have a greater appreciation for Relief Society now,” Macie says. “I don’t think it’s just an old ladies society anymore.”
And just as both girls turned to their mothers for words of advice and comfort in their new callings, Mallory says that with the right attitude, the younger women can learn from the older women. Then, that sisterhood she and Macie have come to embrace can be extended across the generations.

The field is so big they call it the Plain. The ranks of soldiers who will march across it seem so endless they call them the Long Gray Line. And even though heavy rain is forecast, more than 10,000 spectators are on hand. It is, after all, commencement time at West Point, New York, home of the U.S. Military Academy. For graduates, this is their final parade as cadets.
As the troops marshall themselves on the field, one small group stands in front, stiff at attention, the black plumes of their “tarbucket” hats ruffling in the breeze. These are the cadet commanders. And the tallest, and second in command, is Shaun Greene, deputy brigade commander—and returned missionary.
How Shaun got to this point, to be among the highest cadet officers as well as in the top 5 percent of his class academically, is a story of faith, inspiration, and perseverance, or as Shaun might say, of learning to put first things first.
When he was 14, Shaun, a native of Roseville, California (near Sacramento), received his patriarchal blessing. “At age 14, I was not known as a particularly religious guy,” Shaun says. “But the stake patriarch was moving, and my parents thought he was a great guy, so I prepared for the blessing and got it.”
One phrase in the blessing startled Shaun. It mentioned serving in the military, and told him that if he was obedient he would be protected in time of war. “There were other things that were quite specific, as far as having a family for example, but the sentence about the military really affected me,” Shaun explains. “I’d always been interested in the military, but I hadn’t told the patriarch about that and I’m sure he didn’t know.”
The words of the blessing stayed with him. As he reached college age, he planned to attend the U.S. Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. But a misunderstanding about an eye examination disqualified him, so he accepted an academic scholarship at Brigham Young University instead.
“I was thinking that if I was going into the military, then I’d get into pre-med and become a doctor,” Shaun says. But his pre-med studies left him dissatisfied. “I quickly found that wasn’t what I wanted to do.”
At the same time, Shaun felt a growing testimony that the gospel was true. He heard the prophet say all worthy young men should serve a mission. It sounded like a case of putting first things first.
“A mission wasn’t something I had really planned on until then. My parents would talk about me going on a mission and I’d just smile. But when I started looking into the Church for myself, I became converted.”
He was called to serve in the Taiwan Taipei Mission. “BYU did some terrific things for me,” Shaun says. “But I think the mission did even more. I saw the gospel in action. I learned to try to love as the Savior loves.”
At the end of his mission, Shaun again felt prompted to act on the words of his patriarchal blessing. Getting into the military now seemed to be putting first things first, so he wrote to West Point. He also wrote to his senator and congressman, since cadets can only enter the military academy by senatorial, congressional, or presidential appointment. And even though he had attended college and served a mission, he met the age limitation (you can’t be older than 22) by ten days.
Shaun’s record at West Point has been outstanding. He is one of only a few cadets ever to make it through four years without a single demerit. He served as regimental commander for cadet basic training. He’s been on a cultural exchange program in China and Hong Kong. He’s had dinner with senators and generals, been interviewed by the national media, and he’s on line for a scholarship that will allow him to study in the Orient, then pursue a graduate degree at Harvard University.
Talk to Academy administrators and you’ll hear things like: “He’ll make a great addition to the army.” “He’s somebody who can get things done.” “He’s already a seasoned officer. He’s just masquerading as a cadet.”
And the story could end right there, except there’s another person involved, another Latter-day Saint who, thanks to the promptings of the Spirit, put first things first and found her way into Shaun’s life.
Several years ago, Amy Stohl didn’t know exactly why she accepted a position as an au pair (similar to a nanny) with an LDS military family living in Belgium. She just felt right about it. She enjoyed her time with the Robert McBride family, and they became close friends.
Soon, however, Amy was back at BYU, where she continued work on her pre-med requirements. But she became convinced that medical school just wouldn’t be right for her, and she switched to a humanities major.
A couple of years later, the McBrides, now assigned to the U.S. Military Academy, called to tell Amy about a cadet named Shaun Greene. He’d been a student at BYU before, but was now at West Point. He was going to be at BYU for a couple of days in the fall to watch a football game, and they’d like her to meet him. Shaun and Amy got acquainted and began writing to each other.
By January, Amy was close to graduation, but was planning to stay at BYU for one more semester. “But I became restless,” she says. “I prayed for guidance, and I felt something important was coming up.”
She talked to the McBrides and decided to move to Manhattan. “I found a place to live, had a job lined up, even arranged to finish my degree by correspondence,” Amy says. “Everything seemed to be working out.
“But when I visited West Point, I had a strong impression that I had to stay, isolated as it was, so that I could understand Shaun and what he had been through. I don’t know that anyone can fully understand a cadet’s thinking without spending time at West Point.”
The understanding grew. In fact, now Shaun and Amy see each other every evening.
It’s graduation day at West Point. Time for the final parade. And even though rain will soak cadets and spectators alike, it won’t matter. Tomorrow the sun will shine, bright and hot, and the graduates, dressed in white because their gray uniforms were ruined by the storm, will receive their diplomas and commissions from the President of the United States.
A few days later, Shaun and Amy will enter the Washington D.C. Temple to be married for time and eternity. Oh, sure, by July Shaun has to report for additional training. But before that, there’s a honeymoon to attend to. It’s a matter of putting first things first.
In a place that prides itself on tradition, LDS cadets are glad to be building a tradition of their own—that of having returned missionaries graduate from West Point. Even though cadets already appointed to the Academy must resign in order to serve a mission, many are able to be reappointed once their mission is complete.
“Returned missionaries have a good reputation here,” says Drew Syphus of Altadena, California, who served in the Italy Milan Mission. “Those who have come back have performed so well it’s made it easier for others who want to go.”
In fact, RMs at the USMA return to school with added maturity and experience, qualities that stand out in the military. “You gain patience in the mission field,” says Clint Pincock, of Blanding, Utah, who served in the Taiwan Taichung Mission. “You learn to stick with it when things get tough. You learn to be sensitive to other people and cultures. It’s really impressive when you tell cadets and teachers about your experiences.”
What’s more, cadets say the Academy—with its emphasis on physical fitness, good study habits, time management, organizational skills, and leadership—provides good training for those preparing for a mission.
“One summer I had 57 people at my command,” says Vince Barnhart of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. “I had to learn to think on my feet.” After doing that for five weeks, he says, “knocking on doors in England wasn’t intimidating.”
And of course you’ll never hear a cadet-turned-proselytizer complain that the rise-early-and-study-hard schedule at the Church’s Missionary Training Center is just too tough.
There are approximately 4,000 cadets at West Point at any given time; roughly 70 of them are LDS. At the time this article was prepared, there were ten returned missionaries at the Academy, five cadets preparing to leave on missions, and eight former cadets in the mission field (of four soon to return, three are coming back to the corps). Says Robert McBride, West Point’s branch president, “The Academy administration is accepting more and more that a mission can be a good thing for a cadet.”

Illustration by Jim Madsen
In October 2011, my bishop heard a talk by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles about the Spirit of Elijah and the responsibility the youth have to serve through family history. My bishop was inspired by this talk and decided to have the bishopric youth committee watch it in their meeting. He asked the youth what they wanted to do to follow Elder Bednar’s instruction, and they told him they wanted to set up a summer indexing project. Together with the bishop, they set a goal of 50,000 names and invited my whole ward to help with the project.
I was asked by Brother Watts, a member of our bishopric, to serve as an indexing specialist. I accepted, but I had no idea what indexing was or how to do it. I was very confused and just a little bit nervous.
Brother Watts showed me how to use the indexing program on FamilySearch.org. He told me that he was absolutely confident we were going to reach our goal. Even though it was my first official assignment as a young woman, I was determined to learn how to do what I was asked to do by my priesthood leaders, no matter how hard it was.
I soon learned that indexing is part of family history—typing people’s names from records into a database so their family members can find them. I knew this effort was important, and so did my whole ward, especially my bishop.
To serve in this project, I showed many different people how to index and contribute names. By the end of the summer, the youth alone had finished 25,000 names! Before we knew it, we met our goal 100 percent.
I know that every one of my leaders is called of God to serve and direct the Church, and that when I listen to them, I’m not only doing what they ask me to do but also what God asks me to do. When I listen to and follow my leaders, I’m serving too—participating in the work of the priesthood, the work of salvation.

I had a very long, exhausting day, and I wanted to go home after school to spend some time with my family before I called it an early night. I packed my bag as the final bell rang. I got up and started to walk out of my ROTC class, heading to the other side of the school, where my car was parked. When I went through the door I had an impression to go find my friend Alex. I dismissed it, because I was tired and wanted to go home.
When I was about to walk out of the back door, it was as if someone screamed in my head to stop. A few seconds later, the impression to go talk with Alex came into my mind again. This time I heeded the prompting and headed back to my ROTC class on the other side of the school.
I walked back into my classroom, where my unit was practicing for an upcoming event. I found Alex off in a corner by herself and walked over to talk with her. As we talked, I found out that she was having a very down week. Everything had gone wrong for her. She then told me she had really been down and was having destructive thoughts. We talked for a while, and it started to get late. I made sure she felt better and then left.
The next morning when I came in, I ran into Alex. She wasn’t the sad, down girl she had been yesterday. She was full of love and peace, and she was happy and cheery again. She thanked me for being a friend in a time of need. She then went on to say that if I hadn’t taken that time to talk with her, she might have done something.
I thought back to when I first had ignored the prompting to talk with her. I didn’t listen to it. I could have lost a very dear friend to me that day.
Whenever I get a prompting from the Lord, I always remember this event, and I act immediately, for we are answers to people’s prayers, angels to others, and instruments in the hands of the Lord to work miracles in the lives of others. When the Lord prompts us, we need to act.

As we faithfully seek information about ancestors with the purpose of performing temple ordinances, we’ll be exposed to events and impressions that will perceptibly show the Lord’s hand in this work. During the 1960s my wife’s grandfather, who served as a branch president in the southernmost part of Brazil, had collected many ancestors’ names, which were all in paper documents as there were no computers then. He was afraid that one of his 16 children would damage or lose those precious records, so he decided to keep them in his branch presidency’s office at the local chapel. But one day that meetinghouse was caught on fire and he lost all his family history. Years of work vanished in minutes! He and his family were deeply saddened but felt impressed to visit his relatives in Argentina in an attempt to recover some of the lost information. During those visits he was describing what happened and one of his uncles (who was not a member of the Church) asked to be excused for a moment and then came right back from another room with a stack of papers full of names, dates, and documents concerning all those that had been lost in the fire. For years, he said, “I felt compelled to keep this information without knowing why, but now it all makes sense. You can have all this!!”
Not only were all the names recovered but also many new ones were added. This event has caused all in the family to clearly discern that there was direct guidance from the Holy Ghost and that God knows the end from the beginning!

Recently two envelopes arrived at my office, sent by persons who preferred to remain anonymous. Each contained a number of one-hundred-dollar bills and a brief message expressing gratitude to God for His kind blessings and a desire that the money enclosed enable needy persons to receive their temple blessings. If these couples are viewing the conference, I am pleased to report that families in Bolivia and in Portugal will now be able to travel to temples in Lima, Peru, and Frankfurt, Germany, to fulfill this wish and achieve eternal blessings.

The girls have seen a number of friends come into the Church, and many others have come to appreciate and respect their standards. On one occasion Sheila was surprised when a young man she knew from school approached her about the gospel.
“I’m going to tell you some things I’ve heard about your church,” he said, “and I want you to tell me if they’re true.”
“He asked me a lot of questions,” Sheila recalled, “many of them based on misinformation. I explained the best I could and then asked him if he was interested in learning more. He said, ‘Yes, but not from the missionaries. I want to hear it from you.’ That really motivated me to study and find out more for myself.”
Still, they have been exposed to much opposition. Each family member has had soul-searching experiences that have forged individual testimony.
As Stacy said, “Once you know what the truth is, it doesn’t matter anymore how many people tell you you’re wrong.”
Hollywood is a challenging place to grow up in—the cultural standards are very high; the life-styles and philosophies are incredibly varied. But to the Phelps Family Musicians, the gospel is the harmonizing element. It is what helps them to keep a balanced perspective in meeting the everyday challenges of life in Hollywood.
Editor’s note: Since the time this story was written, Brother Phelps has passed away.

To a child of seven, the phrase “a judge in Israel” seemed much too profound a term to understand. In my teenage years, however, I learned that this was a phrase used to describe a bishop. I couldn’t imagine myself being a bishop, but I knew that if I was going to be one, I’d better live worthily. I charted a course that included honesty, high standards, and moral cleanliness. (And eventually, I was called to be a bishop, by men who did not know of that patriarchal promise.)

I carried my patriarchal blessing with me during service in the United States Navy in World War II. I had grown up in Taylorsville, Utah, sheltered and shy, the product of a tranquil pioneer community. I now entered a harsher life, where oaths and profanity were common, where some men made bragging about sexual exploits part of their daily ritual. But again, my patriarchal blessing served as a beacon. Its promises gave me hope that I could stay clean, that I could survive the conflict and live to serve in our Heavenly Father’s kingdom.

Throughout my mission in Europe, a phrase in my patriarchal blessing about preaching the gospel in power reminded me I was on the Lord’s errand, and therefore I should speak with authority. When I returned home and began searching for a wife, I knew I must find someone who would help me be worthy. After all, my patriarchal blessing made reference to the joys of a righteous posterity. Today, I am thrilled to go to the temple with my six children and their companions, and I do find joy and rejoicing in my posterity.

There is one sentence in my patriarchal blessing that has always intrigued me. It says, “You shall see great progress in the work of the Lord; for Zion shall be the head and not the heel.” This phrase has repeatedly come to my mind in recent times as we all have observed the growth and progress of the Lord’s Church throughout the entire world.

I can truly say that my patriarchal blessing, though short, has been a guide to me during my entire life. Your patriarchal blessing can do the same for you, if you read it often and chart your course by it. In these challenging times, when you are faced with temptations and pressures to compromise your beliefs, a patriarchal blessing can be the source of great strength that will instill faith in a loving, personal Heavenly Father.

How do you obtain a patriarchal blessing? Begin the formal process by talking to your bishop. He can answer questions and help you prepare. When you’re ready, he’ll give you a recommend.

Bishops are instructed to issue recommends only to those who are old enough and have been in the Church long enough to appreciate the sacred nature of the blessing.

The blessing is given in private, although a few family members may be present. Come to your appointment in an attitude of humility and prayer. You might also choose to fast.

Don’t compare blessings or share them, except with close family members. They should not be read in Church meetings or public gatherings.

A patriarchal blessing is not having your fortune told. It is a source of guidance as you grow in maturity and spirituality. As with all blessings, the fulfillment of your patriarchal blessing depends on personal worthiness and staying close to the Spirit.

Patriarchal blessings are not just for the future. The experience of receiving one is a blessing itself, an experience of learning firsthand how important and wonderful you are in the Lord’s sight. Just the same, you may have some concerns.

I’m not sure if I’m old enough or ready enough for a patriarchal blessing.
Why not talk it over with your parents or your bishop? Ask them if they think you are old enough and if you’re ready.

Can my parents tell me about their own patriarchal blessings?
If your parents have received their blessings, ask if there are portions they would feel comfortable sharing with you. You will probably find you are one of the blessings they were promised. For example, if they were promised righteous posterity, you are an important link in that chain.

What if my parents aren’t members of the Church or don’t support me in Church activities?
Check with your bishop or patriarch—they may have suggestions about how to appropriately include your parents.

I don’t feel worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
If you feel unworthy, become worthy. Put your life in order. Talk to your parents and to your bishop if necessary. But also remember that we’re all learning and growing. One of the important reasons for obtaining your patriarchal blessing is to receive guidance and strength.

I’m afraid the Lord will reveal what he expects of me, and then I’ll be obligated.
Actually, the Lord has already revealed many things he expects of you: righteousness, obedience, compassion, honesty. You’ve been taught about them all your life. And you’ve already made commitments—at baptism, each time you take the sacrament, when you receive the priesthood. Remember, a patriarchal blessing is an expression of the Lord’s love for you personally. More than anything else, it will help you understand through the Spirit your own marvelous potential and some of the great blessings the Lord has in store for you as you keep his commandments.

As I came out of school, the sunlight reflected on the knee-deep snow. The air was icy cold, but all four of us guys jammed into the cab of Reed’s truck so the chill and the snow did not much matter to us. All we had to bother with was keeping the steam off the inside of the windows.
As we pulled out of the school parking lot, Wayne started cutting up, as usual, and Sid started cutting Wayne down, as usual, while Reed and I mainly listened. We passed the Chicken Inn, where even the snow couldn’t freeze out that frying smell, and turned up the hill to my house. Up ahead we could see a girl struggling over the ice. I mean really struggling. The hill wasn’t all that steep, but like I said, it was one icy day, and she sure looked funny. Her arms juggled a load of books, and her feet were slipping and sliding as if she were walking on a moving sidewalk. Her coat was pulled up around her ears. She looked like a turtle trying to decide whether to go in or come out of its shell.
“A definite specimen of a 1,” Sid laughed, and so did we.
“Who is she anyway?” Reed asked.
“Rachel Roberts,” I answered. “They moved into the ward a while back.”
“Trust Matt to know about the new girls,” Sid teased, and Wayne slugged me in the arm.
“Yeah. Lady’s man Bingham.” Wayne exaggerated each word and made his voice about two octaves higher.
“Cut it out,” I growled. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
“Sure!” Reed laughed.
“Look, she’s a 1,” I said. “A definite 1!” I grumbled a little to let them know I’d had enough.
“Think she’ll make it to the top of the hill?” Wayne asked.
“Bet you a chocolate shake she won’t,” Reed offered, but no one took up the bet.
As the old Ford pulled up alongside Rachel, Wayne called out, “Give her a scare. Fire it!”
“Yeah!” the others shouted. Without hesitation Reed turned the ignition off then on, and the muffler let out a bang that sounded like a Civil War cannon. Inside the cab, the roar of laughter was almost as loud as a cannon as we watched Rachel go into a balancing act. We jerked around and wiped at the back window while Reed shouted, “Tell me what’s happening, will ya? Did we scare her?”
“I’ll say!” Wayne shouted. “You should see the look on her face. Her eyes are as big as billiard balls!”
“Hey, she’s down,” Sid said. “Feet up, arms everywhere!”
“Books sliding all over the place!” Wayne was laughing so hard he could barely talk.
“What a klutz,” I added. But as I said it a sick sort of heaviness bit into my stomach. I tried to get it out of there by laughing harder, but it didn’t work. About then I realized my conscience was working.
It’s not like I really knew Rachel. She was only a sophomore and kind of a quiet nobody. What I mean is that she was not exactly the kind of girl you would look at twice. Now here I was laughing at her and at the same time feeling awful about laughing. But what was I supposed to do? Reed, Wayne, and Sid were almost hysterical.
The laughter died down, and I sensed an uneasiness in the small cab. Slowly I turned back around, all the while wondering if their stomachs felt like mine. “Maybe we ought to go back and see if she’s all right,” I said.
No one answered. Finally we pulled into my driveway. “Ah, she’ll be fine,” Wayne said. “It just scared her a little. See ya at basketball practice.”
I went into the house, and while I fixed a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, I figured it out. I hadn’t been the one to suggest it and I wasn’t the one who turned the key, so why should I be the one to worry about it? By the time I finished my fourth sandwich I’d forgotten the whole thing. Then with homework and basketball practice, even my conscience didn’t have much time to remember it. But about ten o’clock I was in the kitchen getting some cookies when I realized that my sister Jennifer and my mom were talking about Rachel.
“How’s she doing?” Mom asked.
“They’re not sure yet. She’s got a cast on it now, but they want to wait two weeks and see how it’s healing. Her mom says they may have to put a pin in to help it heal right.”
I swallowed one homemade chocolate chip—cookie—whole and felt it scratch all the way down.
“What happened?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t us, but somehow knowing it was.
“Some guys made a truck backfire next to her when she was coming up the hill after school. She slipped on the ice and broke her ankle.”
Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. It had been a joke. We hadn’t meant to hurt her. My stomach churned. I wished I hadn’t eaten any cookies at all.
You all right?” Jennifer asked.
“Sure,” I said, trying to get hold of myself. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Those guys are probably still laughing about their joke,” she said, her face growing red and her eyes mad, “while Rachel’s over there hurting.”
I’m not laughing, I thought. But that didn’t help much.
All night long I tossed and turned and tossed some more. It was a joke. That’s all. We’re really not bad guys. Wayne was always pulling something, and we always joined in. But we’d never hurt anyone.
The next morning when Reed picked me up I guess I looked bad.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Wayne asked. “Terrie turn you down for the dance?”
“No!” I snapped.
I was the last one in and as we shoved together, everything got kind of quiet, a heavy kind of quiet. We got almost to school without breaking the silence. Then Sid spoke up, “Come on, Bingham. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated a minute and then told them the whole story. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as I looked around I could see they felt about like I did.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Reed said. “Just a little scare.”
“It wasn’t just you,” Wayne added, and Sid nodded.
We pulled into the school parking lot, and for the first time ever I was glad to be at school. Maybe concentrating on classes would keep my mind off Rachel and her ankle. But it didn’t work. All day long I kept seeing her face, crying, hurting, sitting alone at the bottom of that hill. Why hadn’t I made them go back?
Back at the truck after school I saw the others for the first time since that morning. I could tell just by looking that instead of leaving, the feeling had settled harder, colder. We climbed into the cab and started for home. We got all the way to my driveway before anyone spoke.
“Look, I don’t know about you guys, but I think we ought to do something,” I said.
“Like what?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. Take her some flowers and candy or something. Apologize.”
“Flowers and candy? Those are for the girls you’re trying to impress. The 10s! Rachel is more of the ‘sweet spirit’ kind.” I knew Wayne was trying to make a joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood, but no one laughed.
“You think we ought to do that?” Reed asked. “I mean go to her house and everything?”
I wanted to say, “Nah, I’m just joking!” But I knew that wouldn’t work. I could see now that much as I didn’t want to face Rachel, let alone risk seeing her mom and dad, my conscience wasn’t going to take a time out unless I went.
“Well, I’m going tonight. If you guys want to come with me, be here at seven.” Then I got out and went into the house.
The next part was the hardest. I found Jennifer and before I had time to chicken out I told her the whole story.
“Matt Bingham!” she started to yell.
“Look, Jen,” I interrupted, holding her hands so she couldn’t hit me. “We didn’t mean to hurt her. We’re sorry, and now I need your help.”
She looked at me a minute as if trying to decide what to do, then wiggled her hands loose.
“Please, Jen?” I asked real nice.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Just help me get the flowers and candy. I don’t know what kind she likes or anything, and I don’t want to go in there apologizing and find out she hates flowers and is allergic to chocolate.”
Jennifer laughed, and that made me mad. Then I realized I must be sounding a little weird. I smiled back. “Will you do it?”
“You know,” she said, “as far as brothers go, you’re not so bad.”
“Will you help?”
“I’d better,” she said. “In the first place Rachel doesn’t like candy.”
“See what I mean? What am I …”
“Hold on,” Jen interrupted. “If you’ll drive me, I’ll pick it all out for you. I know exactly what her favorite things are.”
Now that that was all set I felt a whole lot better. But I still worried that none of the other guys would show. I really didn’t want to go all alone, but I shouldn’t have worried. At seven o’clock all three showed up at the front door looking as nervous as I felt.
“Well, you ready?” Sid stammered.
“Yeah, just a minute.” I was afraid that if I waited even one second more I wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with it.
“Do we really need to do this?” Wayne asked.
“Yes!” I tried to sound real positive and found that just by saying it I somehow felt better. I grabbed the flowers and pepperoni pizza that Jennifer had picked out, and we left.
It was the third silent ride that day. Slowly we pulled up in front of the brown brick home and stopped the engine. No one moved.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“I think Matt ought to be the spokesman,” Sid said, “seeing as this is his idea and all.”
The others agreed, and I knew I was stuck.
“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
From the truck to the front door was the longest walk I’d ever taken. Snow crunched under my feet. My breath formed heavy puffs of steam that hung in front of me. And my heart beat—I mean BEAT. Once on the porch I hesitated, then punched the icy doorbell, hoping that no one would answer it. Before I could turn and run, a woman opened the door, a startled look crossing her face as she saw the four of us standing there with a pizza box and flowers.
“Yes?” she finally said.
“Hello. I’m Matt Bingham, and we came to see Rachel.” The words spilled out like water over a dam.
I’m sure she recognized us from church, but she seemed puzzled.
“She’s probably never had a boy come over before,” Wayne whispered from behind me, and I could feel Sid and Reed giggling. I hoped Mrs. Roberts hadn’t heard.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Roberts said and opened the storm door. “Rachel is in the family room. Right this way.”
She started down the hall, and we followed.
“Rachel,” she said, as she turned into the room. “You have company.”
Rachel was lying on the couch reading a book, her left foot in a cast and propped up on two pillows. It hurt just to look at it.
“Hi,” she said shyly, not as surprised as I thought she’d be.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, no one saying anything. Finally Reed spoke up, “How’s it feeling?”
“It hurts, but it’s getting better,” she answered.
Her mother slipped out of the room and that made it easier.
“I guess you know we’re the ones who were in the truck,” I said, hoping to get it over with so we could leave.
“Yeah,” she said with no trace of anger or anything.
“Well, we want you to know we didn’t mean to hurt you. We feel bad, and we really hope you don’t have to have surgery or anything like that.”
“It was supposed to just be a joke,” Wayne added.
“Anyway, we feel bad about how it turned out, and we wanted to tell you we’re sorry. But I guess that doesn’t help your ankle much. But we are real sorry about it.” I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t figure anything else to say and I felt stupid standing there not saying anything.
“It’s nice of you to admit it,” she said. “Most guys wouldn’t have bothered.”
There was another awkward pause. Then Sid gave me an elbow in the ribs and whispered, “The flowers!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, embarrassed. “We brought you these.” I handed her the flowers and pizza.
“Daisies,” she smiled. “I love daisies. These are beautiful.”
She opened the box. “You’re kidding! Pepperoni pizza. That’s almost worth a broken ankle. Thanks!”
“It’s the kind you buy at a restaurant, then take home and cook,” I explained.
She breathed in a big whiff. “Smells fantastic.”
I’d never really seen her up close. As she smiled and laughed she didn’t really look as plain as I’d always thought she was. It’s not that she’d ever win a beauty contest or anything. But there was something about her that I’d never noticed before, a kind of extra something that I couldn’t explain.
“Pull those chairs over and sit down,” she invited.
“We’d really better be going,” Wayne said uneasily.
“But you haven’t even had a piece of pizza yet,” she said.
“Well, maybe we could stay for a minute,” Reed said and pulled over a chair.
Rachel called her mom back in and asked her to cook the pizza for us. We all got a chair and sat down around the couch. Before we knew it, we were laughing and talking as if we’d been friends for years. She talked easily, not like she was trying to impress us or anything, and she never once talked about movie stars or clothes. I’d never known it was so easy to talk to a girl before. She was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, and she told us about the eclipse and all. Even Wayne thought it was one of the best jokes he’d ever heard of. Then Mrs. Roberts brought in the pizza and some hot chocolate and donuts, and we talked some more. Before I realized it, we had been there for two hours.
“Oh wow!” Sid suddenly noticed. “I told my dad I’d be home by nine-thirty. I’ve got to go.”
“Me too,” we all agreed as we pushed back the chairs and apologized one last time.
“Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” Rachel said, then laughed. “Just don’t let it happen again!”
“We’ll check back and see how you’re doing,” I said.
“Thanks for the flowers and the pizza,” she called as her mother showed us to the door.
The ride home wasn’t silent. Wayne was his old self again, and we all laughed and joked.
“She’s not so bad after all,” Reed said.
“Not a 10 though,” Wayne said. “It’s got to be a 10 for me.”
I knew what Wayne meant. But maybe he was wrong. Rachel wasn’t a Miss America, but all the same there was something about her I couldn’t describe, a warmth or something, that made it so that when I was around her I didn’t seem to notice if she was a 1 or a 10. I’d never been around a girl like that before, unless maybe it was Jennifer. But I doubt sisters count.
I thought about it as I listened to the others joke around.
“What you really want, Wayne, is a 12. But they don’t make 12s anymore,” Reed said, and we laughed again.
Maybe what we need, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud, is a new measuring system.
“Here we are,” Reed said, as he pulled into my driveway. “See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for going with me,” I said. The others only nodded, but then they really didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it.
I hurried into the warm house and found Jennifer waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Jennifer asked.
“I guess so,” I said, and for the first time I didn’t think of nice as an adjective you used for a girl because you couldn’t think of any other word. “She’s okay,” I added, then hurried to my room before Jennifer could ask any more questions.

Girls’ camp in Panama takes place when the southern and northern heavens mingle. During the first part of April in Panama you can see the Southern Cross and the Big Dipper at the same time. Under this fitting symbol, native Spanish-speaking Panamanians and English-speaking girls from the Canal Zone combine their languages, testimonies, cultures, and cuisine for one of the most fascinating, informative, and spiritual girls’ camps held anywhere in the Church.
At a recent camp, the girls and their counselors organized into groups and committees according to their levels of certification in the Young Women Camp Certification program. Each group or committee had at least one American who spoke Spanish or a Panamanian who spoke English so there was always a translator handy plus a person to make sure no one felt left out. All of the girls learned about a new culture and a different way of life.
The standard camp certification program has been modified somewhat to fit the particular circumstances in Panama. The girls’ camp under palms instead of pines; they hold two flag ceremonies each morning; and they eat typical Panamanian food, like Sancocho de gallina (chicken cooked with native herbs, roots, and cooking bananas), along with U.S. favorites, like pizza or tacos, the next day. Machete usage is taught as part of the regular camp skills.
The girls also learn about poisonous plants and dangerous reptiles. They learn early in their programs to avoid coral snakes and the feared fer de lance. They do learn a few of nature’s lessons the hard way. One night in camp some of the girls pitched their tents in the path of army ants on the march. These particular ants in Panama are between 1/2 and 3/4 of an inch long and don’t like to deviate from their chosen course.
Scripture study classes were held in Spanish and English at the same time, and these sessions helped to prepare everyone for the spiritual high point of the outing—a special evening testimony meeting when the girls from two lands could express their common beliefs in their own language. As they shared their feelings, the Big Dipper and the Southern Cross were both sparkling in the heavens, making everyone feel closer to each other and to the Father of them all.

I recall the day when all the banks closed and remember vividly walking up Main Street of this city and seeing crowds of people blocking the sidewalk and street in front of Zion’s Bank. Anthony W. Ivins, counselor to President Grant, was standing on the steps of the bank. He said to the people, “There’s money here in the bank if you want it. There is no need to cause a run on the bank. There’s money here for your deposits.” And the people started to drift away because Brother Ivins was a symbol of integrity and confidence.

One day at school as I ate lunch and studied for my next class, I noticed a group sitting near me, talking and laughing. One young woman particularly caught my attention. She was tall, with beautiful black hair, dark skin, and high cheekbones. Her appearance was as unlike my pale, freckled face and red hair as anything I could imagine. She was one of the most beautiful people I had ever seen.
After a few minutes, the group rose to leave. But the young woman I had been watching stopped. I was somewhat embarrassed; I thought she must have seen me staring at them. Then something extraordinary happened.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I want to tell you how beautiful you are.”
After a shocked pause, I started to laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you!”
After she left, I continued to think about what had happened. We found our differences beautiful. At that moment I realized there is no single standard of beauty.

Having been raised in an active Latter-day Saint family, I think I grew up having a testimony. I never seriously doubted the truthfulness of the gospel. Like many teenagers, I occasionally questioned things in my mind, but I never felt that the Church wasn’t true.
It was this faith that inspired me to serve a mission. I knew I needed to serve. But even though I had no serious doubts about the Church, I realized I had to gain a testimony of my own.
I began my mission in February 1961, leaving Salt Lake City’s winter for the heat of an Argentine summer. There was no language training for missionaries at the time, but my mission president promised us we would speak fluent Spanish after reading the entire Book of Mormon out loud. I had learned Spanish as a child and was speaking fluently within the first few weeks, but still I followed my mission president’s instructions.
In the first town I was assigned to, my companion and I stayed in the living quarters behind an old store. We couldn’t proselytize in the afternoon during the Argentine siesta, so I used that time to pray and read the Book of Mormon in the front entrance of the old store.
One day, thousands of miles from home in the front of that store, I stopped to think about what I was reading. When you pray and ponder about the Book of Mormon, the Spirit can influence you. I pondered what the Book of Mormon was teaching, I thought about Joseph Smith translating the plates, and I had a sudden feeling come over me. At that moment I knew that everything I had been taught all my life was true. It suddenly became very clear to me that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that I was reading the word of God. It was all true.
That sudden feeling was electrifying. It went through my whole body from my head to my toes. It wasn’t a chill, and it wasn’t a burning. But it was a sure witness.
I’ve never forgotten that day, and I’ve felt the Holy Ghost many times since. Because of that experience, I recognize the Holy Ghost when He is testifying to me. That feeling isn’t always exactly the same, but it’s always warm and secure.

Sister Fisher scared me. Whenever I saw her coming, I turned the other direction and hoped she wouldn’t see me.
The trouble had started three weeks ago. On my way to Primary, I stopped to play with the drinking fountain. The fountain wasn’t working right, and I knew it, but nobody else did. When ward members came by for a drink, I politely offered to press the button for them. Boy, were they surprised when the water overshot by about a foot and they got a face full of water!
Everyone fell for it but Sister Fisher. When I offered to hold the button for her, she whispered, “Hayley, don’t you think you’d better run on to Primary? You’re going to be late. Besides, I don’t want to be shot in the face by the drinking fountain.”
Red-faced, I ran to class. How had Sister Fisher known? I’d tricked everyone else.
But the fountain experience wasn’t the only thing different about her. Not only did she act scary, she looked scary. She had wild, frizzy hair that stuck out on the sides and was the color of a pumpkin. Honest—the color of a pumpkin! She wore thick, black-rimmed glasses and lots of smeared, red lipstick. And even though she was big and tall, her clothes made her look even taller. She always wore long skirts and high heels. She looked like she would fall off the heels, but she never did.
I knew I needed to get used to Sister Fisher’s odd looks, because she was my new Primary teacher! I couldn’t believe it—I’d gotten the scariest teacher in the whole Primary.
When Sunday came, I clung to my best friend, Marci. “What do you think of Sister Fisher?” I asked her.
Marci looked a little worried and said, “She’s strange. I’ve heard she wears a necklace with a real shark’s tooth on it. What do you think that means?”
“It means she’s weird,” I replied.
Just as I was going to tell Marci my ideas on why anybody would wear a shark’s tooth, class started. I sat up tall, determined to listen to every word. I was afraid Sister Fisher wouldn’t like me after the drinking fountain incident, so I thought it might help if I looked like I was interested.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” Sister Fisher said. “I’m happy to have you all in my class. We’re going to have a good time together.”
Easy for her to say, I thought to myself. We aren’t strange-looking.
Sister Fisher continued, “To start it off, let’s learn a little bit about each other. We’ll start with Hayley.”
Oh, no. Why does she have to start with me? I wondered. I just knew she was going to tell everyone that I was a mean girl who played tricks on all the grown-ups in the ward.
While I wondered what awful things she was going to say, Sister Fisher picked up a brown paper bag and pulled out a baby picture of me. “Here is Hayley when she was just six months old. Her mother told me that she was the happiest baby in the world. Wasn’t she cute?”
To my surprise, everyone agreed with Sister Fisher. I looked at the picture, and I had to admit that I had been a cute baby.
Next Sister Fisher brought out a picture of Jesus with the little children. It hung in my room because it was a picture of my favorite Bible story. “This is a beautiful picture, isn’t it, class? Hayley thinks so, and her parents told me that this picture helps her remember to pray. Hayley even reminds her parents to say family prayer. I could use someone like that at my house.”
I couldn’t believe it. Sister Fisher was saying nice things about me!
Sister Fisher reached in and grabbed the next thing—my pink piggy bank. “Hayley likes this bank because it’s her favorite color. She saves tithing in it, and her dad said that sometimes she even pays a little extra.”
Brian nudged me and wise-cracked, “Hey, Hayley-Whaley, next time why don’t you give your extra money to me?”
Everyone laughed, like they always do at Brian’s awful nickname for me. Sister Fisher calmly said, “Well, Brian, maybe she will. Hayley is a generous, kind girl.”
Sister Fisher knew just what to say to Brian. Amazing! Our last three teachers hadn’t known what to say to him.
She did Brian’s sack next and showed a raggedy, blue teddy bear, a soccer ball, and some pictures and said good things about him. After Brian’s sack, she showed stuff from bags and said nice things about each of the other members of the class. Marci’s bag even included a picture of the two of us, taken last year at summer camp.
Then Sister Fisher showed us her own bag! “This is a picture of my family,” she began. “I have two grown-up sons who live far away.”
Sister Fisher was a mother! I couldn’t believe it.
She showed other treasures from her bag. One was a dog-eared Book of Mormon she’d been given when she joined the Church four years ago. Another was an award she’d gotten for being the “Professor of the Year” at a college. And a shark’s tooth necklace!
The off-white tooth dangled on the end of a gold chain. It was huge! I’d have hated to see the shark it came from. It was pretty, if you didn’t know it was a tooth.
After she explained what it was, she said, “This necklace is special because my husband gave it to me before he died. He was fascinated by sharks. So whenever I look at this necklace, I think of him,”
Marci and I exchanged glances. I guess it wasn’t so weird, after all. Actually, Sister Fisher wasn’t so weird, after all, even if she had frizzy orange hair. And I guess she really needed the thick glasses. And maybe there were reasons for the other things I’d thought were weird. She didn’t seem to think what I wear and do are weird—she didn’t even tell on me about the water fountain. She was just a person, like everybody else. In fact, she was a nice person. She made me feel good.
When class was over, she hugged me and said, “Hayley, I’m happy I get to teach you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you’re my new teacher.” And I meant it!

I close with another example of a family relationship. At a stake conference in the Midwest about 10 years ago, I met a sister who told me that her nonmember husband had been accompanying her to church for 12 years but had never joined the Church. What should she do? she asked. I counseled her to keep doing all the right things and to be patient and kind with her husband.

About a month later she wrote me as follows: “Well, I thought that the 12 years was a good show of patience, but I didn’t know if I was being very kind about it. So, I practiced real hard for over a month, and he got baptized.”

Kindness is powerful, especially in a family setting. Her letter continued, “I am even trying to be kinder now because we are working on a temple sealing this year!”

Six years later she wrote me another letter: “My husband was [just] called and set apart as the bishop [of our ward].”2

The Lord’s special concern for widows is abundantly evidenced in the scriptures. Of course this concern also extends to all single mothers. They have so many demands placed upon them. They must provide the food and clothing and other necessities for the family. They also need to nurture their children with an extra amount of love and caring.

I recently received a letter from the son of a sister in this circumstance, and I quote a paragraph from it: “Mom was able to be a full-time homemaker while our family was young. This is where she wanted to be, but some 28 years ago, with four children ages 5 to 14, she was forced to take on employment outside the home in order to provide for us as a suddenly single parent. While we know this is not the ideal situation for raising a family, Mom worked diligently to continue nurturing us in the gospel and tending to all family duties while working full-time to support us financially. Only now as a parent myself, blessed to have my wife at home to care for our children, have I begun to understand the scope of Mom’s situation and trials in caring for us at that time. It was difficult and trying and I wish that I had done more to make things easier for her. I will be eternally grateful for her sacrifice in setting an example by teaching us how to work and how we should live. The wisdom of the proclamation on the family rings especially true to me now because of the experiences we shared as a family.”