Gospel Story Finder

Lizzie, give it back! I’m playing with it!
No!
Girls, please stop fighting. Lizzie, you need to go to your room. Alice, I’d like to talk to you.
It’s not fair, Dad! I was playing with my unicorn, and Lizzie grabbed it. She always ruins things.
It’s tough to be a big sister. Do you know what helps me when I get mad?
What, Dad?
A scripture in the Bible. It says, “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” This means that if you speak kindly and softly, angry people will feel calmer. If you speak rudely or shout at them, they will just get angrier.
Do you think that will work with Lizzie?
Next time, just try it and see what happens.
I want the fairy wings!
Alice remembered what Dad had told her.
Lizzie, would you like to wear my crown? You can be a princess, and I’ll be your fairy friend.
OK, I’ll be a beautiful princess!
Come on, your highness. Let’s play!

In 1989 I was a volunteer helping at BYU New Student Orientation. That was the day I met Chris Felsted—on the last day of his life. I found Chris on the ground where he had collapsed; he would never get up again. As we realized his peril, a friend started CPR while I summoned the paramedics.

One of you seated here today may be the recipient of the BYU scholarship that bears his name, funded by the endowment his loving parents created with his college fund in memory of their ­amazing son who was admitted to BYU but who graduated to his heavenly home before his first day of class. The uncertainty and fragility of mortality remind us that every day is sacred and every hour is important, for whether you perceive that your life at this moment offers much or little, your life—the only one you have—is now.

Vítor lived with his mother and sister at his Grandma Deny’s home. Vítor’s grandma became ill and could not leave her bed for many weeks. She was lonely in her room by herself.
Vítor decided that he could keep Grandma Deny company. Every day when he came home from school, he took a copy of the Liahona into Grandma’s room and read her stories from the children’s pages.
After he read all the copies of the Liahona that his family had, he began reading the Book of Mormon and the Bible to her. Grandma Deny was not a member of the Church, but she loved hearing Vítor read to her. She was happy to learn about the gospel.
Grandma asked many questions. If Vítor did not know the answers, he asked his Primary teacher or looked in the scriptures. Grandma called Vítor her little missionary.
Grandma Deny told Vítor that she had learned a lot from him. She promised that she would attend church with him when she got well. What she had learned made her want to get better and study more about the gospel.
When Grandma was well, she kept her promise. She went to church with Vítor to learn more about what he had taught her. It was not long before Grandma was baptized and confirmed. Vítor had helped her learn that the gospel is true.
When Vítor grew up, he became a full-time missionary in the Boston Massachusetts Mission. Before he left, he went to the temple—with Grandma Deny.

Several years ago our family lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, for a short time, and while there, I served in the Young Women program in our ward. It was a profound learning and growing experience for me. One of my most vivid and memorable experiences was participating in a hike with the Olympus 7th ward Young Women. The chosen hike was the summit of Mt. Aire in Millcreek Canyon. Our guide was a sister in the ward, named Amy, who was a trained search and rescue professional who would lead us and ensure that we would safely reach our destination and also return home safely that afternoon. When this hike was proposed I thought to myself, “it’s a convenient location, with the trailhead only about a 15 minute drive from our house – how challenging could it be?”

Besides the relatively close proximity to civilization, the expected duration for the hike was only about two hours and again I figured, (for a novice hiker), that seemed reasonable. How bad could a two hour trek be? The girls were enthusiastic and eager to listen to Amy as she provided information about appropriate hiking clothing and shoes. She also reminded us to carry a light jacket and gave us a suggested quantity of water we should bring. Although it seemed like an inordinate amount to haul, I thought it best to comply since she was an expert and knew what she was talking about, but I couldn’t help ask myself, “how much is that water going weigh?”

Let me tell you what I learned about Mt. Aire during the hike. First off it should be called Mt. “No Air” or Mt. “Give Me Oxygen.” This is due to the fact that the summit is about 8,600 feet above sea level. For comparison sake, the Koolau Mountain Range here around us rises to a height of approximately 3,000 feet above sea level.

From the base of Mt Aire to the summit is a vertical climb of 2,000 feet. For those of us from sea level, a hike to over 8,000 feet in altitude presents very noticeable changes. You quickly observe a lack of available oxygen and the thinning of the air makes you feel out of shape, lethargic, and light-headed.

Let me share what I remember most about that mountainous climb. The 16 and 17 year old Laurels started out in front with Amy and stayed up with her all the way. They set a grueling pace for the rest of us (well for me). They seemed as sure footed as mountain goats, steady on their feet and moving with ease and elegance. Periodically they would stop to let the remainder of the group catch up, rest, and take a sip of water. It was easy to see they were more experienced and comfortable not only with the terrain but with themselves.

At the beginning of the hike I started somewhere in the middle of the pack but as it got steeper the air grew thinner. It became more difficult for me to fill my lungs with oxygen, but no one else seemed affected like I was. I tried to pretend everything was OK, but I started breathing through my nose and mouth to force more oxygen in to my lungs. Each step became more laborious, and I was preoccupied with looking for a place I could stop for a few seconds to catch my breath. I was not engaging in conversation or appreciating the majestic scenery for which the Utah canyon-scapes are famous. I was focused on staying alive.

All the while the Beehive girls flitted around checking out the flora and fauna like they were romping in a field of daisies laughing and having a wonderful time—you know the awe and joy that God’s creations hold. They were having a blast with not a care in the world. Not wanting to spoil their fun I waved the girls on, and they ran up ahead to join their friends but then a few minutes later they ran back to check on me.

One little girl said, “would you like me to carry your jacket sister Wright?” I thanked her and told her I was fine. At one point my daughter who could see I was having a difficult time came up behind me put two hands on the small of my back and pushed me until I felt a renewed commitment and energy to push to the end.

This little beehive group stayed with me and stood around me as I caught my breath. Although I invited them to go ahead, in part because I was embarrassed at having such a hard time, but I couldn’t shake them loose. They kept on chatting with each other and moved along the trail slower than they could have but not so far ahead that I had an excuse to call out “I’ll wait for you here pick me up on your way down.” So in the end I buckled down and decided I wasn’t going to give up. Instead, I continued to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and then continued with each successive step, and so on until we reached the Summit where the trail blazing Laurels and leaders had finished their rest and were ready to head back down the mountain. All I could think of was, “I made it!”

Let me tell you about two students I had here at BYU-Idaho. One young man came to our campus with a rather negative attitude. He had a dark countenance. He was critical of his teachers and vocally abusive to his peers. He was having trouble with his roommates and trouble with his grades. He told me that he wasn’t happy with his life and wrote on an assignment that he was deeply involved in sin. I hoped that with priesthood counsel and sincere study of the scriptures he would find consolation. Unfortunately, he refused help and would not turn to the Lord. He would not make the necessary effort to experiment upon the word. He left here spiritually asleep and still very much unhealed.

Contrast this with a young lady who was also troubled. The Goddess Dullness had deceived her and she had broken God’s absolute law of chastity. When she read the very verse about the power of the pleasing word of God to heal the wounded soul, she opened her heart and mind to the word and began taking her study of the Book of Mormon very seriously. She had an awakening experience and began to apply the atonement to her personal situation. She took the necessary steps and went to her bishop. She made a 180-degree turn and shared with me that she was making great changes in her life and was so grateful for the healing that was taking place. Her soul was awakened; it no longer drooped in sin. Her heart rejoiced in the amazing gift of repentance and the fact that she could adopt God’s view and no longer feel shame before Him. She knew that the last part of Moroni 7:48 applied now to her, too: “…when he shall appear we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he [really] is; that we may have this hope; that we may be purified even as he is pure.”

President Hinckley tells of a time he learned about having the courage to make his own decisions.
The year we enrolled in junior high school, the building could not accommodate all the students, and so our class was sent back to the elementary school. We were furious. We’d spent six years in that building, and we felt we deserved something better. The boys of the class all met after school. We decided we’d go on strike.
The next day we did not show up. But we had no place to go. We couldn’t stay home, because our mothers would ask questions. We didn’t think of going downtown to a show. We had no money for that. We didn’t think of going to the park. We were afraid we might be seen. We just wandered about and wasted the day.
The next morning, the principal, Mr. Stearns, was at the front door of the school to greet us. He told us that we could not come back to school until we brought a note from our parents. Striking, he said, was not the way to settle a problem. If we had a complaint, we could come to the principal’s office and discuss it.
I remember walking sheepishly into the house. My mother asked what was wrong. I told her. She wrote a note. It was very brief. It was the most stinging rebuke she ever gave me. It read:
“Dear Mr. Stearns,
“Please excuse Gordon’s absence yesterday. His action was simply an impulse to follow the crowd.”
I have never forgotten my mother’s note. I resolved then and there that I would never do anything on the basis of simply following the crowd. I determined then and there that I would make my own decisions on the basis of my standards and not be pushed in one direction or another by those around me. That decision has blessed my life many times.

Consider the story of Ximena Martínez. A few years ago, Ximena, her sister Micaela, and her brother Gonzalo were living with their divorced mother in Buenos Aires. Ximena was 15 at the time. She had been assigned the responsibility of taking care of the yard. “But I had neglected it,” she explains. “Daniel Garrido, a nice neighbor who lived across the street, offered to help. A few days later he came, accompanied by full-time missionaries. They worked hard and made everything look beautiful. But this was only the beginning. Daniel and his wife, Elisabet, continued to be faithful friends, and the missionaries offered to teach us about the Restoration of the gospel. How could we say no?”
That was the beginning of a journey to understanding. After studying with the missionaries, Ximena’s mother was baptized. The children soon followed her example. “I decided to change my life, to have the kind of freedom only Christ can give,” Ximena continues. “More and more, I wanted to live the gospel. But there was something missing—we needed a father, and we wanted to be sealed in the temple.
“One day at a Church dance, I talked to a friend named Martín Morresi. He mentioned that his father was a widower. Jokingly I said, ‘Well, my mother needs a husband! We ought to get them to meet.’ We had only one problem—his father lived 2,000 miles [3,200 kilometers] away.
“I began to tease my mother that I had found a husband for her. Then, at a stake choir rehearsal, Martín told me, ‘My father is coming to visit Buenos Aires, and he wants to have dinner with your mother!’ I was stunned, but I won’t even tell you my mother’s reaction. However, she accepted. Martín accompanied his father, Rubén, and I accompanied my mother, Susana, and we had a wonderful evening. Rubén Morresi was attentive and respectful. I could see he was upright and faithful, a man of God.”
Three and a half months later, Rubén and Susana were married in the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple. Ximena, Micaela, and Gonzalo Martínez were sealed to them and moved with them to Ushuaia, where they joined Manuel and Micaela Morresi as new brothers and sisters. (Three older children live away from home.)
“Now I live at the end of the world,” says Ximena. “I am working with all my might to help Zion to grow here. I know the Lord’s kingdom will extend to the four corners of the earth, and this is why He has guided us to one of them.”

Trent and Carley each tried to be like Jesus Christ at a school carnival.
Carley played a game at the carnival in which if you threw a ball into a certain cup, you won a fish. She won “seven or a lot of fishes.” Another boy, about six years old, won only one fish, and he dropped it. Carley gave him one of hers “because it was the right thing to do.” The boy was very happy, which made Carley feel very good.

“Sunrise, sunset—swiftly fly the years. …” (From Fiddler on the Roof, 1964.)
Those lines from the poignant song bring a memory of two friends who, like the father and mother portrayed in Fiddler on the Roof, did not “remember getting older.” The man was about sixty-three and the woman fifty-five. Both were healthy, happy, and employed in work they enjoyed.
One day the man was told he must take an immediate retirement. On the Monday morning the retirement took effect, the husband watched his wife prepare to leave for work. He realized that he would be home alone with nothing to do. He had no occupation, no hobbies, no special interests, and no plans for the future.
As he followed his wife to the door that morning, he exclaimed in anguish, “What’s going to happen to me? What can I do?”
What, indeed, was there for this man to do, who one day was at the peak of his career and the next day was classified among the elderly unemployed? He was left to try to find a new life for himself or to vegetate and die. Sadly I add that within a brief time he did die.

John Bennett Hawkins was in the Old Tabernacle on that day and answered the call to help. He was one of the hundreds of individuals in relief parties that set out from Salt Lake City. On the evening of October 21, the rescuer wagons finally reached the Willie camp. They were greeted with joy and gratitude by the frozen and starving survivors. This was the first meeting of John Bennett Hawkins and Sarah Elizabeth Moulton, who would become my great-grandparents.
The company was greeted by hundreds of Salt Lake citizens anxiously awaiting their coming and ready to help with their care. Gratitude and appreciation toward one of the young heroes who had helped save the Moultons from the grasp of death soon blossomed into romance and love for Sarah Elizabeth.
On December 5, 1856, amidst the happy wishes of her loved ones, Sarah Elizabeth married John Bennett Hawkins, her rescuer. They were sealed for time and eternity the following July in the Endowment House. They made their home in Salt Lake City and were blessed with three sons and seven daughters. One of those daughters, Esther Emily, married my grandfather Charles Rasband in 1891.

If you come to Puerto Montt very early in the morning, you will find smoke curling from the chimney of one of the well-kept buildings. Inside, LDS seminary students are studying the gospel. Some of them have gotten out of bed at 4:00 A.M. to be here, but they are smiling. Their attendance record is almost perfect. Some of them are not even Mormons. This is typical. When the seminary program was established in this part of Chile, there were very few members. Undiscouraged, the leaders founded classes composed mostly of nonmembers. Before the end of the first year, many of the students were baptized, and a powerful new missionary tool was born.

“You want a ride home, Bryce?” Kendall asked as we left the Little League field. “I have my bike here. You can ride with me.”
“Sure. I’ll pedal partway, if you want.”
The field and bleachers were clearing fast because ours had been the last game. Kendall’s bike was chained to the back of the bleachers. A few feet away was another one, lying in the dirt. It was one of the nicest bikes I’d seen.
“I wonder whose bike that is,” I muttered.
“That’s Dusty’s,” Kendall grumbled, shaking his head disgustedly. “His dad bought it for him last month. Dusty just dumped it there before the game. I saw him leave with TJ. If I had a bike like that, I sure wouldn’t leave it lying around in the dirt like a pile of junk.”
I looked at the bike again. Its bright yellow-and-black paint was beautiful. Grabbing the handlebars, I hefted it to an upright position. For a moment I just admired it; then I swung my leg over and settled down on the seat.
I looked around. We were the only ones still there. I gripped the handlebars and hunched over, pretending to be flying down the road. I straightened up and told Kendall, “I’m going to ride it home.”
“Huh?”
“Dusty lives just a block from me. I’ll drop it by his place on my way home. He’ll thank me. Let’s go.”
Kendall and I had planned to go right home, but on the way, we passed the construction site of the new shopping center. Heavy equipment had been brought in for digging the footings. There were huge piles of dirt and sand everywhere. It was an awesome place to do dirt biking. The construction crew wasn’t around. …
We had meant to stay only five minutes or so, but once I got started, I couldn’t quit. “I’m going to try that big hill in the middle, where they’ve started digging the foundation,” I called to Kendall.
“You’ll kill yourself, it’s too steep.”
“I’ll make it easy on this bike!”
But from the top, it looked higher and steeper than it had from below. When I looked at Kendall, who stood at the bottom, gazing up anxiously, I almost chickened out. But I’d worked hard to get up there, and Kendall was watching, so I decided to give it a try.
“Watch out for that stack of rebar over to the side,” Kendall shouted.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed off. Immediately I wished I had left good enough alone. Dusty’s bike went down the hill as if shot from a gun. It was all I could do to stay on as the bike bounced and swerved down the rocky dirt.
A little past halfway down the hill, I lost my balance and took a tumble. I went in one direction; the bike went in another. Everything was a spinning, twisting blur. My flailing sprawl ended when I crashed against a rock at the bottom of the hill.
“Are you all right, Bryce?” Kendall was kneeling beside me, his face white.
I groaned and tried to sit up. A banging pain throbbed in my right knee. As I grimaced, my teeth ground on dirt and sand. I spit to clean out my mouth. “My leg’s killing me,” I moaned.
After I got up and walked around a bit, I felt better, even though my knee was still throbbing. I pulled up my pant leg and discovered a two-inch scrape. It was bleeding some, but it wasn’t too bad. “I think I’ll be OK,” I finally muttered. “Where’s Dusty’s bike?”
The bike was twisted on its side, next to the pile of iron rebar. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was badly damaged. I pulled it up. The handlebars were bent at an angle.
Kendall and I were able to straighten the handlebars, but as we were doing it, we saw that two spokes were broken on the front wheel and its rim was crumpled. The tire had a small rip in the side. I had a sick feeling in my stomach.
“What are you going to do?” Kendall asked me.
I shook my head slowly, wishing that I had never seen Dusty’s bike. “Maybe we can fix it,” I said hopefully.
Kendall studied the front wheel more closely, then shook his head. “That thing’s totally wasted, Bryce.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have just left it lying there in the dirt,” I snapped, trying to blame Dusty for the accident instead of me. “He’s lucky somebody didn’t just steal it. I’m going to take it back to the ballpark. He can pick it up there—if he still wants it. Hey—he might even forget that he left it there.”
I didn’t tell anybody at home about my accident. I did my best not to limp. But every time I took a step and felt the pain, I remembered what I’d done to Dusty’s bike. I tried to rationalize that it was his own fault for leaving it there, but that didn’t get rid of the guilty feeling.
Before Primary the next day, I heard Dusty talking to some guys. “They trashed my bike,” he growled, hitting his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Well, why’d you leave it at the park in the first place?” Tyson asked.
“I forgot it—don’t you ever forget things?”
“I’d never forget my new bike. If I did, that would be the last time my dad ever got me anything.”
“Well, if I ever find out who did it,” Dusty muttered angrily, “I’m going to bust him in the nose.”
I looked at Kendall. He looked away and started down the hall for class. Ducking my head, I followed him.
I had a hard time thinking about the Primary lesson, and when sacrament meeting started, I tried to crowd thoughts of Dusty and his bike out of my mind. But as the priests were preparing the sacrament, I thought of a home evening lesson Mom had given. She’d talked about the sacrament and pointed out that we should always take it worthily. Taking it unworthily was mocking Jesus.
Until that Sunday, the sacrament was just something we did Sundays. It was just bread and water that the deacons brought around. But that morning I couldn’t help thinking of the broken bike, and I knew that I wasn’t worthy to take the sacrament. Not until I made things right with Dusty.
I swallowed hard and bowed my head, feeling horribly ashamed. Heavenly Father knew about the bike, and I knew that I couldn’t take the bread and water and renew my covenants with Him while pretending that I hadn’t taken and damaged Dusty’s bike.
When Mom handed me the bread tray, I started to reach for a piece. Then that sick feeling inside me welled up bigger than ever. I pulled my hand back. Without looking at Mom, I slowly shook my head and stared down at my hands. When the water came a few minutes later, I shook my head again.
It was funny that as soon as the sacrament was over and the deacons and the priests had gone to sit with their families, I felt better. I didn’t feel good about what I had done to Dusty’s bike, but I was glad that I’d had the courage not to mock Jesus by taking the sacrament just so that people wouldn’t look at me funny. I also realized that I was going to have to tell Dusty what had happened.
I walked home after the meeting, reaching the house before the rest of my family did. I didn’t wait to change my clothes—I headed straight for the garage, grabbed my bike, and pushed it over to Dusty’s.
My hand shook a little as I rang the doorbell. Sister Baker answered it. “Is Dusty around?” I rasped nervously.
“Sure, Bryce,” she said pleasantly. “Why don’t you come on in?”
“I need to talk to him out here.”
A moment later Dusty came bounding out. “What’s happening, man?”
“Hi, Dusty.” I turned and nodded toward my bike. “I brought you my bike.”
“Oh, you heard mine got trashed. I couldn’t believe that anybody would do that to somebody else’s bike.”
“Yeah,” I gulped, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I thought you could use mine until yours gets fixed.”
For a moment he stared at me and then at my bike and then back at me. “You don’t have to do that, Bryce.” He sounded surprised and really sincere. “Shoot, that’s nice of you, though. Thanks a lot!”
I shook my head and looked at the ground. “No, Dusty, I’m not all that nice. I wish I was. You see, I”—I swallowed hard and wet my lips—“I’m the one that smashed up your new bike.”
I looked up. Dusty was staring at me. He wasn’t angry, just shocked. “I was going to bring it home to you. I saw it at the park and figured I’d ride it here—you know, as kind of a favor.” I was speaking fast and furiously, wanting to explain before he decided to bust me in the nose. “Then I came to where they’re building that new shopping center, and I started riding the dirt hills. I wasn’t trying to mess up your bike or anything.”
I told him everything. I even showed him the scrape on my knee to prove that I wasn’t lying. Dusty didn’t say much. He just listened. “That’s why I brought you my bike,” I said sadly. “I’ll pay for what it costs to fix up yours, but it’ll take me a little while to earn the money. That’s why I figured you needed another bike until then. It’s not as good as yours, but it’ll get you around. I’m sorry, Dusty. I hadn’t meant for things to end up this way.”
Dusty stepped over to my bike and walked around it, looking it over.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you still wanted to bust me in the nose,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “I’ve thought better about that.” He cuffed my arm. “I still think this is pretty nice of you. Most guys wouldn’t even have told me.”
“Well, I am sorry. And I’ll make up for it.”
I turned and started down his driveway, leaving my bike behind. “Hey, Bryce,” he called after me. I stopped and turned. “Do you want to play a little catch tomorrow after school?”
I hesitated and then smiled. “Sure. I’d like that.”
As I returned home, I was smiling, both inside and out. That deep down sick feeling was gone, and I knew that next Sunday I’d be able to take the sacrament—and I’d appreciate it.

Mara loved making people smile. She made her schoolteacher smile when she raised her hand to ask questions. She made her sister, Marcella, smile when she said nice things to her.
Then Mara would smile too. It felt good to help other people be happy.
But there was one time each week when Mara hardly ever smiled. That time was early Sunday morning. That’s when Mara and Marcella were always the most tired. Rushing around to get ready for church made them extra grumpy. Then there was the long walk to church. It was more than a mile away! Mara and Marcella often got there late. They would miss the first part of Primary.
“We miss you when you’re not here on time,” Sister Lima said one day. She was the Primary president of their ward in Brazil.
Mara knew she should get to church on time. But how? Then Mara got an idea. The next Saturday night, Mara decided to try something new.
Instead of sneaking bedtime snacks after dinner, Mara brushed her teeth. Most days Mama had to remind the girls to turn off the TV and go to bed. Even then they would play and whisper under their covers until late at night. Sometimes they stayed up so long they could hardly keep their eyes open. They had to wiggle to keep from falling asleep.
Tonight Mara put on pajamas and hopped right into bed. Mama didn’t even have to remind her. She started looking at the pictures in the front of her Book of Mormon.
“What are you doing?” Marcella asked.
“A test,” Mara said. Her mind was full of happy thoughts. Plus she was already feeling sleepy.
The next thing Mara knew, the sun was peeking through her window. It was almost time to get ready for church. Instead of feeling yucky, Mara felt great. Her head didn’t feel fuzzy. Her body didn’t feel tired.
She got to Primary even before some of the leaders.
“Thank you for being such a good example to the other children,” Sister Lima said.
Now it was Mara’s turn to smile. She decided she would always go to bed early on Saturday. That way she would be able to spread smiles all Sunday long.

I remember how the shrill scream of a siren gave me goose bumps whenever an ambulance went rushing by. Oh how I wanted to be at the wheel of that machine, rushing to the aid of sick and injured people. As I grew older, my dream became a reality. I took first-aid classes, human science classes, and finally, an emergency medical technician training course.
I was fresh out of high school when I got my first job as an ambulance attendant for a private ambulance, and I progressed rapidly in my knowledge of emergency treatments. I learned many things about life that most people never learn until their 20s. I was also exposed to many trials and temptations that I’d never come across before.
I worked in a non-Mormon atmosphere. It was the type of atmosphere that my church leaders always had warned me about, but at the time, I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My work began conflicting with my church attendance. I started asking myself questions and often wondered about my future. I could see myself progressing into higher fields of medicine, and it seemed that nothing stood in my way. Then, on my 19th birthday, I made my way to California and applied to a hospital paramedic program. I was accepted and could enter in the fall semester. I knew then that was exactly what I wanted to do.
Suddenly it dawned on me. What about a mission. Oh sure, I always told my friends and family that I would go. I even told my employer I was planning on a mission. But all of that seemed unimportant now. All I could see was personal satisfaction, and I didn’t care what kind of spiritual development I’d surely miss. The voice of the prophet still echoed in my mind, “Every young man is to fulfill a mission.” But the thought always came back, “In two years’ time, look how far you could be as a paramedic.”
I didn’t know what to do! I knew deep down in my heart that a mission was the right thing, but I was so terribly blinded by worldly greed. The decision to go or not to go was constantly on my mind. I thought about it from the time I got up until the time I went to bed at night. Because we worked 24-hour shifts, I had lots of time to think.
One night right after I had gone to bed, I was awakened by the ring of the telephone. The highway patrol was calling for an ambulance to respond to a car-truck accident on the freeway, and soon I was at the scene of a two-car accident. A small car had run into the back of a semitrailer loaded with wooden fence posts. The badly mangled car had two occupants—a young couple that had recently been married. The husband, who was driving, had been killed instantly. His wife was critically injured. We worked desperately to save the slowly fading life of that beautiful nineteen-year-old woman. I thought to myself, How could something so terrible happen to this fine couple and totally destroy their future plans and happiness?
We rushed her to the hospital, where a team of highly trained doctors and nurses were waiting. Soon a helicopter arrived to transport her to a hospital in Salt Lake City, where she could receive special treatment for a severe head injury.
After I calmed down from the shock of such a terrible accident, I remembered talking to the highway patrolman who would be responsible for notifying the next of kin. I’ll never forget the solemn look on his face, and the glaze of tears in his eyes as he drove away. I thought to myself, What a horrible assignment! What if they were my parents being notified? Then another thought came to my mind: What will be the look on my face when I give an accounting to the Savior of the time I spent here in mortality?
The night air was chilled with a late frost. As I gazed up into the night, I noticed how clear and calm the sky looked. Tears ran freely down my cheeks, and I found myself pleading with the Lord for that young woman’s life. At that moment, when my heart actually seemed to swell painfully with love and compassion, I finally began to understand. Doctors and nurses and paramedics were wonderful, but they could only treat the body. They couldn’t heal the deeper wounds, the ones that would keep us from going home to our Father. Only one Physician could do that, and I was denying myself the chance to be his helper. I made a decision. I would do all I could to further the work of the Master Healer. I would serve a mission!
The days came and went. Finally, one month later, I learned my prayers had been answered. The young woman was released from the hospital, completely recovered. How I thanked our Eternal Father for that answer. But now came the biggest step of all, my mission.
As I prayed and prepared myself, the Spirit confirmed the fact that I was to serve my Heavenly Father in the mission field. I’ll never forget that calm, sweet feeling that came as the words fell from the lips of our stake patriarch, when he pronounced that blessing upon me. And I’ll never forget that same feeling as I opened the letter from a prophet of God, calling me to serve in the Pennsylvania Harrisburg Mission. Even as I served in Pennsylvania, as a representative of Jesus Christ, I had that special calm feeling, knowing that I had made the right choice.
Before I left for the mission field, I thought there was no feeling in the world like knowing someone was walking again because of your help, but I was wrong. There is no greater feeling in the world than knowing you helped someone in their search for true joy and happiness found in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Hadley Peay is now seven years old. Hadley was born with a very serious hearing impairment requiring extensive surgery to bring even limited hearing. Her parents followed with tireless training to help her learn to speak. Hadley and her family have cheerfully adapted to the challenge of her deafness.
Once, when Hadley was four, she was standing in the checkout line at the grocery store with her mother. She looked behind her and saw a little boy sitting in a wheelchair. She noticed that the boy did not have legs.
Although Hadley had learned to speak, she had difficulty controlling the volume of her voice. In her louder voice, she asked her mother why the little boy did not have legs.
Her mother quietly and simply explained to Hadley that “Heavenly Father makes all of His children different.” “OK,” Hadley replied.
Then, unexpectedly, Hadley turned to the little boy and said, “Did you know that when Heavenly Father made me, my ears did not work? That makes me special. He made you with no legs, and that makes you special. When Jesus comes, I will be able to hear and you will get your legs. Jesus will make everything all right.”
Hadley knew enough.

President Hugh B. Brown (1883–1975), a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and of the First Presidency, shared an experience where God made more out of his life than he would have done on his own.

Hugh had been serving in the Canadian military and was in line to be promoted to general. He had been working, hoping, and praying for that promotion for 10 years.

When the position became available, however, he was passed over simply because he was a member of the Church. That was literally the only reason, and they told him so.

Hugh was furious. He said: “I got on the train and started back … with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. … When I got to my tent, … I threw my cap on the cot. I clenched my fists, and I shook them at heaven. I said, ‘How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?’ I was as bitter as gall.”3

Then Hugh remembered an experience from years earlier. He’d once bought a neglected farm that had an overgrown currant bush. Without trimming, that bush would never provide fruit. All it wanted to do was grow taller.

So Hugh trimmed it back severely. Afterward, he saw little drops of liquid at the end of each cut branch. They looked like tears. “I am the gardener here,” he told the currant bush. Hugh knew what he wanted that bush to become, and it wasn’t a shade tree.

That experience came to his mind as he battled anger over being passed up for promotion. “I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, ‘I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.’ The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness. …

“… And now, almost 50 years later, I look up to [God] and say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.’”4

Hugh never became a general. The Lord had other plans for President Brown. With the Lord as his architect, President Brown’s life became a masterful structure.

The Savior taught that the first and great commandment is to love God and that the second, which “is like unto it,” is to love our neighbor (see Matthew 22:37–39). The Four Corners area—where Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico, and Utah come together—is home to the Navajo Nation, a place where, for Latter-day Saints, “love God” and “love your neighbor” have become a way of life. Here’s what some Church members in the area have to say about living the second great commandment.
Yellowman family
“People like being included. They just need to be invited.”
The home of Tom and Gina Yellowman, in Kirtland, New Mexico, is a place where friends and neighbors gather regularly for dinners. “But there’s a catch,” Gina says as she, her son, and her daughter prepare fry bread in the kitchen. “You can only come if you bring someone from your ward who hasn’t been attending church or someone, member or not, who needs a friend.”
She explains: “We kept meeting people who felt isolated. So we decided to have a barbecue where they could get to know others. For example, my niece came. She’s a high school volleyball coach, and a couple of her players and their families came too. Two of the girls on the team hadn’t realized before that they are both members of the Church.
“And there are people who live across the river on the reservation, but they didn’t know each other. When they came here, they figured out, ‘Hey, we’re neighbors,’ and now they have friends nearby who share the same standards, people they can turn to for help or just to borrow a potato because they live far from the grocery store. That was our goal—to bring people together so they can support each other.”
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat” (Matthew 25:35).
The Yellowmans say that the dinners are an extension of a family tradition of providing food to others. Tom explains: “It started one night when we took our children out for hamburgers. We didn’t have a lot of money, so it was a special treat. When we got there, we saw some homeless people in the parking lot. We bought a couple of extra meals and let the kids hand them the food.”
After that, each Christmas season the family prepared small bags of food to give to people without a home. Extended family members joined in, so did friends, and soon they were distributing 75 to 100 bags in Farmington and Shiprock.
“When my kids and their cousins hand out these bags,” Tom says, “they tell people how grateful they are to be able to give them food.”
“One man even asked us to pray with him,” says Toma, Tom and Gina’s 22-year-old son. “That made the experience particularly meaningful to me.”
“We grow to love those whom we serve.”
The Yellowmans also know that loving your neighbor starts with loving your family. That includes Sister Yellowman’s father, Wallace Thompson, who lives in an outbuilding next to the family home. Daughter Tayla, age 27, says she likes having her acheii (maternal grandfather) nearby. “He’s helped me to learn about our native language,” she says. “I’ve also gotten to know him as a person. He’s such a character! He’s got his own style of humor. He’s also very direct, so be ready for that. But it’s been a blessing to really get to know him.”
Trevor, a 19-year-old son, says he helped care for acheii after he had open-heart surgery. “He didn’t have full use of his hands, and he couldn’t reach his back,” Trevor says. “So I helped him to bathe.” As he served his grandfather, a bond of love grew between them.

I was a newly arrived full-time missionary in Connecticut, and my companion and I were serving in a small ward during the first round of holidays I spent on my mission. I hadn’t yet learned the dietary value of becoming friends with a few of the members, and my first Thanksgiving resulted in no invitation and no dinner. Our mission president took pity on us, and we ended up being the only missionaries to spend Thanksgiving at the mission home. We were grateful but a little embarrassed.
We started putting ourselves out there early for the coming Christmas. Our shameful solicitations landed three full meals at three different homes. Pancakes for breakfast, Lithuanian food for lunch, and a Jamaican feast for dinner. Our stomachs were bursting. I was still an inexperienced missionary and thought that was what Christmas on a mission was all about.

Trevor Chapman is something of a detective. When his search for a significant Eagle Scout project wasn’t fruitful in his hometown of Sitka, Alaska, he decided to dig a little deeper and went looking for someplace nearby that could use his help. He put the word out to several small towns in the Sitka area. The people of Angoon, located on nearby Admiralty Island, said they’d love Trevor’s help on a project to improve their town.
But what should he do? After some thought, Trevor looked in the phone book and discovered that Angoon didn’t have a library. So he and his fellow Scouts went to work collecting books—nearly 2,000 of them—to be used in various community and civic centers around Angoon.

Harvey went to the University of Chicago in 1908 and, under the direction of Robert Milliken, earned a PhD in 1911 by measuring the charge on an electron. Harvey returned to BYU to teach physics but received an offer to become a researcher in New York City at Western Electric, which was the premier physics lab in the country. This lab became the main research lab for AT&T. After several years of persistence from Western Electric, Harvey asked BYU president George H. Brimhall for permission to go to Western Electric. BYU was struggling for prestigious faculty, and President Brimhall told Harvey not to go. However, soon after that Church president Joseph F. Smith attended a board meeting at BYU, and Harvey asked President Smith the same question. After listening to Harvey’s story President Smith sat quietly in a thoughtful mood for a few minutes and then said:

Yes, I want you to go and take this position, but promise this, that you will keep your testimony strong and keep up your Church activities. If you do so you can do more good for the Church in New York City than you could do here at the BYU at the present time and you will be successful in your work. We need more Mormon boys to go out into the world of business and scientific research to represent our ideal of living.

Harvey took his small family to New York City in 1916 and stayed there until he retired. He served first as president of the Manhattan Branch for ten years and then in the district presidency, stake presidency, and high council for thirty-five years. He was an emissary for the Church in the scientific world. He went around the world giving lectures about science and religion.