Gospel Story Finder

Emily poured the last of the lemonade into her cup and went outside. It was a hot day! Emily was glad she had some cold lemonade. Then she saw Grandpa pushing the lawn mower. He looked hot and tired. Emily really wanted the whole cup of lemonade. But she knew Grandpa would be thirsty. Emily went back inside. She got another cup and poured in half of her lemonade. Then she took it outside to Grandpa. He stopped the lawn mower. They drank their lemonade. Grandpa smiled and said, “Thank you for sharing your lemonade!”

I shall always be grateful that almost sixty-five years ago the good bishop of our ward came to me and asked me to be Scoutmaster of twenty-four boys in the Whitney Ward. We all received our handbooks at the same time. This was a great group of young men with a lot of musical talent.
In those days we had in the Mutual various cultural activities which were competitive. Among them were boys’ choruses. Each ward was expected to have a chorus, and ofttimes the bishop would invite the Scoutmaster to take the responsibility for getting the boys out to practice. So it was in our ward.
As is often the case when a man is asked to do a job, I sought out the help of a good faithful woman who could play the piano and knew some musical technique. Under her direction we started our practices. The song to be sung in the competition was assigned by the general board and was the same throughout the Church—“The Morning Breaks; the Shadows Flee,” by Parley P. Pratt (Hymns, no. 269).
For weeks before and after Scout meetings we prepared. Finally the time came when we would meet in competition with the ten other wards of the Franklin Stake. We were successful in winning in the stake, and then we were to meet the winners of the six other stakes in Cache Valley in the tabernacle in Logan.
I shall never forget approaching that great tabernacle that evening. We went inside and drew for places. We drew last place, which only prolonged our anxiety.
Finally the time came that our group was to march up to the platform. As our accompanist played “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” those twenty-four boys went up the aisle single file and formed in a half moon on the stage while I crouched down between a couple of benches to try to give them some leadership. Then they sang as I’d never heard them sing, and of course you can imagine that I’d not be telling this story had we not won first place in Logan.
We went home literally walking on air. We were so happy that this little community of fifty families had won over the other stakes and wards of the valley.
In the first Scout meeting following our victory, those boys (never forgetting anything that is of value to them) reminded me that in a moment of anxiety I had promised them that if we won in Logan, I would take them all on a hike over the mountain thirty-five miles to Bear Lake Valley.
Since a promise made is a debt unpaid, we began planning our hike. During the meeting one little twelve-year-old raised his hand and said very formally, “Mr. Scoutmaster, I would like to make a motion.” That was a new thing in a Scout meeting—or at least it was for me—but I said, “All right, what is it?”
He said, “I’d like to make a motion that we all clip our hair off so we will not be bothered with combs and brushes on this trip.”
I noticed three or four of the older boys start to squirm in their seats. They had reached that very critical age in life when they were beginning to take notice of the girls, and they knew a clipped head would be no asset to them with the women.
I put the question and it carried, with these three or four older boys dissenting. Then it was agreed that if they did not submit willingly, there were other ways of enforcing the rules of the troop. So they submitted.
Then, true to form—never forgetting anything if it was to their advantage—one of the older Scouts said, “How about the Scoutmasters?” It was our turn to squirm.
The following Saturday at the county seat, two Scoutmasters took their places in the barber’s chair while the barber very gleefully went over each head with the clippers. As he neared the end of the job, he said, “You know, if you fellows would let me shave your heads, I would do the whole job for nothing.”
So after our session with the barber, we left on that great thirty-five-mile Scout trip to which I had made commitment as an inducement to get the boys out to practice their singing—twenty-four boys with heads clipped and two Scoutmasters with heads shaven.
It was a glorious three weeks together with those wonderful boys out in the hills and in the mountains and on the lake. I wish I could follow for you the life of each one of those boys from that time until the present. I am proud of them.

It is a typical Saturday morning along the Salt Lake Valley’s Jordan River. The sun’s rays shimmer as they reflect off calm waters, the birds’ warbles create a peaceful harmony, and the squirrels’ chatter echoes through the trees. Suddenly, the usual tranquility of the early morning is interrupted as large clusters of people round a bend in the smooth trail that runs along the river. There are 500 people of all ages and denominations. What’s more, they are laughing and talking together.
Maybe this isn’t such a typical Saturday.
It was last April that Brighton High School senior Gweneth Thomas decided that she needed to get more involved in service. So she approached a representative of Church World Service, an interfaith organization dedicated to helping fellow Christians in times of need. She soon became at least 80 hours immersed in service as she agreed to become the organization’s first youth coordinator of the annual Christian Rural Overseas Program walk.
CROP walks are worldwide fundraisers for struggling countries in times of crisis. Volunteers are asked to pledge money and then walk a six-mile course to help them appreciate the hardships of fellow Christians all over the world.
The theme of the 1996 walk was “We walk because they walk,” referring to the individuals in many developing countries who must walk five or six hours a day to find food and water.
Besides raising money for the needy, Gweneth and her co-chair, Max Freeman, had a very specific goal in mind for the 1996 walk. They wanted members of the ten participating religions to work to break down the barriers between each other and move from intolerance to acceptance, from acceptance to respect, and finally from respect to love.
But before any of this could happen, Gweneth and Max felt they needed to get teenagers involved as well as adults. They started in their high school cafeteria. Fellow Brighton High students Alina Stay, Brenna Flynn, and Mindy Pitts observed their classmates’ reactions to Gweneth’s pleas for donations.
“What doesn’t seem like a lot of money to me will feed a lot of people [in another country],” says Mindy.
Brenna, a convert to the Church, was especially concerned with helping Gweneth and Max create peaceful interfaith relations through the walk.
The most exciting part of the event for her was seeing that goal fulfilled as “people from other faiths shared testimonies and showed the true spirit of Christianity without the normal my-church-is-better-than-your-church attitude,” she says.
“Build up trust and gain a respect for each other,” says Max.
And not only did the teens spur these good relations between denominations while donating money; they walked as well.
Perhaps it was the strenuous six-mile walk. Perhaps it was the wooden signs along the trails with poignant messages. Perhaps it was the experience of associating with people of many different faiths. Whatever the case, the mood at the picnic afterward was reflective.
Everyone seemed to sense what Gweneth put into words, “One person can make a big difference.”

My second example is also simple, but it too will never be forgotten. Following the closing prayer at a session of general conference in October 2017, the General Authorities and officers were leaving the stand when one of the Seventy tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Brother Brough, your shoe is untied.” He then knelt down and tied my shoe. He knelt down and tied my shoe!

I did not know what to do. I thought of pulling my foot away and saying, “No, I will do that.” At first, I was embarrassed that a member of the Seventy was kneeling and tying my shoe. Then I found myself feeling such love from this servant of Heavenly Father and also from Heavenly Father Himself. This was one of the kindest acts I have experienced in my whole life. With tears in my eyes, I thought, “What a great example! I might not be able to do much, but I, too, can always tie someone’s shoe.”

On 26 October 1964 the city of Kingston, Jamaica, officially recorded the birth of twins. This was the beginning for me. I never knew my parents. I was raised by my grandmother. The first home I knew was a one-room wooden shack in the ghetto.
While growing up in the severe poverty of the ghetto, I realized how hard my grandmother worked for us. She would rise at five o’clock every morning from the tattered old bed she shared with five other family members. After waking us kids, she would take us to search for bricks. With the bricks we collected, Grandma built an oven to bake bread that would be sold to neighbors. Grandma struggled every day, yet she always had a smile on her face and seemed happy.
We didn’t have running water in our shack that combined with many others to form a compound. There was one main pipe. Everyone caught their water there in buckets. We had to take the water on our heads to our homes. The water pipe was surrounded by a green, muddy area; the children used it for a playground. Ghetto children didn’t always wear clothes. Usually they were just covered with mud and dirt. The toilets and bath places were placed in the center of the compound so everyone could use them.
Low self-esteem and lack of money in the neighborhood caused many there to turn to immorality as an escape. This led to higher population and congestion in the ghetto. Most people didn’t work; they depended on the government for food. To obtain nice clothes and other material possessions they would often steal.
My best friend was born outside in the streets. Her mother was only fourteen years old at the time. Following in her mother’s footsteps, my friend had her first child at the age of thirteen, making her mother a grandmother at age twenty-seven. She had her third child by the age of nineteen. After leaving her third boyfriend, she moved in with her mother, adding her three children to her mother’s six. My friend had the responsibility for nine children under the age of seven before she reached her twentieth birthday. As I looked at my friend’s life, I realized that I wanted something better for myself. I wanted a home and a family. I knew I had to leave the ghetto.
My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I were in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged, because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, who, I was told, belonged to and were one with God.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the good feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. When he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, certainty, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting, a calm feeling came over me, and I heard these words in my mind: “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, I see that my life in the ghetto was difficult and that a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances, no matter where we are. He desires above all things that we find true happiness.

Several years ago, Brigham Young University honored with a presidential citation Sarah Bagley Shumway, a truly remarkable woman of our time. The citation contained the words: “It is often within our homes and among our own family members that the eternally significant—but usually unheralded—dramas of daily living occur. The people in these plain but important places bring stability to the present and promise to the future. Their lives are filled with struggle and deep feeling as they face circumstances that rarely fit neatly within the formulae of plays, films and newscasts. But their victories, however slight, strengthen the boundaries through which the history of future generations must pass.”
Sarah married H. Smith Shumway, then her “friend and sweetheart of nine years,” in 1948. The courtship was longer than most because Smith, an infantry officer in World War II, was blinded and severely wounded by a land-mine explosion in the advance on Paris, France. During his long rehabilitation, Sarah learned braille so that she could correspond with him in privacy. She couldn’t tolerate the idea of others reading her letters aloud to the man she loved.
Something of the spirit of this young couple comes to us in the simple candor of Smith Shumway’s proposal of marriage. Finally home in Wyoming after the war, he told Sarah, “If you will drive the car and sort the socks and read the mail, I will do the rest.” She accepted the offer.
Years of study led to a successful career, eight accomplished children, a host of grandchildren, and lives of service. The Shumways, along life’s pathway, have faced problems of a child with severe deafness, a missionary son developing cancer, and a twin granddaughter injured at birth.
My family and I had the privilege to meet the entire Shumway clan at Aspen Grove a year ago. It was our joy to be with them. Each wore an identifying T-shirt on which was a map depicting the location of each child and family, along with the names of all. Brother Shumway, with justifiable pride, pointed to the location on his shirt of his precious ones and beamed the smile of gladness. Only then did I ponder that he had never seen any of his children or grandchildren. Or had he? While his eyes had never beheld them, in his heart he knew them and he loved them.
At an evening of entertainment, the Shumway family was on the stage at Aspen Grove. The children were asked, “What was it like growing up in a household with a sightless father?” One daughter smiled and said, “When we were little, occasionally we felt Daddy should not have too much dessert at dinner, so without telling him, we would trade our smaller helping with his larger one. Maybe he knew, but he never complained.”
One child touched our hearts when she recounted, “When I was about five years old, I remember my father holding my hand and walking me around the neighborhood, and I never realized he was blind because he talked about the birds and other things. I always thought he held my hand because he loved me more than other fathers loved their children.”
Today Brother Shumway is a patriarch. Who would you guess learned typing skills so as to be able to type the many blessings he gives? You’re correct: his beloved wife, Sarah.
Smith and Sarah Shumway and their family are examples of rising above adversity and sorrow, overcoming the tragedy of war-inflicted impairment, and walking bravely the higher roadway of life.

The other visit was to the North Carbon stake in Price, Utah, also many years ago. I noted during my visit that they had rescued 86 men from the prospective elders in one year and had taken them and their wives to the Manti Temple. I said to Cecil Broadbent, the president, “How did you do it, President?”
He said, “I didn’t. My counselor, President Judd, did.”
President Judd was a large, ruddy-faced Welsh coal miner. I said to him, “President Judd, will you tell me how you were able to rescue 86 brethren in one year?”
I sat anticipating his answer, and he said, “No!”
I was stunned. I’d never had anyone say no so directly in my life. I asked, “Why not?”
He said, “Then you’ll tell the other stake presidents you visit, and we won’t lead the Church in reactivation.” He was smiling, though, so I knew it was half in jest. He said, “I’ll make a deal with you, Brother Monson. I’ll tell you how we rescued 86 men in one year if you’ll get me two tickets to general conference.”
I said, “You’re on!” And so he told me. What he didn’t tell me is that he intended to collect interest every conference for the next 10 years. He came faithfully every six months for his two tickets.

Now it’s a few days after the grubbing—Saturday morning to be exact—and the Young Women of the ward are under London Bridge. They could be in the middle of an old English village, except that every gabled house is full of tourists buying trinkets. It’s the kind of place where there are no shops but plenty of shoppes. In the cool shadows of the water under an arch of the bridge, panhandler carp rise for handouts. Along the river quay there are paddleboats and canoes and aqua jets and motorboats for rent. For a half dollar a man will stamp a likeness of London Bridge on your penny. Art and clothing and curios are for sale. You can get snow cones and hamburgers and hot dogs and pretzels and nachos and pizzas, and just about anything else your heartburn desires. Houseboats and speedboats nose up to the docks. Swallows dart in and out under the bridge. The bridge itself is beautiful, arching away across the channel in great gray sweeps, solid as merry old England. It refuses to look out of place anywhere, even here where its out of placeness is beyond doubt.
But the girls have not come to sightsee. They’ve come to help a friend wash a bus. And this isn’t just any old bus. It’s an authentic London doubledecker, living out its latest incarnation as a fast-food stand. It belongs to a member of the Church, and washing it can be quite a chore for one person. So the girls have decided to help, especially since they plan on having some fun afterward. They do the work, and they do it well. They get each other wet, and they do that well too.
Meanwhile, the deacons and teachers are down the quay digging out grass from between cracks in the cement. It’s their way of helping to beautify their city’s most famous landmark.
When both jobs are finished, the whole group, joined by the priests, tries out the pedal boats. In and out under the bridge from sunshine to shadow to sunshine again they go, their orange life jackets shining in the spray of their pedaling like some frozen citrus treat.
But this is all just an appetizer for the beach party in the afternoon. They meet at State Beach on the island. There, amid palm trees, they play frisbee and volleyball and football and toss-the-leader-in-the-water. Jeff and Shaun and John even team up to recreate the original “Mormon connection” pass. Once again, the football slips through Shaun’s fingers. But just as before, there is a friend handy to back him up. John takes the pass and turns upfield.
He jukes a palm tree, sidesteps a picnic table, and outruns a garbage can. Sand spraying behind him, he sprints, free and strong, toward an unseen goal line.

Helping everyone accomplish the things they need to do to certify is a formidable task. Some need special help. The Austin Stake has several handicapped girls attending camp, and a special hike has been arranged for them. At first the leaders hope a few of the Adventurers will assist the girls on their special hike. But nearly all 22 Adventurers show up for the hike that morning because they don’t want the girls to think they have been singled out to go on a little 5-person hike. Jamie Townsend explains, “We had another hike with 25 people so these special girls would feel a part of things. We had one girl who is nearly blind, and we had girls holding her hand with such love it brought tears to your eyes.”

When I was about to go on a mission, I worried about the same things that today worry the young men and young women who will also serve missions. I worried about work, my girlfriend, school, and family. When I was old enough to go on a mission, my father was almost 66 years old, and I thought, My father is old, and if I leave for two years, he may die and I will not see him anymore. Who will take care of my mother? She will be all alone when he is no longer at her side.

May I tell you that I served two years in the mission, I served in the Church schools in Chile for five years, I served as a mission president for three years, as a regional representative for six years, and then in the Seventy before my father died in 1993 at the age of 94.

Heavy rains triggered flooding across the midwestern United States, Oregon, and Washington. Volunteers came with supplies from the bishops’ storehouse to provide help to those in need.

When Church representatives in Findlay, Ohio, presented a donation to the local Red Cross chapter, a passerby spotted them in their yellow Mormon Helping Hands T-shirts. She walked in and held up her camera phone with a picture of four Helping Hands and exclaimed, “They just saved my home!” Then she hugged everyone in sight.

It was in February of 1976 that they came to Salt Lake City to be the guests of Dave and Chris Boyd. The Boyds did not speak Spanish nor did the Bolivians speak English when they first arrived in Utah. Chris said, “It’s close to a miracle how we have been able to communicate. We’ve been able to work with the time schedules, solve medical problems, and enjoy each other’s company.
They learned English quickly and after only a few months could understand much of what was being said around them. When they played for school children throughout the Salt Lake Valley, they would ask them in English to clap or answer their musical questions in certain parts of the songs. They learned easily to say “Thank you,” “I’m very happy to be here,” and “My name is _____. What is yours?” They also learned to say “I’m hungry!”
They were most homesick for Bolivian food. Chris said that they would graciously eat anything she cooked for them. But they are used to food that has no chemical additives in it, and when they began eating American food, they had a hard time adjusting to it. In Bolivia they eat a lot of vegetables but insist on cooking them. Many Americans eat raw vegetables; Rama Nueve calls it rabbit food.
They make most of their own instruments. The flutist makes his flutes from cane stock. The bell tones he can make are pure and clear and seem even richer than those from flutes of silver. One of the instruments they use is the charango. It is made from an armadillo-type animal, a tatú. The shell is used as the back or sound part of the instrument.
All of the young Bolivians are exciting, accomplished musicians, but not one of them can read printed music. They began playing instruments by ear at a young age. “Many of the youth have a great desire to learn to read music but don’t have access to teachers who know the skills,” Chris said.
They brought seven different costumes with them from South America. They explained that there are 40 or 50 regional costumes in Bolivia. These costumes grew out of early uniforms worn by the Bolivians when they were required by European occupants to wear certain clothes as marks of identification.
When asked what it is like to have six Bolivian youths move in, Chris said: “It is like having brothers and sisters move into your home for a few months. I will really miss them when they’re gone. Their tempo of life has affected my way of living. I’ve had to learn to relax. But on the other hand, their tempo has changed too. They are so busy right now that they hardly have time to watch the sunset.”
During the time they weren’t singing at concerts or benefits of some kind, they were catching up on their sleep or writing letters home. One of the favorite things they learned while they were in Utah was how to roller skate. “It’s a sport we don’t have in La Paz.” It may well be introduced upon their return. They have also learned to swim and dive. Chris said that anything they enter into they do with their whole soul. They have taught others the Bolivian folk dances and want very much to learn how to dance in the American fashion.
From the first week they arrived in Utah they wanted to be involved in a family home evening at least once a week. So, on Monday nights they were invited into homes all over the Salt Lake Valley and enjoyed American family home evenings. But on Sunday nights they decided to get together and take turns giving the lesson to their own group. They made popcorn and usually ended the evening singing LDS hymns in Spanish.
They like Utah and its people. The thing they noticed most was the layout of the Utah communities where most of the streets run directly east and west or north and south. “In Bolivia,” Luis said, “the telephone books are full of street names—no numbers. A taxi driver knows how to get to any address. Some streets wind up into the mountains, and it’s really easy for a stranger to get lost. Here, you just figure out the numbering system, and you can find your way around. It’s so organized. I like that.”
On May 26, 1976, Rodolfo Villalba left Salt Lake City to return home to Bolivia as a full-time missionary for the Church. “My heart is full of beautiful things I want to share with my people,” he said. After his mission he wants to come back to Utah and Brigham Young University; then he will return again to Bolivia to become a productive member of his community.
Rodolfo Murilla also returned to Bolivia at the end of May—there was a rumor that he had someone special waiting for him. The other four, Raul, Luis, Elizabeth, and Lidia, stayed in the U.S. to attend Brigham Young University. They are serious about becoming good representatives of Bolivia. After their education, they all say they want to go back to help their homeland. Lidia wants to study sociology. Luis wants to go into some technical field. Raul feels that it is a great opportunity, “one in a lifetime, to study in another country. And to do it in the Church university is really something!” His father is not a member but wants the best opportunities for his son. Raul is the oldest of the children in his family, and his father wants him to set a good example for his younger brothers and sisters.
When asked what was the greatest experience they had while they were traveling, they immediately replied, “Meeting President Kimball.” On April 26 in the Church Office Building, the group was introduced to President Kimball. They spent time speaking with him through an interpreter. “It was the highlight of my life,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll remember that over everything else. It was a privilege and a humbling honor.”
Each of the youth has a vibrant testimony of the gospel and is aware every moment of the need to be a good example of Church membership. Every concert they gave while in Utah was closed by singing the simple song “I Am a Child of God.” They sang it first in Spanish and then in English. They said it was how they could bear their testimony so that everyone could understand.

The next few weeks were busy ones. School started again, and then my eighth birthday came along almost before I realized it. After my baptism and confirmation, a few things began to change. I started getting up a little earlier each morning to read the Book of Mormon before I headed off to school. That was tough because I hate getting up in the morning, but I was determined to make it all the way through that book.
I also started fasting each month on fast Sunday. There aren’t many things I like to do more than eat, so I slipped up sometimes, but even so, I started noticing a difference in how I felt about testimony meeting.
I began paying more attention to what each speaker was saying, and that made the meeting a lot more interesting. I found out that Sister Johnson had joined the Church when she was twenty-six years old. I thought she’d been a member all her life! And I loved it when old Brother Badger bore his testimony. He had exciting stories to tell about his life and about miracles he had witnessed.
I finished the Book of Mormon early the next summer. There were great stories and teachings in it, and I was happy that I’d reached my goal. But Moroni had written in the last chapter that if you read the Book of Mormon and want to know if it’s true, you should ponder it in your heart and pray to Heavenly Father about it. He promised that if you do that with faith in Jesus Christ and with a sincere heart, the Holy Ghost will help you know that it’s true. I decided to try it out for myself.
The rest of that week I prayed every morning and night. Sometimes I even said a quick prayer in my head when I was at school, but I never saw a vision or even heard a voice that told me the Book of Mormon was true. I felt like giving up, but I really wanted to know, so I just kept on praying.
The next fast Sunday, I fasted to know if the Book of Mormon was true. I spent a lot of time on my knees, and I reread some of my favorite parts. It was amazing how seldom I thought about food.
Testimony meeting was going along great that day. I was even happy for Molly Prentiss when she went up and bore her testimony. Then Brother Badger went to the front to speak. His quiet voice trembled as he spoke of his great love for the scriptures and how he knew of the truth of the gospel.
As he spoke, a strange feeling started in a little spot in my chest. It got warmer and bigger until my whole body was filled with glowing, tingly warmth. When he finished, that warmth seemed to pick me up and carry me right to the pulpit. The lump in my throat loosened into a few words that came right from my soul: “I know that the Book of Mormon is true. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

“Father came home every night shortly after six o’clock, and dinner was always at six-thirty. I remember wonderful evenings at the dinner table. The moment dinner was over, Dad would help clear the table; then we would go into the living room. He would be at one end of the room, totally absorbed in the work he’d brought home. Even so, he always knew what we were doing. If we listened to some good program on the radio, we would keep it down low so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Then, in the middle of the program, he’d look up and smile and say, ‘Turn it up a little. I can’t hear what’s happening.’”

After a get-acquainted dinner with all of the mission presidents and their wives, Lee and I, with our wives, went to my hotel room for a visit. Our conversation, of course, centered on missionary work. Lee explained what had happened to his missionaries since President Hinckley asked us to raise the bar on qualifications for missionary service. He reported a decided improvement in the preparation of the missionaries arriving in the mission field. The conversation led us to recall an experience Lee and I had while he was attending high school.
Lee was a member of his high school track team—he both sprinted and high-jumped. During the 1968 Summer Olympic Games held in Mexico City, the world became enamored with a little-known high jumper named Dick Fosbury. He had experimented with a new high-jumping technique that involved sprinting diagonally toward the bar, then curving and leaping backward over the bar. It came to be called the Fosbury flop.
Like many others, Lee was intrigued by this new technique, but until the new school year started, he didn’t have a place to practice it. I came home one evening to find him practicing the Fosbury flop in our basement. He had set up two makeshift standards by stacking chairs, and he was jumping over a broomstick set on the chairs, using a sofa to cushion his landing. It was very clear to me that the sofa would not hold up under such treatment, so I called a halt to his indoor high-jumping. Instead, I invited him to go with me to a sporting goods store, where we purchased some foam padding to use for landing and high-jumping standards so he could move the activity out of doors.
After experimenting with the Fosbury flop, Lee decided to return to the western-roll technique that he had used previously. Still, through the end of the summer into the fall, he practiced high-jumping for many hours in our backyard.
One evening as I returned home from work, I found Lee practicing his jumping. I asked, “How high is the bar?”
He said, “Five feet, eight inches.”
“Why that height?”
He answered, “You must clear that height to qualify for the state track meet.”
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I can clear it every time. I haven’t missed.”
My reply: “Let’s raise the bar and see how well you do then.”
He replied, “Then I might miss.”
I queried, “If you don’t raise the bar, how will you ever know your potential?”
So we started moving the bar up to five feet, ten inches; then to six feet; and so on, as he sought to improve. Lee became a better high jumper because he was not content with just clearing the minimum standard. He learned that even if it meant missing, he wanted to keep raising the bar to become the best high jumper he was capable of becoming.

Several weeks ago I took the New Era to work. I was going to read it on my break. Several people asked if they could look through it. They said they had never seen a magazine like it. They enjoyed the stories and said it made them feel good all over.
I learned that the New Era is a great missionary tool. It has helped me explain many of my beliefs to my co-workers.
Rochelle JohnsonSan Antonio, Texas

When General Douglas MacArthur kept his promise to the people of the Pacific Isles that he would return, in his troops was a young Latter-day Saint soldier. They landed on a beach on the Isle of Luzon in the Philippines and set up a beachhead. The enemy had established a fortress on a hill nearby and was bombarding the beachhead to rout their opposers, but General MacArthur’s troops captured the hill. In doing so, approximately 700 men lost their lives.
This slaughter was a dramatic shock to the mind of this young man. He spent two years on the island but could not overcome the horror of what he had experienced. When he returned home, he never told any war stories. He never shared the details of his experiences even with his family. His feelings lay dormant inside him. The scene of the battle haunted him for years. He tried hard to forget, and finally he felt that he had been able to put it behind him.
Forty years after the carnage at Luzon, while he was serving as a counselor to the mission president in his home area, he and his wife received a call to serve a mission. He rejoiced at this wonderful opportunity, for he loved to teach and talk about the gospel. Several months passed before he learned where he was assigned. A letter from the First Presidency advised him that he was to serve in the Philippines. This information was very disconcerting. He had to go back to the place where he had been on that fateful day many years before. He feared that going back would resurrect the horrible scenes that had haunted him through the years and that he had tried to bury in the recesses of his mind.
When he arrived in the Philippines, the memory of that dreadful experience returned. On one of his preparation days, he went to the beach where he had been with General MacArthur when they landed 42 years before and where he had witnessed the great loss of life. He visited the hill where 700 men had died in taking the stronghold. He saw smoke on an adjoining hill, which sickened him as it brought back scenes of booby traps and dangers that had confronted him years before. He recalled wading through swamps in water up to his armpits and lying in foxholes with poisonous snakes slithering around him. He recalled things he had seen and experienced that he had blanked out of his mind. Then in contemplation he realized he couldn’t shut out reality. Not talking about it had bottled it up inside. Talking about it helped. Now he has shared his feelings of those difficult days with his friends, family, and loved ones. To do so is therapeutic when the listener is understanding and supportive.

“Ro-sie!” called Mama. “It is time for you and Heman to take Papa his dinner.”
We needed no second call, for this was one errand we delighted in doing. Mama filled a plate with hot food, covered it with a soup dish to keep in the warmth, wrapped it carefully in a large napkin, and placed it in a basket. Then she handed the basket to us with final instructions: “Carry it carefully, don’t play on the way, and hurry home after Papa has eaten.”
It was ten blocks from our home on East Third South to Salt Lake Temple Block where Papa worked as a stonecutter. But it didn’t seem that long to us as we talked of the fun we’d have while Papa ate his dinner. It was interesting to watch the huge granite blocks being brought in from the canyon quarry by ox-drawn wagons. While the wagons were unloaded, the oxen stood patiently switching at flies with their tails. After the rough blocks were cut and smoothed to the required shape and size, they were tilted and placed in rows like dominoes, leaving the sharp edges protruding like saw teeth. We enjoyed running back and forth on top of these stone dominoes in our bare feet. Shoes were saved for Sunday and for school.
Sometimes we would watch as skilled workmen cut sun, moon, and star designs into certain stones. Each held a small iron chisel in his left hand and a hard wooden mallet in his right, tapping gently so as not to chip out too much rock and spoil the pattern.
Today Papa had a special surprise for us. He said, “The men who are making the circular staircase (there was one in each corner of the building) say you may go up as far as it is completed, but you must be very quiet, because this is the Lord’s house.”
I took Heman’s hand, and together we climbed the huge stone steps—up, up, up until we were out of breath. It was easier going down. Then Papa took us into the carpenter shop where wood for the building was sawed. On the floor was a heap of clean sawdust and Papa told us that the foreman said it would be all right for us to take some home so Mama could show us how to make a pincushion. “Someday it will be a fine thing,” Papa said, “to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Eagerly we filled the basket with fragrant sawdust and hurried home. But Mama had no time right then to help with a pincushion. She was trying to finish the washing and ironing for Sister Young, who lived next door, and the baby was cross. I rocked the baby to sleep, then helped Mama prepare supper.
In the evening, after the dishes were washed and put away, Mama found a piece of sturdy brown cloth on which she drew a large fig leaf. She showed me how to embroider green lines for veins and outline the edge with a blanket stitch. A matching piece for the back was sewed to the front, leaving a hole near the top to pour in the temple sawdust until the leaf would hold no more. Then we sewed the hole shut so none of the precious sawdust would be lost. When the pincushion was finished I proudly showed it to Papa for his approval, then placed it on top of Mama’s bureau with my other special treasures.

Another friend of mine, whom I will call Frank, reached out to me in my role with the Alzheimer’s Association a few years ago while he was serving as a bishop. He was concerned about several members of his ward who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and suspected that others had some form of undiagnosed dementia. Frank was anxious to meet the needs of these ward members and support other members serving as caregivers. Unaware of any resources, he turned to me out of desperation with a plea for help.
We arranged for a presentation to his ward’s empty-nester home evening group. Normally about 25 people attended this monthly activity. After it was announced that the presentation would be about Alzheimer’s disease, more than 100 people attended. Many were concerned about getting Alzheimer’s disease but weren’t sure what it is or how they might be able to reduce their risk.
During this meeting, I shared a wide variety of tools available through the Alzheimer’s Association and from other community sources.
As I shared these resources with Frank’s ward council, other members, and caregivers, he observed increased support for and engagement with those members affected by Alzheimer’s and other dementias in his ward and stronger support for caregivers. Increased knowledge can make all the difference!

After returning from my mission to Spain, I felt ready for my next step in life. I wanted to experience the Church in a bigger way, beyond the borders of my home in Vienna, Austria, where members are devoted but relatively few.
I felt that I needed to be among like-minded young people at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, USA, and I hoped to meet a young woman there whom I could marry and with whom I could start a family. I passed the English language test and was soon admitted. My parents offered to help pay my expenses.
One nagging thought, however, troubled me. I hadn’t consulted the Lord. “Why do I need to ask?” I reasoned. Was I not “engaged in a good cause,” not needing to be directed in all things? (see Doctrine and Covenants 58:26–27). How could heaven possibly object?
But the Holy Ghost kept prompting me, “You need to pray before deciding.” Fully expecting the Lord to approve, I thought, “OK.”
An answer came swift and strong—one of the clearest answers I have ever received. I heard in my heart, “I need you here in Austria to build up the kingdom.”
I put the BYU class schedule away and canceled my plans. I thought about my family, how the Lord had helped us immigrate to Austria from Uruguay when I was young. I realized that maybe the Lord did need me here. With a new spirit, I focused on building the kingdom in Austria, which is drenched in beauty, rich in history, and home to many great musical masters, like Beethoven and Mozart.