Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, I was privileged to be assigned to the Asia Area Presidency, with the area office being in Hong Kong. Our four youngest children accompanied Sister Brough and me to that fascinating city, where we lived for three very interesting years. Our children were accustomed to the wide-open spaces of western America, and Hong Kong required each child to make some very large personal and emotional adjustments. Many nights we sat around our dining room table in our modest 13th-floor apartment, trying to help them with school and cultural challenges.
One night, after anxiously working for several hours to complete school assignments, our youngest child, Kami (then eight years old), asked, “Daddy, how come we ‘got choosed’ to come to Hong Kong?” My first reaction was to be somewhat flippant and say, “Just lucky, I guess.” However, I could tell from the very sincere look on this little girl’s face that she wanted a grown-up answer to her question. At that moment, as I surveyed the challenges placed on our little family because of my priesthood calling, I needed to review the answer again for myself.
As Kami and I read this scripture together, I could see that she very much wanted to understand. I wanted her to know that there can be some “afflictions” associated with our callings in the Church. We talked about being away from our home and family members. I understood it was difficult for her to adjust to these new surroundings.
It was obvious, however, that I was still short of my objective when she asked, “But, Daddy, why did we ‘get choosed’ and not someone else?” Now that is a much more difficult question. Why do these callings and responsibilities come to some and not to others? I was reminded of the charge President Hinckley gave me upon my ordination as a Seventy. He said: “Brother Brough, now a lot of people are going to say a lot of nice things about you. Don’t believe them!”
It is very dangerous for any of us to think we have earned the right to a Church calling. However, every member must come to know the sacred nature of his or her own service in the Church. I remember my Primary teacher, Sister Mildred Jacobson, who I believe was divinely called to her position of responsibility. Two bishops, Bishop Lynn McKinnon and Bishop Ross Jackson, who served during my youth, played significant roles in the lives of many. I believe they were called of God in the same process of revelation as were Paul and Timothy.
We must each prepare ourselves for every good work that might come to us and then accept the principle that revelation, not aspiration, is the basis for our respective callings. We can learn much from the following New Testament story:
“Then came to him the mother of Zebedee’s children with her sons, worshipping him, and desiring a certain thing of him.
“… She saith unto him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on thy right hand, and the other on the left, in thy kingdom” (Matt. 20:20–21).
I explained to Kami that Zebedee’s children were the Apostles James and John, who would later sit with Peter, one on his right hand and the other on his left. Then we read together how Jesus answered the devoted mother: “To sit on my right hand, and on my left, is not mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of my Father” (Matt. 20:23).
The Apostles also were taught concerning their important calling when Jesus reminded them, “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you” (John 15:16).
I explained to Kami that we definitely had been chosen because we would not seek such a challenging assignment. This was reinforced just a few days later when Sister Brough and I were assigned to travel to India for a missionary conference. The flight from Hong Kong to New Delhi, India, was a late-night flight that arrived in New Delhi at about two o’clock in the morning. Even at that late hour, there were hundreds of taxi drivers who wanted to provide our transportation. After selecting a driver, we began our journey of about 40 kilometers to the hotel. Even though it was late, the roads were crowded with animals, people, and other vehicles. As we were going through an intersection, the taxi’s motor quit. I watched with increasing anxiety as the driver fruitlessly attempted to start the motor. Finally, in obvious frustration, the driver turned to me and in his very best English said, “Push taxi!” It was three o’clock in the morning, and my wife and I were very tired. I got out of the taxi and tried to push it across the intersection but was not able to do so. The driver then said to my wife, “Push taxi.” Lanette got out of the car and began to help me push the taxi through the intersection. As we were struggling to get the taxi through the traffic, I said to my wife, “There were a few things we didn’t understand when we were given this assignment.”
I never completely satisfied little Kami’s question that night. Over the years, we have recalled that challenging evening when a small child was a bit overwhelmed with life. We have explored other scriptures and many other stories since that time. We have received the wonderful promise to those the Savior had chosen “that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it [to] you” (John 15:16).
That promise—of answer to our prayers—is directed even to a small child. This was reaffirmed recently when I heard Kami, now 15 years old, respond to a question directed to her by an adult friend: “How come you were so lucky to live in Hong Kong when you were a child?” She looked directly at me as she gave her answer to our friend: “It wasn’t luck; we ‘were chosen.’”

Being an introvert and having to talk to people wasn’t the easiest thing for me. Most of the time I let people approach me, but in high school there weren’t a lot of people who wanted to talk to me. So I was happy that I remembered this old trick I had learned—I smiled. The more someone smiles, the more approachable that person will become. I realized the more I smiled at people, the more they would start talking to me and the easier it became for me to become friends with them.

When my son Elard Manuel was baptized in 1990, he had a job in a grocery store where working Sundays and holidays was mandatory. The economic situation in Peru is quite difficult. There are few jobs, and many people are out of work. It seemed virtually impossible for my son to change his employment.
“I’m going to pay my tithing,” he said. “I have faith in the Lord, and somehow I’m going to get a job with Sundays off.”
During these years my son continued to try to find a job that wouldn’t require him to work on Sunday. Our whole family prayed and fasted and asked the Lord to help him find a new job so that he could hold a Church calling.
Finally my son decided to work for one more month and then quit his job—whether he had a new one or not. We were quite worried because people everywhere were losing their jobs. But my son said, “I have faith in the Lord, and I know He is going to help me find a job with Sundays off.”
The grocery store he worked for has a huge warehouse where all the merchandise is brought before being distributed to the stores. It is quite far away, but the employees there have Sundays off. To our joy and surprise, my son was able to transfer to that warehouse. Our Heavenly Father had heard our prayers. And my son did receive a Church calling—as a counselor in the bishopric.
When we asked the Lord with faithful hearts and with fasting and prayer, He answered us with blessings.

Paul, 11, was exhausted. He was almost too tired to look up from the river in which he was wading to the cliffs that surrounded him.
The red sandstone walls loomed high over the riverbed, spanning it like a pair of giant legs, 2,400 feet straight up, or twice the height of the Empire State Building. They seemed so close to each other that Paul felt like Jason about to steer the Argonauts between the monolithic Cyanean rocks, which crashed together and squashed ships that dared to pass through.
Moving his 80 pounds against the swift current while he looked, Paul suddenly slipped, but an older, bony hand grabbed his and held him up.
“Once when I was walking through here with some other fellows, I fell right in,” Paul’s 74-year-old grandfather, Otto Fife, said to him. “That was the first time I knew you could hear sounds underwater; I could hear all the other birds laughing at me!”
Paul giggled, and the two continued to ford the Virgin River, now hand-in-hand.
It was one of many experiences during an exhilarating two-day hike through the Narrows of Zion National Park in southwestern Utah. The trip, a family get-together in one of nature’s most supreme wonders, was one that Otto and his seven grandchildren would always remember.
For Otto, too, it was historic.
Years ago, when only a few men had tried the tramp through the huge, long defile in the Markagunt Plateau known as the Zion Narrows, he had ventured down its course. It had a lure that pulled him into its depths as surely as a cactus plant sucks up moisture in desert sand. “There’s something about the Narrows I can’t get away from,” Otto tells his grandchildren. He has hiked the Alps, the Matterhorn, the Sierra Nevadas, across the Grand Canyon, and “all over America,” but nothing compares to Zion Canyon, with its awe-inspiring combination of narrowness and depth.
Otto has hiked it 49 times—far more than any other man—and planned his 50th trip as a gala event. He invited his two daughters’ families to join him. From Beaverton, Oregon, came his son-in-law, Don Woodlief, and the Woodlief children—Donna, 15; Bruce, 13; and Graydon, 12. The Jones family arrived from Tustin, California, including Nadine, 22; Chris, 18; Richard, 14; and Paul. Only Nadine and Chris had been through the Narrows before.
On a sunny Saturday morning, early, Otto and 16 others met on a private ranch at the top of the Virgin River’s North Fork to begin the rugged, 15-mile hike. Grassy meadows and sandy flats greeted the adventurers’ first steps as they followed the meandering stream.
Paul announced enthusiastically that he would carry anyone’s pack if they got tired, but he soon relinquished his own load to his father.
The panoramic backdrop that unfolded as Otto’s companions on his 50th trip rounded the first of a thousand bends and twists in the river was stunning. “It is impossible to describe adequately the grandeur,” wrote Grove K. Gilbert in his 1873 diary of the first recorded trek down the Narrows.
Only ten years before, young Joseph Black, a Mormon pioneer, had sung the canyon’s poetic beauty from its clifftops and been laughed at by his friends. They called the place, deridingly, “Joseph’s Glory,” just as those who heard John Colter’s eulogy of Yellowstone named that park “Colter’s Hell.”
Nadine, a self-described artist, was awed by Joseph’s rainbow canyon of color through which she was walking—even though she’d been through it before. “I wonder if it could be painted,” she paused once and mused.
Not even Van Gogh, though, might have attempted to capture Zion’s picture … of brilliant-colored rocks in shades of chocolate, vermilion, lilac, maroon, blue and yellow … of white alpine fir trees, maple hardwood, ponderosa pines, or golf-course green Aspen trees, shimmering in the breeze … of the canyon’s traffic: wrens, chattering squirrels, orange and black butterflies, and water ouzels …
“Gosh!” That’s all 12-year-old Graydon could say about it, and maybe that said it all.
After about two hours out, the whole group halted in a grove of pines as the younger members began calling for lunch. The perspiring hikers made a rite of the midday meal—salami, oranges, crackers, fruit punch, and sandwiches of all sizes and fillings. Richard finished early and poked his walking stick in the riverbank mud. “Anyone for golf?” he shouted, as he took a swing at the water and doused Donna. She hastened back to the safety of more peaceful picnickers, and Richard went off by himself to drill in the mud for oil.
“How many more miles do we have to go?” Paul asked, a little tuckered-out.
Grandfather Fife looked at him, and winked. “About 100 miles!”
With a second wind, the group pushed out again, this time wading in the water. Marching through the Narrows is one excursion where everybody gets their feet wet. There’s no way to avoid baptizing those walking appendages—eventually. In places the water is knee-high, and waist-high in others. To wee-er ones, that translates to neck-high, and a little swimming or piggyback is required.
Once, when Otto was leading a San Fernando, California, LDS Boy Scout Troop, he gave a small, laughed-at lad the important task of notching his stick with a nail each time they crossed the river. Faithful to the task, the boy scratched 252 marks on the stick by the trip’s end. (Brother Fife, now choir president of the Cedar City [Utah] 5th Ward, has led 1,060 LDS Scouts through the Narrows in all.)
“My feet feel like squeegees,” Paul piped, as he sloshed along a riverbank and up on a little pine-cone strewn plateau.
Many obstacles appeared before the hikers along the path—upturned redwood trees spanning the canyon and huge, wedgelike rocks, some so square they looked like massive beef bullion cubes. Potholes and brief caves offered extra enticement to those with spunk and spirit. Bruce was off into a series of caves that burrowed through one sandstone wall like an anthill before anyone could call him back.
About mid-afternoon the 17 hikers found an obstacle that stymied them—a 20-foot rocky waterfall. When it appeared there was no other way down, Otto asked for a volunteer, while veteran Nadine quietly smiled over this trick she’d seen on her last Narrows trek. Graydon stepped forward and, imitating the beginning of a leap, was held back by the all-knowing Otto: “There’s another way.”
He took the group through some trees and bushes on the left bank to a small crack in the rock, barely three feet wide. As they descended the hidden, natural cleft staircase, Otto was laughing with his arm around Graydon. “I did have to jump that the first time I went through,” he explained. “But the next trip I saw deer tracks leading up here. I followed them, and found this crevice.”
By this time it was late afternoon, and the distance between the weary hikers, whose packs had grown heavier and heavier, began to widen. Bruce, deacon’s quorum president in his home ward, surged in the lead. “This is what they mean by getting away from it all,” he told Richard, when the hikers reassembled. “I like to be where no one else is—to see everything before everyone else.”
The hikers had gathered at the Y-shaped confluence of the North Fork and Deep Creek—known locally as Crystal Creek because of its sparkling-clear water, as compared to the muddy Virgin. The area was a natural, red-and-white temple set off by emerald-green cottonwood and the bright, yellow beams of the sun, which were slanting on the tall walls. From this waterstop on, it was a race to the campsite for the night. Caution was always required, as the marchers felt around on the riverbottom with their walking staffs for safe footing or took care to avoid soggy sand along the bank.
At one point, Graydon and Donna, who had been bringing up the rear with their father, stepped into some quicksand—more accurately, water-saturated sand. Graydon quickly leaped free, but Donna struggled too hard and was soon in the bog up to her waist. Graydon and his father couldn’t pull her out, and the others were too far ahead. But Chris Jones, who had arrived later in the day and started the hike with a friend, caught up to them from behind like the Cavalry. Between the four men, a branch, and stepping stones that kept sinking in the mud, she was extricated, a little shaken after the half-hour ordeal. “Guess I don’t have to find those scissors to cut your legs off,” Chris laughed, trying to cheer her up.
Fires were lit and sleeping bags set up at the Grotto, a sandy, flat alcove in the canyon wall. Boots and sneakers were propped up on sticks next to the fires, wet clothes tossed over tree branches, and some of the cousins took off to find some drinking water—after a change into dryer clothes.
Following a meal of hot dogs roasted over the flames, the group sat on logs and viewed the hasty Zion Canyon sunset, too tired to move. Walls turned the shades of sunset, becoming ghostly cliffs of greenish-white sandstone as the moon shone on them, “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork.” Thoughts like the 19th psalm came easily there.
Donna was whispering to her cousin, “It’s so beautiful, all of it. It makes me appreciate what God has given us.”
A spoonful of fruit cocktail in his mouth, Otto overheard.
Women had spoken this way in this place before. An adventurous group of University of Utah coeds in 1920 had made international headlines by exploring the entire Zion Park in pants-and-boots fashion. One of their group had noted in her diary: “Zion Park is a beautiful world of its own, a good world. For when one looks upon the gigantic grandeur of it all, it makes one wonder if anything vile or criminal could ever happen in its surroundings. One can only think beautiful thoughts amid such splendor.”
None of these latter-day adventurers could disagree as they bedded down for the night, tucked in by the rush of the river, the whispering leaves. A blaze of stars shining down into the canyon insured peaceful dreams.
Richard was the fastest riser the next day. Others tumbled out, sleepily, behind him.
None but Otto seemed to look forward to a plunge in the cold stream again, since sunrise doesn’t warm the Virgin River until after 10 A.M. when the sun is more directly overhead and can get into the canyon. Breakfast quickly vanished, though, and packs were donned to begin the tramp again, this time more quietly.
The Narrows hike can be made in a day—only weeks before, Otto had done just that. But it’s an arduous hike and should be taken slowly, unless expediency requires it. One early pioneer reported that he was out of the canyon by sunset “after spotting fresh cougar and bear tracks along the way. I didn’t want any of them critters for sleeping companions.”
It wasn’t long before the hikers entered one of several sets of Narrows. The defile was more than 2,000 feet high and demanded the walkers stare up at the faraway clifftops nearly straight above the base of the river. “To all the aches and pains that must be endured on this walk, you have to add a kinked neck from looking up,” Otto said.
At one spot, Otto encouraged his family to toss rocks into a pothole scooped out of the sheer wall, about 12 feet above and across the river. Only a few could keep the stones inside the hole. That accomplished, they continued to amble along the winding walls that are the hallmark of the park—and as impressive as vaulted Medieval cathedrals like London’s Westminster Abbey.
When the dark, narrow canyon opened out again, Otto’s family was again stunned by an array of colors and sheer beauty that make even adjectives about it sit up and take notice. Even though Otto has been through the Narrows far more than any other person in the world, it is always new to him, he said. “It always surprises me. Something different about it every time.”
The real Narrows were reached by noon. Because of potential flash floods, those who attempt these must check weather reports and go after the cloudburst season is over, in September or October. Inside the Narrows, which extend several hundred winding yards, the tall walls stand shoulder to shoulder. In places they are only 20 feet apart and give an Alice-in-Wonderland sensation—something like a flea would feel on the scrimmage line between the Dallas Cowboys and the Washington Redskins.
Paul clasped his grandfather’s reassuring hand tighter as the group unconsciously sped faster into the dim and echoing corridor.
Throughout the Narrows, it was wall-to-wall water they hiked in, except for a few gravel beds. The powerful Virgin River has alone cut this deep, knife-gash gorge into the park. For ages the grit-bearing water has eaten its way like acid through the sandstone. Even now it carries out millions of tons of silt a year, at the rate of 80 railroad boxcar-loads a day.
Once past the Narrows, the family who came on Otto’s Golden Anniversary trek began to meet packless hikers walking upstream on short outings. Yet even toward the end of this trip, Otto’s grandchildren still saw sights that were new. They saw the “hanging gardens” of Zion—bright, green moss growing out of the water seepage that wetted and blackened the river’s awesome perpendicular partitions.
A closer look revealed Rhysa Zionis, little pinhead-size, freshwater snails, peculiar to this canyon only, that cling to their vertical homes and look like so many black dots.
As they sloshed out of the water for the last time at the beginning of a paved tourist trail leading to the parking lot (CARS! No more walking!), the hikers heaved their soggy packs onto the wet sand. Both mothers were there to meet, and hail, their hardy children, soon to whisk them back to comfortable homes and beds in California and Oregon.
Otto set his pack down somewhat reluctantly.
He wondered if his tired grandchildren had learned what there was to learn in this land of Zion he could not leave. Like Antaeus, the mythological giant who drew his strength by touching the earth, Otto somehow pulls philosophy and poetry from that canyon.
Had they understood what one pioneer felt in his very veins? He was a Mormon who had written about his turn-of-the-century trek:
“I was now thankful for every condition which had combined to bring me into this mighty thought-inspiring solitude, this place called Zion, where the stars shine by day and brighter by night. Where earthly achievements and thoughtless, indefinite desires appear as things not worth while, if they are to be charged to our eternal account; where simple, silent thought comes to be regarded as the highest and most perfect expression of prayer; where man learns to fear God, to pray to God, to rely on God. Where man can stand without the support of his fellow men when he feels that he is right; where hope and faith in the universal scheme of things is inspired; where man is made to feel that if he is anything, he is the humble servant of God.”
Perhaps it was too much to understand, Otto thought, and said his goodbyes. But in later letters came the verdict: “When can we go back again? When can we?”
“Zion Canyon is a great symphony I want to hear over and over again,” Otto had said. “When I can’t go down it anymore, I’d better be six feet underground!”
And the family was with him.

Mika always looked forward to dance class. She loved listening to the music. She loved practicing her butterfly skip and getting it just right. And she especially loved it when the whole class moved together. When they did that, it was like the dancers were all the same. It felt like she wasn’t the only one with Down syndrome.
Today they were learning a new dance step. Mika watched her teacher leap into the air. She watched the other girls try. Some figured it out right away. Mika tried over and over, but she just couldn’t get it right.
“Will you help me, Teacher?” Mika asked.
The girl next to her looked at Mika. Then she leaned over to her friend. “Why does she talk like that?” she whispered. Both girls turned and looked at Mika.
When Mika got home, Mom was kneading dough in the kitchen. She had flour on her cheek. Usually that would make Mika laugh. But today she just dropped her bag to the floor and sank into a chair at the table.
“How was dance?” Mom asked.
“Terrible,” Mika said. “I asked for help, and a girl said I talk funny. Then she stared at me.” Mika looked down. “I don’t want to go to dance anymore.”
“Oh, Mika! I’m so sorry,” Mom said. “Dad and I love watching you dance. We’re so proud of how hard you work!”
Mika felt tears starting to come. “I don’t like the Down syndrome in me. I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to learn new things. I even have to practice talking!”
Dad sat down by Mika and put his arm around her. “Mika, we love you so much. We wouldn’t change one thing about you.”
But Mika just shook her head and buried her face in her arms. “I don’t want to be different. I want my Down syndrome to be taken out of me!”
Mom and Dad were quiet for a few moments.
“I have an idea,” Mom said. Mika peeked out over her arms. “Why don’t you pray and ask Heavenly Father how He feels about you?”
Mika thought about that. She liked saying prayers. Slowly, she nodded. “Can you write down the question so I’ll remember what to ask?”
Mom wrote the question down. Then Mika took the paper and went to her room to pray.
A few minutes later, when she came into the kitchen, Mika’s face was lit up like a light bulb. “Heavenly Father answered!” she said.
“What did He say?” Mom asked.
“He said, ‘Mika, I love you just the way you are,’” she said. “And He said it with a LOUD voice!”
The next week at dance, Mika didn’t worry about what the other girls thought about her. Instead, she noticed another girl, Sara, who looked sad. Sara was having a hard time learning some of the new steps too.
When Mika got home, she decided to write a note to Sara. She drew lots of hearts. Mom helped her with the spelling.
“Dear Sara,” Mika wrote. “You’re a great dancer. I want to be your friend. I am happy you are in my dance class.”
Mika couldn’t wait to give Sara the note. She wanted Sara to feel happy and loved at dance too.

Temples are where many of these sacred ordinances occur and are also a source of peaceful refuge from the world. Those who visit temple grounds or participate in temple open houses also feel this peace. One experience preeminent in my mind is the Suva Fiji Temple open house and dedication. There had been political upheaval resulting in rebels burning and looting downtown Suva, occupying the houses of Parliament and holding legislators hostage. The country was under martial law. The Fiji military gave the Church limited permission to assemble people for the open house and a very small group for the dedication. The members as a whole were uninvited due to concerns for their safety. It was the only temple dedication since the original Nauvoo Temple that was held under very difficult circumstances.
One person invited to the open house was a lovely Hindu woman of Indian descent, a member of Parliament who was initially held hostage but was released because she was female.
In the celestial room, free from the turmoil of the world, she dissolved in tears as she expressed feelings of peace that overwhelmed her. She felt the Holy Ghost comforting and bearing witness of the sacred nature of the temple.

When Caitlin was six years old, she asked her dance teacher if she could wear a more modest costume for the dance recital. When her teacher said no, Caitlin knew what she had to do. She told her teacher she would have to drop out because she had to do what Jesus would want her to do. Caitlin said, “It was a very hard decision to make, but I felt good afterward.” We respect our bodies by dressing modestly. We show we know how to keep the commandments and follow the Savior.

One year we went through almost two boxes of film before Dad was satisfied. Thirty-four times we had to stand up straight, say “cheese,” or “pizza” and then smile. When we got the photos back, someone looked awful in 26 of them, five were out of focus, and in three others, Dad didn’t quite get into the picture in time and all you could see was his back. We went with one of the out-of-focus shots that year, which sort of symbolizes the whole family photo ritual.

He grew up, coming and going through my door. After Jim’s 19th birthday and a year in Provo, he announced his intention to serve a mission. I was thrilled but a little surprised. He had never spoken of a testimony. His group of friends were split—some were going in the military, a few were planning on missions, and a few others struggled with worthiness problems.
Jim went back to Okinawa again, this time to receive a mission call. In a few month’s time he was on my doorstep again, on his way to the Missionary Training Center. We acknowledged how ironic it was for him to leave the Far East to come to the United States for a mission. During this visit, Jim began to talk. We talked about Japan, about his two dates, about his friends and their plans, and we discussed his recent trip to the Tokyo Temple to be endowed. We laughed, reminisced, and speculated about our future lives when he returned as an “R.M.”
Secretly, I worried about him. How was this quiet, private young man, who was just now conversing openly with me after a five-year friendship, going to survive on a mission? I couldn’t imagine him tracting, speaking in church, or teaching a discussion. Would he be an ever-silent companion? I hoped for understanding, sensitive, and gregarious companions for him. When the departure day arrived, I hugged and waved him off to the MTC with a prayer in my heart—for his growth and for his survival.
Jim’s letters were few and far between, but they were treasures. I finally got to know some of his thoughts. He began to share some of his feelings and his testimony with me. Missionary work was hard. He hoped he could “do the job.” He liked some companions and struggled with others. He was always full of faith. His letters proved the adage, “Still waters run deep.”
Fate and time brought a move for us and a relocation for Jim’s parents. We both moved to the state of Washington. His mother, when we communicated, helped fill in the gaps between Jim’s infrequent letters. She gave me news of transfers, of companions, of a new assignment: zone leader. I tried not to be surprised. I matched the depth of the well-written letters with the emergence of this “new” personality who trained elders and taught successful discussions.
When Jim returned from his mission, I was privileged to join his family at the airport to welcome him. As I drove to the airport, I reviewed our friendship and Jim’s growth and maturation. I speculated about his appearance and his demeanor.
He was the last person to emerge from the jetway, which caused extra anxiety for his waiting family. Finally, he appeared—taller than I remembered, and thinner. His naturally curly hair was darker and was cut so short that there was no curl. He wore the missionary uniform: dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, black “mailman” shoes. The suit was very worn and looked like it could stand on its own and still hold the shape of Jim’s body. He was bent a little from the weight of his carry-on luggage.
When he saw us, he smiled a little, then dropped his head as he walked the last few feet of the walkway. When he raised his head again, his eyes were red and he was weeping. He dropped his bags and embraced his mother in a tight hug and cried openly as he kissed her, then held her in his arms for a full minute more. He released her to repeat this exchange with his brother, sister, and his father.
It is a rare privilege to observe such an exchange of pure love among people. I thought, this is how it must be to return to our heavenly parents after completing our earthly missions. What a sweet experience to return, knowing you’ve served faithfully.
Jim then turned to me, and without hesitation, embraced me in a bear hug. As we parted, we both wiped tears from our eyes. And he said, “Thanks for being here.”
I spent another two hours with Jim that morning before we had to head in different directions. During that time, I watched him start a conversation with the man next to him while waiting for his luggage. Within 15 minutes, he had given the man a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet and had parted as a friend. I saw him spend a few private tender moments with his younger brother and sister as he sensed their need and focused on them individually. He gave half of his lunch to his little brother, when the ten-year-old complained of being hungry still.
Jim related a few mission experiences: of singing a duet in church with his companion, of a Sunday when he had 17 investigators at church on the same day, and of the mission farewell the night before. He had been amazed that so many of the missionaries had wanted to gather to say good-bye to him. Jim wept again as he expressed his concern for a companion who had recently lost his dad to a sudden, unexpected death. Here was compassion, love, humility, confidence, and power. Sitting before me, in his grayed shirt, wrinkled tie, and well-worn coat, was someone who had been seemingly magically transformed. His smile was the only trace of the shy, quiet boy who hesitated to pray in front of someone.
We send our young men and women out to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. We ask them to study, to work hard, to endure, and to serve. And in the end, these children return to us whole, ready to teach and inspire by their loving and humble example. And, having been touched by divine light, we are, none of us, the same again.

I stopped at the bottom of Sanford’s huge sycamore tree and looked up the ladder of wooden slats that led to the door of our clubhouse. I avoided looking at the sign that read, “FOR BOYS ONLY” nailed to the tree trunk.
I glanced back uneasily at Meg and Michelle, the two sisters who had moved in next door to us the day before.
“The clubhouse is way up there,” I muttered, nodding toward our hideout overhead. “It’s pretty high up—kind of scary too. There’s not much to see. Are you sure you want to go up?”
Meg, the older of the two, gazed up into the branches. “Looks like a pretty neat place. I’m not afraid of heights, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Who put that up?” Michelle asked, pointing to the sign.
“We did.”
“Well, it’s kind of dumb, if you ask me,” she muttered. “Why aren’t girls allowed?”
“We like it that way.”
“Your mom said you’d take us up,” Michelle reminded me. “I’d like to see what it’s like.”
When Mom asked me to show Meg and Michelle around the neighborhood, I told her that I wouldn’t. She just shrugged and said something about my not getting to do something the next time I wanted to. Well, I knew what she was thinking about: Garett Hadfield’s family was going to Disneyland in two weeks, and Garett had asked me to go with them.
Slowly I turned back to the ladder, grabbed the first slat, and started up. When I reached the trapdoor in the middle of the clubhouse floor, I could hear voices inside. I gulped and knocked softly.
“Who’s there?” a voice growled.
“Me, Jared,” I answered meekly.
The trapdoor opened. I pulled myself up through the opening and sat there with my legs dangling down. “Hi,” I greeted them sickly. I looked around. Sanford was there. Garett too. Then I saw Will, Andrew, and Mark in the dim light. The whole club was there, except Paul. “I brought some … uh … some visitors,” I explained. “They’re our new neighbors.”
“Let’s have a look,” Sanford said.
I gulped again, pulled my feet up, and slid across the floor to sit against the wall. Then Meg’s head poked up through the trapdoor. She looked around and grinned. “Hi. I’m Meg.”
“A girl!” all the guys gasped, jumping to their feet. They stared at Meg as she climbed into the clubhouse, then glared at me.
Before the guys had a chance to get over their shock, Michelle poked her head up through the hole.
“Another girl!” the guys groaned.
“What’s wrong with girls?” Michelle challenged them.
“You brought girls into the clubhouse?” Andrew asked, pointing at me. He turned to the girls. “Didn’t you read the sign?”
“Sure,” Michelle retorted before I had a chance to open my mouth. “But we figured anybody dumb enough to put up a sign like that didn’t know what he was doing anyway.”
“It’s just for today,” I put in. “I’m just showing them around. Mom made me.”
“I haven’t even let my mom come up here,” Sanford protested. He glowered at the girls. “I say they leave right now.”
I looked at Garett. He looked back at me and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “They look all right.”
Well, as long as Garett was with me, I still had a shot at Disneyland, so I didn’t much care what the others thought. “I say they stay,” I said, standing up. “The clubhouse is part mine.”
“My dad built it!” Sanford shouted.
“He couldn’t have built it without my dad’s lumber,” I reminded him. “I say they stay.”
For a few minutes we all just sat there glaring at each other. Then Mark spluttered, “Listen, guys, we have a bigger problem than these girls to worry about—remember? Today’s the day we’re supposed to play the Highland Heights team.”
Then all of us boys groaned. We had been bragging to the Highland Heights team that we could beat them. All that they had to do was name the time and place. Well, they’d named the city park as the place, and this morning as the time. But our best pitcher had the chicken pox!
“We just can’t play them today,” Will croaked. “We don’t stand a chance without Paul pitching.”
“I can pitch,” Sanford volunteered.
“And we can help out,” Meg said.
“We let you come into our clubhouse just this once,” Sanford growled, “but that doesn’t mean we’re going to let you play baseball with us. Those guys would laugh us clear out of the park.”
“We’re going to need all the help we can get,” Garett said uneasily.
“Are you saying that we should let girls play ball with us?” Sanford yelped.
Garett shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe they can fall down in front of a ball. At least we can cover the field that way.”
“I say girls don’t play on our team,” Sanford insisted, folding his arms across his chest defiantly. “If they want to come, they can cheer for us.”
“We’re not cheerleaders,” Michelle protested. “We know how to play ball. Meg and I were in a league where we used to live.”
“I say we let them play,” I said, starting for the door. “If we lose, we’ll just say it was the girls’ fault.”
Michelle grabbed my arm and turned me around. “We don’t play on a losing team. We play to win.”
When we reached the city park, the Highland Heights team was there waiting for us. “We thought you got scared and decided not to show up,” TJ Blake called out as we walked up. TJ was the leader of his team and their best player. He could hit a home run almost every time. He started to grin. “No wonder you’re late. You had to find some girls to help you out. That’s OK with us—you’ll need all the help you can get.”
Well, the Highland Heights team batted first. We put Meg and Michelle in the outfield, where there’s a little less action. Sanford pitched, but he pitched everything that the other team wanted. The first three batters got hits and loaded the bases. Then TJ came to bat, grinning.
“I thought you said you could pitch,” I shouted at Sanford as I covered first base. “Now they’ll have four runs and no outs.”
“Well, you haven’t done anything to help,” he growled back at me. “The only thing you’ve done is drag those two girls along.”
“Michelle can pitch,” Meg called from center field. “She’s a good pitcher. She pitched for our old team.”
I looked at Garett, who was playing second. He shrugged. “She can’t be much worse than Sanford,” he muttered.
TJ laughed as Michelle came in to pitch. “Oh, I love it! I get to bat against a girl.” Then he frowned. “Just make sure you get it this far,” he grumbled at Michelle.
Michelle ignored him. She turned to me. “Meg plays shortstop better than any guy I know.”
I looked over at Mark, who was playing shortstop. “Mark, why don’t you trade places with Meg?”
“With a girl?” he protested.
“It’s just for a little while,” Garett explained. “Besides, we’re going to need three good outfielders while TJ bats.”
“Come on, little girl, throw it here,” TJ taunted when Michelle was ready to pitch.
Michelle just glared at TJ, then wound up and let the ball fly. It zoomed right across the plate, and TJ swung hard enough to knock it clear over Mark’s head. But he missed the ball! Instead, he spun around and fell on the ground. Everybody on our team laughed as TJ stood up, brushed himself off, and got ready to bat again.
“Don’t let a little girl strike you out!” chortled Jason, who was catching.
TJ glared at him, then turned back to Michelle, who was already winding up. Again she let the ball fly across the plate. TJ swung and got just a piece of it. Foul ball. The next time, Michelle wound up and looked like she was going to throw that ball clear into next week. But it was a slow one. TJ swung and missed the ball completely.
We all cheered as TJ stomped away from the plate. Clay Barnes came up to bat next. He missed the first two pitches, but on the third pitch, he hit a line drive—straight for Meg! I thought for sure that it was going to knock her right off her feet, but she snagged the ball and burned it over to me for a double play.
TJ pitched for his team. Boy, was he mad! And the first one to go to bat was Michelle. The fielders came in, since it was just a girl batting, and on the first pitch Michelle got a piece of that ball and knocked it over Clay Barnes’s head into right field.
We beat the Highland Heights team that afternoon ten to eight. And we were sure glad that Meg and Michelle had refused to cheerlead for us.
When we got back to Sanford’s backyard, his mom called from the back porch, “Sanford, there are some cookies and punch in your clubhouse.”
“How’d they get up there?” Sanford asked, surprised.
“You’ve never invited me up, so I decided I’d use the cookies and punch as an excuse to take a look around.”
“You went into our clubhouse?” Sanford gasped. “But it’s just for boys!”
“Don’t worry about it, Sister Nichols,” I called to Sanford’s mom. “You’re not the first girl that’s ever been there.”
“And you won’t be the last,” Michelle added, grinning.
As we were about to climb the tree, I looked at the FOR BOYS ONLY sign. I shook my head and turned to Garett. “There’s a pencil up in the clubhouse. Would you go get it?”
When Garett came back down with the pencil, I grabbed it and scribbled on the sign, “(AND A FEW GOOD GIRLS).”
We all looked at the sign and grinned, then climbed up for cookies and punch.

In the story of our own people there stands out the example of Brigham Young’s attitude toward the Indians. His declaration that it was “better to feed them than to fight them” evidenced not only the innate mercy of his nature, but the greater wisdom inherent in a compassionate attitude toward the less fortunate.
If I may be pardoned a personal indulgence, I find expression of this attitude in the chronicles of my own family. My grandfather, Ira Nathaniel Hinckley, was called in 1867 by Brigham Young to build a fort at Cove Creek on the road to southern Utah so that travelers might be afforded protection from the Indians. But there was never Indian trouble of any consequence because of the policy of merciful treatment toward them which was followed during the years by my grandfather when he operated that lonely outpost.

Dad called everybody to the computer. Lucy dropped the stuffed giraffe she was playing with and hurried over. What was going on? Was it time to call Grandma online?
Dad pointed to the computer screen. “I wanted to show you part of a talk from general conference.”
Lucy squinted. It wasn’t Grandma. It was President Eyring! He was in the First Presidency.
Dad pushed play. President Eyring taught about supporting your Church leaders. He explained how Church leaders need us to pray for them.
“That’s why we pray for the prophet, right, Dad?” asked her little brother, David. Dad and Mom both nodded.
“Yes, we do,” Dad said. “But I also keep thinking about our branch presidency. I think President Alvarez and his counselors need our prayers too.”
Lucy loved President Alvarez and his counselors. They were always so nice to her. She wanted to help them!
“I’m going to pray for them,” Lucy said. “And we can pray for them in our family prayers too!”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Mom said. “Let’s do it.”
For the next few days, Lucy tried hard to remember to pray for the branch presidency whenever she said a prayer. It only took a few extra seconds each time. Easy!
The next Sunday in sacrament meeting, President Alvarez stood up after the hymn. Then he said something that made Lucy’s eyes get wide.
“As a branch presidency, we wanted to thank you for praying for us,” he said. “We have felt very real strength from those prayers. We really need your faith and prayers to do our callings. Thank you!”
Lucy grinned. She looked over at David. He was smiling too. She couldn’t believe it! She was so excited that she could hardly sit still. She leaned over and tugged on Mom’s sleeve.
“Mom!” she whispered. “Did you hear what President Alvarez said?!” She wanted to jump up and down. “It worked! Our prayers really worked!”
After church, Lucy and her family walked home together.
“God really does hear our prayers,” Mom said. “And isn’t it amazing to see how powerful it is for a group of people to pray for someone else?”
Lucy felt warm and happy inside. She and David skipped down the sidewalk while Mom and Dad walked behind them. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her family’s prayers. They were truly making a difference. Just by praying!
That night, Lucy got ready to say her prayers. She thought about her Primary teacher and other Church leaders who could use some extra blessings. Maybe she would pray for them too! Lucy folded her arms and bowed her head. She knew just what to say.

In the spring after an especially exciting day, I just had to call “home” to tell mom and dad the big news. The voice on the other end of the line said, “Honey, we’re glad you called. We were just going to call you. Dad and I have talked to the headmaster at Jackson Preparatory School, and they have room for you this next year. We know this is where you should be. We really want you to plan to come here for school next year.” Silence. I felt my world slipping again.
“But, mom, I just can’t. I tried out for madrigals just yesterday, and I feel so good about it. My big dream, remember?” I cried, and mom cried. How could I leave everything and everyone? All my dreams of being a senior at Viewmont—I had waited so long. But when parents like mine say they both have a strong feeling that I should do something, I know that I should. When I said, “Okay, mom and dad, I will come,” a sweet, peaceful feeling came over me, and I knew it would be all right.

Dinner at the Ferland’s was always a glorious affair—plates heaped with home-grown tomatoes, beans, and pickled beets, with lamb and potatoes browned together until the meat was tender and the vegetables sweet. In the wood-burning oven, an apple pie simmered. The room spoke of families and of love.
It was at such a dinner that father called his wife and children near. Christine noticed a happy mischief in his eyes, a spark of something that for too long had been distant.
“We have to make your mother happy,” he said, looking each teenager firmly in the eye. He let them guess what he was planning to do.
After a minute he said, “Whatever it takes, we’re going to the temple.”
Of course, saying and doing are two different things. But even when he wasn’t attending his meetings, Jean-Claude Ferland had never thought of himself as anything less than a Latter-day Saint. He was still friendly with people from the branch, still in contact with home teachers, still “active” in his heart. So when he decided to be involved, he gave full dedication.
Sunday meetings were not considered optional. Service projects, branch parties, cottage meetings, whatever was asked, the Ferlands would gladly participate. Callings were willingly accepted, instructions from the branch president explicitly heeded. Even tithing, which had been a struggle in the past, was now a privilege. Once, when it was paid twice by mistake, mother and father decided to “let the Lord keep it.”
Time passed quickly. In August 1986, interviews were held and recommends were signed. The dream was coming true.
Christine can see it still, every time she closes her eyes—the Washington D. C. Temple, its white spires bright against the woods. Inside, everything is calm and bright. People smile and share a great peace.
In a sacred room, maman and papa, dressed in white, kneel at the altar. Christine, Clément, and Marie Claude, also in white, kneel beside them. Hands are placed on hands, children and parents sealed. By the power of the priesthood they are given the promises of eternity.

Barbara Matovu remembers the first time the missionaries brought her to the center for an activity to meet other young single adults. She thought she knew what to expect.
“Throughout my life I’ve always had a group that I belonged to,” explains Barbara. “And the groups were always stamped with something—you were the sporty group or the international group or some other group. So when people started coming into the center, it was so strange because no one seemed to have the attitude of ‘I’m in the popular group, so I can’t talk to you.’
“At first, I thought, ‘Are they acting? Is this a show?’ But after a while I realized it actually doesn’t matter who we are or where we come from or which language we speak. The love of our Heavenly Father is for everyone. Usually it takes me a bit of time to find my group, but this time I felt like I didn’t need a group. I was just Barbara, and I could be Barbara for everybody.”

Thank you for publishing the New Era. Every story has a special message in it that helps me always feel the Spirit. One day I decided to read the Message. I used to only read the short articles, the Mormonad, and the Mormonisms. When I read the Message, I could feel the Spirit. I now read every article in every magazine. I even told one of my nonmember friends about the magazine, and the next day she told me she had read a lot of it. Thank you for this inspirational magazine.
Loni HawkinsKingsville, Texas

Many years ago, as a bishop in a large and diverse ward of over a thousand members located in downtown Salt Lake City, I faced numerous challenges.

One Sunday afternoon I received a phone call from the proprietor of a drugstore located within our ward boundaries. He indicated that earlier that morning, a young boy had come into his store and had purchased an ice-cream sundae from the soda fountain. He had paid for the purchase with money he took from an envelope, and then when he left, he had forgotten the envelope. When the proprietor had a chance to examine it, he found that it was a fast-offering envelope with the name and telephone number of our ward printed on it. As he described to me the boy who had been in his store, I immediately identified the individual—a young deacon from our ward who came from a less-active family.

My first reaction was one of shock and disappointment to think that any of our deacons would take fast-offering funds intended for those in need and would go to a store on a Sunday and buy a treat with the money. I determined to visit the boy that afternoon in order to teach him about the sacred funds of the Church and his duty as a deacon to gather and to protect those funds.

As I drove to the home, I offered a silent prayer for direction in what I should say to compose the situation. I arrived and knocked on the door. It was opened by the boy’s mother, and I was invited into the living room. Although the room was barely lighted, I could see how small and run-down it was. The few pieces of furniture were threadbare. The mother herself looked worn out.

My indignation at her son’s actions that morning disappeared from my thoughts as I realized that here was a family in real need. I felt impressed to ask the mother if there was any food in the house. Tearfully she admitted that there was none. She told me that her husband had been out of work for some time and that they were in desperate need not only of food but also of money with which to pay the rent so that they wouldn’t be evicted from the tiny house.

I never did bring up the matter of the fast-offering donations, for I realized that the boy had most likely been desperately hungry when he stopped at the drugstore. Rather, I immediately arranged for assistance for the family, that they might have food to eat and a roof over their heads. In addition, with the help of the priesthood leaders in the ward, we were able to arrange employment for the husband so that he could provide for his family in the future.

On October 28, 2000, I moved into a home behind a Latter-day Saint meetinghouse. While putting my things away that night, I noticed activity in the building. Not accustomed to so much noise in the evening, I was upset at first. Then a woman from the Church came over and invited me to their activity that night. Since I was a member of another faith, I declined and said that I did not want to mix up my beliefs. During the activity I heard the Church members singing hymns, and I found the music very beautiful.
On Sunday I got up early and went to my church, but when I returned home, I saw that the meetinghouse was full of people, and I again heard the hymns. The music was so pretty, and I could feel something touch me deep in my heart. People were in the church again in the afternoon. This time I turned off the television and paid attention to their music.
As they sang I stood at the window. I felt something special, a great peace within my heart. I wanted to go out to the garden to feel closer to them. My emotions were so great that I started to cry.
My daughter and I walked outside. A gentleman came out of the church, looked at me, and invited us to attend a baptism. At first I refused, but then I felt I should go in. I called to my daughter, but she would not go. Even so, I did not resist. My daughter finally came too, and we attended the baptism. I was moved and felt the Spirit touch me. On December 10, 2000, my daughter and I were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The hymns changed my life. I was a profoundly sad person, and now I am happy. I am grateful for the hymns that praise and express love to the Lord. They helped bring me to baptism.
Carmelinda Pereira da Silva, Brazil

When l was a youngster, my parents moved our family into a tough city-edge neighborhood. It was during the dark days of World War II, and with little housing available, we took what we could get near my father’s defense effort job. We had lived in the country among friendly folks, and now among strangers, I didn’t know what to expect on my first day at school.
My worst fears were realized. Many of the students and teachers were strangers in the transient conditions of the war. Not only did disagreement abound, but physical fighting broke out among my 12-year-old peers. There seemed to be no particular issues involved, just an effort by everyone to determine who was the “toughest.”
Later that year, in an effort to curb this unwanted practice in which so many young people were getting hurt, several faculty members managed to gain some control over it by putting boxing gloves on the combatants. Tournaments were held during lunch hour, and the nice thing was that a person could choose to compete or watch, as he preferred. I wanted no particular part in it. I already felt sufficiently challenged physically by the time school began just in walking three miles one way to class. Much energy was spent in work at home and getting up early to run through orchards and leap canals just to reach school.
However, there were obviously many students with pent-up energies who participated in these noon-hour boxing matches. Besides, I was content to believe that some of these kids who claimed to be “fourth toughest” or “second toughest,” or whatever, really were what they bragged to be. I was also a little dismayed, however, that they put so much ego—at times a little oppressive and unbearable for the others—into being physically tough. And if no one challenged them, under the arrangement, they could continue to claim whatever title they wished without even tying on the boxing gloves.
I was therefore somewhat pleased, but mostly aghast one day when a newfound friend of mine, a slightly built young man by the name of Terrance, told me he was going to challenge Phillip. Phillip had declared himself “Number Four.”
“Don’t do it!” I tried to persuade him. “Phillip will kill you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Terrance answered gamely. “How do we know unless I meet him in the ring?” Then, quietly, Terrance continued: “I think Phillip is talking too much about it. Frankly, I think he’s bluffing.”
I watched the first round with my hands over my eyes. But the round was no sooner over than Phillip stated he did not want to continue. That made Terrance Number Four. Suddenly, it was like in the cowboy movies. When they saw how easily he had wrested the title from Phillip, everyone wanted to challenge Terrance. And if Terrance didn’t want to “lose face” he had to participate.
As we were walking the three miles up the long a hill toward our homes in the government housings project, past monotonous rows of look-alike houses, Terrance confided something to me. “I know that fighting doesn’t really resolve anything. And personally, I never did like to fight. Where did it get either Phillip or me? I just wanted to humble him, but now I wonder if he’s better off than me. I don’t know. Maybe I can defeat Number One, but I know that wouldn’t prove anything, would it? I just wish there were some way out of this.”
Yet, Terrance acknowledged that he probably had already gone too far and there was no way out, except to finish what he had started. He trudged into his house, recognizable by the number over the door, and parted with: “Well, no use beating around the bush. Tomorrow, I’ll skip Number Two and Three and go right to Tracy, Number One.”
The next day word got around quickly that freckle-faced little Terrance was going to do battle with the much larger and stone-faced Tracy. Everyone ate lunch quickly and settled down to watch the proceedings. The boxing ring was in the basement of the school next to the boiler room. It was fine for a few dozen spectators, but on that particular day hundreds of kids packed into the concrete window abutments and stood on chairs to peer over heating pipes. I got there early and had a pretty good seat next to the custodian’s closet.
The two sparred for several rounds without either gaining much advantage. In the fifth round, several of the crowd said they thought that it should be over fairly soon, that Tracy was “just beginning to warm up.” However, as I looked at both of their faces, they appeared equally tired. When the round was over, Tracy walked over to Terrance. I could barely hear what Tracy was saying: “Why don’t we just declare it a truce and call ourselves co-champions? I’m not sure going on any further would prove either one of us better than the other.”
Terrance agreed. They put their arms around each other and the crowd cheered both as winners.
That by no means ended the daily boxing tournaments. But somehow, they were never the same after that. Deciding who was toughest just didn’t matter as much anymore. The two toughest kids in school had decided it wasn’t important.

“My mother is a unique person,” began Elder Paramore in tribute to his mother. “She has implicit, absolute faith in our Father in heaven. Through prayer and undeviating faith, she has been able to accomplish many things in her life. She prayed that my father would become active in the Church, and it happened; he became a very strong, faithful, and capable leader. She prayed to have more children, a thing that was especially difficult for her. Yet she was able to have six children, who mean so much to her. She set as fine example for all of us to follow.
“My father is special also. When I was young, he trained me to be a dental technician. We often sat side by side while I worked under his direction until I became quite proficient. He would show and tell me things about this skill and this went on for about five years. When I went into the service, they learned of my skills. I was taken out of basic training when I was only eighteen years old and put in charge of a dental laboratory with many workers. All this because of my dad’s training.
“We have some great progenitors on the Paramore side of my family,” Elder Paramore continued. “My grandmother left Denmark alone at the age of eight. Her mother put her on a boat with a tag around her neck addressed to a place in Utah. When she arrived in New York, some Mormon missionaries who had arranged to meet her there helped put her aboard the train that would take her to Ephraim, Utah. What an experience for an eight-year-old child! It makes me weep to think about it. I’m sure her mother thought that this was a wonderful chance for her daughter to be where the Church was strong.”
On the subject of children who are eight years of age, Elder Paramore added, “As a former bishop, I must have interviewed at least eighty children and watched them be baptized. In all those interviews, I never knew a time when I felt that the child wasn’t ready for baptism. Eight is the age of accountability and children do know right from wrong at this age. They don’t know all of the doctrines, of course, but they know how to make proper judgments. They know instinctively, by the light of Christ, what is right. Whether they do what is right is subject to the exercise of their free agency, but there’s no question in my mind regarding an eight-year-old child’s ability to choose the right. I’ve had that witness come to me many, many times.
“I would like the children of the world to know that the great message from our Heavenly Father is to trust in Him and to love their fellowmen. Keep the loving spirit you have at this age in your life. You are humble now and teachable. You have a marvelous ability and that is that you can forget—you don’t hold grudges and you can put problems out of your mind and go on loving someone who may have hurt you. Don’t build walls or barriers, just keep a loving heart. There is no substitute for love. Love means interest and concern. It means doing things for others. When there is a spirit of love between two people, it encourages a feeling of trust and self-worth. You can share any problem with each other and solve it together. Love breaks down barriers. President Kimball loves unconditionally.
“If you are remembered for only one thing, what would it be? Would you want to be remembered because you were steadfast in the things of the Lord? That you were honest? That you were trustworthy? All of these are cherished attributes, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to be remembered above all else for your love of people?
“I bear witness to the truth that loving the Lord and loving your fellowmen is the message of the Savior and that we must find and return this love if we are to have eternal life.”