Gospel Story Finder

No doubt about it, I was a bit cocky and thought I was the best missionary to ever hit Switzerland. The Missionary Training Center had humbled me somewhat (the hardest two months of my mission), and in Switzerland my greenie trainer had done a good job of keeping me from rising over the Alps. I realized that I had a language to perfect and discussions to learn, but I was still living on past achievements, sports victories, and pre-mission status. This is probably why a few flames of refiners’ fire were thrown in my path.
After two months in the field, I received a new companion, only one month more experienced than I. We were both excited about the work and full of anticipation and energy. We learned how to teach with each other, practiced the language together, and enjoyed being new as a team. He had also been active in sports and other activities at home. I would relate to him all my hero stories, and if they weren’t too courageous in truth, I would make them sound fine and noble by adding a little spice. He must have thought I was the next one to be translated by the way I carried on about myself.
Both of us could settle for nothing but the best. This soon led to a feeling of pride and superiority. Everything we set out to do became a major competition. I would not be outdone. Whatever the occasion, I was determined to be the best.
It became a question of who would remember more of the discussions, who would get more mail, who could pray longer, who knew the gender to a particular German word, or who could ride his bike faster (that is, longer without something going wrong).
I suppose many companions (or marriage partners) get those negative feelings and think everything they do is better than what the other does. This was at a maximum with my companion and me. It got so bad, at times I would find myself hoping he wouldn’t get in the doors while tracting so I could prove to be better at the next house. I don’t mean to say that our interaction was total strife or anger, but it was not how we should have been acting as a missionary pair.
It was at this time that the Lord chose to send us his way of solving our problems. He placed before us a challenge capable of humbling us: Hans.
We met Hans at a street display. My companion saw him standing back timidly, hoping only to get a glimpse of what some silly Americans were doing. I suppose he must have been a bit surprised when my companion approached him and asked if he could explain what the pictures meant. Hans came and listened intently, and Elder Perkinson secured his address. We didn’t think about Hans until later when we were in that area again.
We made our way to his house on a cool September evening. I was amazed at the size and location of the place; it was a nice, well-to-do area. The condition of the house was another story: weeds, tires, oil spots, rubble, and piles of rotting trash were strewn about the front yard where a garden should have been. I thought that perhaps someone was moving or cleaning, but then again, what I viewed inside changed that opinion all together.
I pounded on the thin and knobless door as my companion tried to connect two wires together where a doorbell had once been. The house appeared to be vacant until a light from the top of the hallway came through a small window and a thin shadow made its way down the stairs. We heard a screech of wood on cement as our new investigator ripped the weakened door back from its frame. There in the bright porchlight stood our man, grinning with excitement at his first visitors in ages. As he opened the door, we were struck by an unsettling smell. This was certainly a challenge I had never expected to find on my mission.
I looked at Elder Perkinson, and he met me with the same puzzled face. We had no choice, so we walked into the front hallway.
The house must have been at one time stately and well-built, but the remains now disguised all appearance of quality. Boxes, trash, dirt, groceries (old and new), shoes, and assorted pieces of junk were scattered in piles along the corridor. The walls, which were once white, now had a coating of grime.
He led us to his room on the top floor, like a kid would show his friends his snake collection. He clearly had no awareness of the disorganized surroundings in which he was living. All of the rooms were filled with old items; however, his room was among the worst in the house. I gulped and tried to act nonchalant, but my eyes couldn’t avoid sweeping back and forth. If my mother had seen this, she would have thought my room back home was a king’s chamber.
There were no chairs, so we sat on the bed. Hans sat on a vacuum cleaner lying in the middle of the room. Undoubtedly it had been there for years without being used.
For the first time, I looked at this young man before me, and it all became clear. He sat there alone, scared, thin, and insecure. He was 33 years old, the age of many aspiring and influential men. I could see in his face the pain and suffering he had endured and the times he had been ignored and turned from. I couldn’t help thinking of the story “Cipher in the Snow.” Right before my eyes I saw that little bright-eyed, white-faced boy who fell in the snow on the way to school.
He related to us some of, the events of his life: his parents had died seven years ago, and he was left the house and all the bills to be paid. From other sources and from looking through some of his old school papers, we gained further insight into his earlier life. The marks and comments on his schoolwork didn’t seem too poor, but his writing and drawing ability didn’t increase from about the eighth grade.
We began the missionary discussion, and I had to concentrate to keep my eyes from wandering. My companion began with the Joseph Smith story, and I finished up with the second half of the discussion. I really felt proud of my companion, and I don’t think I could have done it without him. We felt good; we realized later that it wasn’t what we said, but rather the fact that we were interested in him that made us feel good. He hardly spoke but looked at us bright-eyed and was interested.
It was our practice to pray at the end of each discussion, but as I looked at the soiled carpet below me, I wasn’t sure what to do. I could see myself being stuck to the floor after the prayer, not being able to rise, but I couldn’t think of any valid excuse, so I closed my eyes and dropped. I believe my companion said the prayer, and something told me inside that this lonely man across from me was going to be baptized. It seemed to me then that it would take a miracle for Hans to become a Latter-day Saint and live as an example to others, but the thought remained.
The following Sunday he showed up for church. The meeting had just started, and I walked to the front door to check for late-coming members. There Hans stood in a thin, soiled, turtleneck shirt, shivering from cold and fright. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked as if he were turning to go away again. I called to him, and a big smile made its way across his lips.
We sat in the corner. As the service ended, I stood with our visitor in the foyer. The members were forming in groups all around us, as the Saints do in every ward in the world, but we weren’t getting too much attention. Then my companion and I thought up a good plan. All we had to do was to bring the members to him. We took turns bringing warm and talkative persons to meet him. As one of us introduced, the other looked for someone to talk to our investigator. The members didn’t talk long, but they were open and friendly. For Hans, it was paradise. He had never received so much attention and such feelings of love in his life. He asked us later that week if he could come every Sunday.
In the next two weeks, we taught him most of the discussions. After each evening, he would show us his entire collection of model airplanes, his 500 stacks of airplane magazines, and his photos of airplanes and everything with wings. That was one of his hobbies or fantasies. He had lived his whole life in a fantasy, because he never had enough faith in himself to actually do anything. We knew that the gospel could change him and would give him a good chance to improve his life. The members would accept and love him, and he recognized it.
We challenged him for baptism, and he accepted everything without question. Besides the regular commandments, we felt there should be a few other things to help him. For this reason we prepared the “B” or “Bath Discussion.” This included his house, his yard, and everything else that needed cleaning up. This didn’t appear easy, and we tried to think of the best and most tactful way to say it. I remember rehearsing a dialogue all day, but we ended up just giving it to him straight. He took it surprisingly well.
The week before the baptism was a trial and tribulation for both Hans and us. I don’t know who’s to blame, but someone didn’t want us to baptize Hans. Both my companion and I got terribly sick; his wheel got stuck on my fender while we were riding and all his spokes flew out; I got hit by a train, and came within inches of being killed; and finally we had to look for a new apartment and didn’t know where we were going to stay until the last day. We baptized Hans, however, just three and a half weeks after our first visit. He came to the church showered and shaved and even wore a new pair of socks. I hardly recognized him. We could already see a part of our vision coming true. I had the great opportunity of baptizing him. He had never worn a tie, so we told him he could go without. Having him stand there in those pure white clothes was fancy enough for us.
As with all baptisms, the real work begins afterwards. We began that Saturday with the cleaning of his house. We worked like dogs, digging out the dirt, junk, and refuse. A sister in the ward, who lived just a few blocks away, came to help. I’ve always admired the courage of pioneer women, but I’ll never forget this act of kindness and fortitude. She started washing dishes and then cleaned out the cupboards. She kept scrubbing and washing till all was spotless.
“This is brotherly love,” I told myself. “This is how the Lord expects his children to help one another.”
Hans continued to improve and came to church every week. A year later I saw a picture of him in a suit. He looked fantastic.
I learned a lot of things from Hans and this whole sequence of my mission. I realized how important each one of our Father in Heaven’s children is, and how the gospel can help anyone in any situation. As my mother once wrote in a letter, “The gospel is a hospital for the sick and not a museum for the whole.” It was certainly true in this case. I know our Heavenly Father helped us in the changing of this man’s life.
The vision of Hans didn’t end there, however. He became, in his own little way, an example to his fellowmen. One month later we visited a lady across the street from Hans. She had seen the change in the house and in Hans himself and knew it had to be the Mormons. She called the same member who had helped us with the cleaning and told her to send the missionaries. Five minutes from the time we entered the home of this great family, we had challenged them to be baptized. What a thrill it was to know that Hans was the one whom the Lord chose to show them the fruits of the gospel.
It all started with Hans. We helped him to find a new life and he helped us as companions. From this time on, it was no longer a question of outdoing each other or being the best, but rather how we could help Hans or the other investigators. He was an example for us of true humility and how the Lord blesses his children.
I know now that the Lord loves us and wants us all to be happy, even the meek and the poor in spirit.

As you know, President Monson absolutely loves Canada. He considers himself part Canadian. The Canadian Saints consider him to be their own, too. This was very evident in May 2010, when he traveled to Vancouver, British Columbia to dedicate the temple there. The night before the dedication, a youth cultural celebration was held in a local ice hockey arena. This gathering began as a regular Church meeting with song and prayer.

Instead of singing the hymn on the program, President Monson directed that the congregation sing the national anthem, "O, Canada!" The crowd, including some 2,000 youth, erupted into cheers! As he got up to speak, President Monson gently touched the lapel pin on his suit coat and the Canadian Maple Leaf flag began to flash red and white! The arena went wild! The youth had made two huge cards for him with their greetings. When he held one of them up to show his appreciation, once again total pandemonium from the youth!

Three weeks later, in the town of Central, Arizona, situated between Pima and Thatcher, in Spencer W. Kimball country, President Monson dedicated a new temple, The Gila Valley Arizona Temple. You've probably seen the YouTube segment of him stopping on the desert highway to greet a group of members standing by the road with "We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet" signs held high in the air. He got out of the car and chatted with the members along the roadside in 90+ degree weather, seemingly unconcerned about the pressing demands on his weekend schedule! That evening during the cultural celebration, held at the outdoor stadium grounds of the College of Eastern Arizona, he marveled at the beautiful program of dancing and song.

If you haven't read, or are reading, To the Rescue-A Biography of Thomas S. Monson, I highly encourage you to get a hold of a copy and start coming to know the Lord's prophet. President Monson reaches out to the unheralded, the downtrodden, the depressed, the physically disabled, the aged and the lonely. His sensitivity radar is always on high alert for anyone who would not normally be singled out.

He loved the evening. A highlight of the pageantry was the segment on President Spencer W. Kimball. President Monson noted that the concept of the "smaller temple" was enthusiastically promoted by President Kimball. There was a strong spiritual connection that night with President Spencer W. Kimball. The next day, after the three dedicatory sessions, as he was leaving the temple, President Monson asked his security team, "Which way do we go?" As soon as they pointed the way to where his car was waiting in the parking lot, he turned around and headed in the completely opposite direction to go greet the throngs lined up behind the roped-off areas, waiting to catch a glimpse, or perhaps even shake the hand of the Lord's prophet! Thirty minutes later he got into the car and was off to the airport. Lives were touched, many tears shed, because the Lord's prophet tarried a bit longer among the people, in no hurry to catch the plane home.

About a year later, Heber’s only living son became sick with a hip disease. One night Heber dreamed that the boy’s mother was waiting to take him to heaven. Heber’s brother woke him from the dream.
Brother: Come quickly, Heber. Your son is dying.
Heber: Was my dream real?
When Heber went into his son’s bedroom, he could feel that his wife’s spirit was there.
Heber: I feel such peace in this room that I can watch my son pass away without shedding a tear.
As President of the Church, he told the Saints of the Holy Ghost’s power to comfort us.
Heber: As I saw my little boy die, I experienced a sweet, peaceful, heavenly feeling greater than I had ever felt. The joy of the gospel robs the grave of its sting.

When we lived in New England, our home was located in a beautiful little community surrounded by a garden of trees and narrow winding country roads lined with rock walls. When we first moved there, a small flagpole stood in the center of the lovely town green, or park. One summer day during a severe rainstorm, lightning struck the flagpole and it came crashing down.
That night a committee was formed to secure a replacement for the pole. Because the people who lived there were proud of their flag and wanted to see it flying even above the trees, a beautiful white pole was erected as a witness to all who saw it that we loved our country and our flag. It was breathtaking to see the red, white, and blue of the flag waving high in the sky.

Ashley pulled her stuffed-animal elephant to her chest and closed her eyes. She pictured the notes of her song, “The Elephant and the Flea,” just as they were on her music. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and smiled. Her turn was next, and she was sure she would remember the music she had so carefully memorized.
This was her first piano recital, and Ashley was nervous. The small room was packed with people, and she hardly knew any of them. But her mom was there, and her piano teacher, Miss Stewart, sat smiling at the front of the room near the piano. The students had been asked to dress to represent their songs, so Ashley carried a stuffed-animal elephant with a flea on its nose.
A little boy finished his song and stood up. He bowed while everyone clapped loudly. He did well. He didn’t forget any notes in his song.
Ashley swallowed. What if she messed up? Would they still clap for her? What would her mom and her piano teacher think?
Mom reached over and put her hand on Ashley’s back. “It’s your turn,” she whispered. Then she saw the nervous look on Ashley’s face and added, “You’ll do fine.”
Ashley stood up and started to picture the notes in her head one last time. Then she walked slowly to the front of the room.
After announcing her name and the title of her song, she placed the elephant on the edge of the bench, sat down next to it, and stared at the piano keys. She knew she could remember the notes. She had practiced so hard; she had to remember. She started playing. Her fingers danced across the keys as she made it through the first part of the song perfectly. Then she got to the second part. This part had always been tricky. Ashley tried to play the right notes, but her fingers and her brain forgot what came next.
Everyone watched her sit silently at the piano. How could this be happening? Miss Stewart searched through a pile of music and pulled out Ashley’s piece. She stood up and began walking toward Ashley. How embarrassing if she had to use the actual written music when she was supposed to have it memorized! Just before Miss Stewart could put the music on the piano, Ashley started playing again. Instead of starting where she had stopped, she skipped the middle part and began to play the short ending, which she remembered.
Embarrassed, Ashley finished the song and hurried back to her seat. She didn’t bow, and she didn’t look at anyone. The audience clapped, but Ashley was sure it wasn’t as loud or as long as it had been for the little boy before her.
“It’s OK,” her mom said. She put her arm around Ashley and kissed the top of her head. “You did so well.”
But Ashley knew she hadn’t done well at all.
When the recital was over, Ashley walked quickly toward the door. She couldn’t stand the embarrassment. A lady stepped in front of the door, stopping her from escaping.
“You did so well up there. I just love that you can play the piano at such a young age,” she said.
A man joined in. “I really liked your song,” he said.
More people walked by and smiled or patted Ashley on the back. Then Miss Stewart put her arm around Ashley’s shoulder. “You did a wonderful job,” she said. She smiled, then moved on to talk to some other piano students.
Ashley felt much better on the ride home. She had messed up, but that didn’t matter so much anymore. Everyone seemed to understand. Ashley had tried her best, and that was enough.

Two years later the Widtsoe family left Oslo, Norway, with twenty other Norwegian Saints to begin the long journey to America. Eleven-year-old John kept a diary of their trip over the North Sea, their smoky journey across the midlands of England, their three days of sight-seeing in Liverpool, their voyage over the Atlantic Ocean, and the long railroad ride from New York to Logan, Utah, where they settled. There John found many and varied jobs to help support the family. His mother did dressmaking and any other kind of work she could find to provide for current expenses and to save toward the education of her sons.

My wife and I recently went to Singapore with a group of BYU engineering students. What a great experience! While we were there, I had two nice experiences as a result of people sharing their testimonies. One of the highlights of the trip was attending church with the Clementi Ward. The members of the ward were so welcoming to us. What impressed me most was how they focused on sharing their ­testimonies. The youth speakers shared their ­testimonies. The adult speakers shared their testimonies. The bishopric and instructors shared their ­testimonies. It was refreshing to feel such a focus on testimonies. It strengthened my testimony, and I am sure it strengthened theirs as they shared them.

While in Singapore we also learned something interesting about Emily, our oldest daughter: she’s really great at writing letters. Every night we would look forward to reading her lengthy emails, which were informative, detailed, clever, and sometimes silly. She would tell us about what was going on at home and then tell us about each of her classes at school. On a number of occasions she wrote about what she was learning in seminary. She was studying the Martyrdom of the prophet Joseph Smith. In one of her letters Emily shared with us her feelings about the Prophet and about the ultimate price that he and Hyrum paid for the restored gospel. I can’t tell you how good that made me feel. Although she might not have known it, she was sharing her testimony. It strengthened my testimony, and I know it strengthened hers. I need to be more like that. I need to find simple ways to share my testimony of the gospel. Maybe it will benefit ­others, and it will certainly benefit me.

Just the thought of someone actually reading what I wrote distorted my journal entries. For example, here’s what really happened:
I lost the election for sophomore vice president by the widest margin in our school’s history. I can’t think of one good reason why anybody would vote for Carol instead of me. I felt so rotten that I cried all night.
But here’s how it appeared in my journal account:
Running for student-body office was a real growing experience for me. I’m so glad Carol won. She’s a wonderful girl.

After my brother passed away, I made up my mind to quit basketball entirely. There was nothing temporal worth holding on to anymore. We were getting a new Coach, and I rehearsed how to tell him I was done. I was happy I didn’t have to face Coach Hess, who recruited me. I didn’t want him to think he wasted his efforts. Little did I know that the new coach, Ken Wagner, was a conman! When I finally met him, he talked me out of quitting. I will be eternally grateful that he convinced me not to quit. He was an excellent coach and perhaps even a more excellent mentor and father figure. Even these days, he loves to tease me that I was older than him when he coached me, and in return, I tell him he is the best grandpa I could ever ask for! God bless you, Coach, and God bless all the good people I met here.

I watched Cynthia prance across the playground, followed by three girls who wanted to be popular, like her. Cynthia’s earrings were long and silvery. She wore pink lipstick and bracelets that sounded like chimes.
I had to admit, I was jealous. Cynthia was pretty—and pretty snobby. My friends and I sat on the grass at recess, pointing out every snobby thing she did.
One day, Cynthia wasn’t at school. When I got home, Mom asked, “Do you know Cynthia Harper?”
“Yes. Why?” I asked.
“She had an accident yesterday.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Both of Cynthia’s parents were at work. She forgot her house key, so she tried to open a basement window. She slipped and pushed her arm through the glass.”
I gasped. “Will she be OK?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “She had to have surgery. Mrs. Keller was the one who found her.”
I shuddered thinking about the accident. Then I realized something. “Did you say Mrs. Keller found her?” The Kellers lived on our street.
Mom nodded. “Cynthia’s family lives in the green house.”
I knew Cynthia lived nearby, but I didn’t know she was my neighbor!
The next day, I told my friends about what happened to Cynthia.
“Serves her right,” Caroline said.
I thought about how unhappy Cynthia must be. “No, it doesn’t,” I said. “My mom said she’ll have to wear a cast all summer. She’s lucky she can even move her fingers.”
“Sorry,” Caroline mumbled.
After school that day, I went to my room. My eyes fell on a pair of tiny earrings I had gotten for my birthday that I hadn’t worn yet. An idea came to me. Maybe I could give them to Cynthia.
“What are you thinking?” I asked myself. “She doesn’t know you, and she’d never wear earrings like that.”
But before I knew what I was doing, I was carrying a get-well card and the earrings up the street to the green house.
Cynthia’s mom answered the door. “Is Cynthia here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“She’s right here.” Her mom smiled, and I looked inside to see Cynthia sitting on the couch.
“I’m Kim,” I said. “I live up the street.”
Cynthia smiled. “Hi.”
“I heard about what happened, and I hope you feel better soon.” I gave her the card and earrings and held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
Her eyes lit up. “Thank you! You are so nice!” she exclaimed.
“Um, are you … feeling better?” I stammered.
Cynthia nodded. “It hurts a little. But I’m OK.” She held out her arm so I could see her pink cast.
“Well, see you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.
I skipped all the way home. I knew I had been brave and that I had done the right thing. But most of all, I knew I had been wrong about Cynthia. She wasn’t snobby—my friends and I had been the snobs.
Cynthia and I didn’t become best friends, but every time we saw each other in the hall or at recess we smiled and said hi. A few weeks later, school ended and I moved away. Knowing I had been wrong about Cynthia helped me not to judge others at my new school. Making friends was easier when I remembered that being nice could start with me.

For the family history experience, the two organizers, Liz Seymer and Asti Liang, borrowed some real-life family histories from stake members. They wrote the stories, leaving out some important details but leaving in clues to help uncover these facts. From the clues given them, the girls had to figure out where they needed to go for more information. Around the cultural hall were tables and resource people. One had census records. Another represented cemetery headstones. Others represented the Church’s Family History Library and computerized records. If the girls asked the right question of the person in charge of the table, they were rewarded with the correct answer. But if they didn’t know the correct question to ask, they didn’t get an answer, just as in real life. They had to retreat and do a little more figuring.
Mounted on easels to one side were the photographs of the families the girls were researching, as if they were just waiting to be found. Hilary Ekstron of the sixth ward said, “Our group had to go to five different places just to find out one thing. But it was really interesting.” It was surprising how quickly the girls became involved in their “mystery” family as they were introduced to certain types of records and how information is recorded.

Elder M. Russell Ballard shared this example:
“One of our outstanding missionaries that served with us in the Canada Toronto Mission years ago came to my office in Salt Lake City. During our visit, he told me that he was losing his faith and his testimony and that he had many questions. I asked him to write down his questions and promised to find answers to them, certainly as many as I could. As he was about to leave . . . I said, ‘Elder, how long has it been since you have studied the scriptures; specifically, how long has it been since you have read from the Book of Mormon?’ He lowered his head and said he had not been doing that. I gave him an assignment to begin reading the Book of Mormon for an hour each day while I worked to prepare answers to his questions. He agreed to do so.
“Two weeks later, he came back to my office, and as he entered in and sat down he said, ‘President, I don’t need answers to those questions anymore. I did what you asked—I know the Book of Mormon is true and I know Joseph Smith is a prophet of God.’ I was very happy to hear that but said, ‘Elder, I spent a long time answering your questions so you will have to sit down and hear the answers!’ What a joy! The Spirit and light of the gospel had returned to him. I commended him and gave him a big hug before he left.”

Patrick watched the other boys from his ward laugh together as they hiked the trail. He tried not to frown. They were still ignoring him.
Patrick didn’t understand. Normally, he got along with the other kids in the ward. Especially Brett and Tyson. But two days before the trip, Marcus started telling the other boys that they shouldn’t hang out with Patrick any more. That was all it took. Suddenly nobody would talk to him no matter how hard he tried.
This was going to be the worst camping trip ever.
Tall pine trees grew so close together on both sides of the trail that Patrick could barely see the blue sky above. They were way up in the mountains with no houses anywhere. Even better, they were headed to a lake full of fish. But Patrick didn’t care. What was the fun of going camping with kids who didn’t want to be around him?
“Something wrong?” Dad called. “Normally you’re at the head of the pack.”
Patrick turned around. Dad wasn’t far behind. He was walking with the other adults and using his favorite walking stick. Dad had volunteered to come as one of the leaders.
“No,” Patrick said. “I’m fine. I just … want to walk a little slower today. That’s all.”
Dad glanced up the trail at the rest of the boys. Patrick squirmed. Did Dad realize the other kids didn’t want to be around him?
Dad nodded his head slowly. Then he flashed a big smile and took a few quick steps to catch up to Patrick. “Sounds good to me,” Dad said. “Sometimes I like walking a little slower too. Let’s walk together.” Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar. “Hey, how about a snack?”
“My favorite!” Patrick said. “Thanks!”
“Any time, buddy. I think I’ll have one too.”
They walked together for a few minutes without talking, each of them munching on a granola bar.
“Look at that!” Dad pointed up in the trees as they rounded the next bend in the trail. “I think it’s an eagle in its nest.”
Patrick stretched his neck to see. “Wow!”
They started talking about eagles. Dad knew so much about nature. Afterward, Dad kept pointing out other cool things along the trail. He even told Patrick a knock-knock joke he hadn’t heard before. Patrick laughed out loud. Then Patrick told Dad some jokes of his own. Dad chuckled every time.
By the time they got to the lake, Patrick was feeling better. But then his shoulders slumped when he saw the other boys run off to the far side of the lake with their fishing poles. They never even looked in his direction. He wanted to cry.
“You know, Patrick,” Dad said in a quiet voice. “I’m glad we’re here together. I sure love spending time with my special friend.”
Patrick turned away from the other boys and faced his dad. Dad reached down and squeezed his shoulder. “You up for a little fishing?”
Suddenly Patrick didn’t mind so much that it was just the two of them on this side of the lake. He grinned. “Yeah! Let’s try that spot over there!”
Before long Patrick and Dad were laughing and having a great time together. They even caught a few fish, but that wasn’t the luckiest part of the day for Patrick. The luckiest part was having such a great dad as his friend.

As a mother of two young daughters, I have often made the excuse that I cannot participate in some of the things that I would like to because it is simply not my “season” to do so. One of those things was family history work.
Though I had participated in indexing as an enjoyable Sabbath activity in the past, I found myself making excuses that I had neither the time nor the knowledge to embrace my family history work at the time.
My heart changed early one morning a few months ago as I sat in the temple. As I reviewed the names of the deceased on the temple cards, praying that they would accept the temple ordinances performed for them, I thought to myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice if these were my own family members? I’d like to do the work for them.” The Spirit confirmed to me that if these were my desires, then the Lord would help me do my family history work, specifically on the Sabbath day. He could help me find the time and the knowledge to accomplish His purposes.
That Sunday, I went home and logged onto FamilySearch.org. Tears immediately flooded my eyes as I saw the names of my ancestors. My connection to them became stronger. What added to my love for them were the personal photographs and documents, recently added by my grandmother, making my family members come to life even more for me. I felt joy in involving my two-year-old, who learned to identify pictures of her great-grandfather and great-great-grandmother, calling them by name. I felt the way that President Russell M. Nelson, President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, described: “The Sabbath provides a wonderful opportunity to strengthen family ties. After all, God wants each of us, as His children, to return to Him as endowed Saints, sealed in the temple as families, to our ancestors, and to our posterity” (“The Sabbath Is a Delight,” Liahona, May 2015, 130).
Since that initial experience, I have continued to participate in family history work on the Sabbath day. I have been blessed to do temple work for some of my deceased family members. A particular blessing has been learning about my relatives and gaining a closer relationship with my grandparents who are not members of our faith. It has strengthened my resolve to keep my covenants and endure to the end so that I may be a strong link in my eternal family.
Though there is still much work to be done, I am grateful to my Heavenly Father for increasing my capacity so that I can participate in His work, especially on His day. For me, the Sabbath is truly a delight.

The bishop and his two counselors stood in the hallway, posed to shake hands with those few college students who had braved the rainy evening. As I stepped inside, one of the counselors walked over to me and said, “Hi there. I’m Brother Johnson. I don’t believe I’ve met you. Are you a freshman?”
“No, I’m a senior. I came to this cookie dunking last year, and you asked me the same thing then.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. But I didn’t have the beard last year.”
“Oh sure! I remember you now.” But his face still wore a question mark. “Well, hang up your coat and meet some people. I guess you’ve met the bishop.” He pointed to a large man now standing just inside the recreation hall.
“Was he bishop last year at this time?”
“No.”
“Then I haven’t met him.”
Brother Johnson walked over to the bishop. “Bishop, this is … what did you say your name is?”
“Greg Jeffreys.” He grabbed my hand and shook it eagerly.
“Where you from, Greg?”
“Glendive.”
The bishop placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you related to President Jeffreys?”
“He’s my father.”
“Well, how about that! I attended a regional meeting once and met him. How’s he doing?”
“He’s always doing good,” I said with just a touch of sarcasm.
“You say you’re a senior here. Do you go home a lot?”
“Hardly ever.” There was a long pause. It is sometimes assumed that the offspring of stake presidents’ counselors will, by osmosis, turn out okay. For some time I had been living proof that the assumption was not entirely valid.
“Look, Bishop, let’s not beat around the bush. I’m inactive. I have no interest in the Church. I come here every year at this time to see what kind of girls you’ve got, and also to have my annual glass of Kool-Aid and a chocolate-chip cookie. So, if you’ll excuse me.”
I walked away leaving him hunting for the phrase that would make everything all right. I grabbed a couple of cookies and a glass of punch and sat down.
The cultural hall had been disguised as much as a five-dollar decoration budget would allow. Along the perimeter of the gym floor was a single line of folding chairs. Underneath one basket two long folding tables had been set up and covered with white paper. In the center of one of the tables was a punch bowl. A stack of paper cups lay waiting for the rush that never quite materialized. On each side of the punch bowl lay a plate of cookies and a pile of napkins. Hanging from the other basket was a sign reading, WELCOME NEW STUDENTS TO THE STUDENT ASSOCIATION OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS. Someone turned on a record player and the sound echoed in the big recreation hall, distorting the music.
There was a group of about twelve guys and seven girls standing around talking and eating cookies. Every few minutes one of them would come over and introduce himself. I was enjoying being unfriendly.
My eyes then focused on the latest visitor. She entered my life wet. The letters on her freshman beanie had started to run. Her long dark hair was also wet and was beginning to make her look like a cocker spaniel. She shook hands with the bishop and his counselors, walked with the bishop over to the punch table, and filled up. She was introduced to the group and finally sat down with one of the clean-cut types.
When he ran out of punch and had gone to get refills for both of them, I walked over and sat down.
“I guess you know why I called this meeting,” I said.
She smiled back. “Are you president of the Student Association?”
I evaded her query—but built upon it: “In the interest of the organization, we’d like to get some information about you.”
Her friend came back with two glasses of punch. I stood up and said authoritatively, “Thank you. Jim. I’ll take care of this.” I reached over and took the cups from his hands, gave one to her, and kept the other for myself. He stood looking at me for a moment, and then turned around and walked away, shrugging his shoulders as he went.
“He told me his name was Bob,” she said.
“Oh, was that Bob? Now you see why I need things written down. I was about to fill out your personal information card. I must have loaned out my clipboard to someone. Let me use this napkin.” I reached in my shirt pocket for a pen. “Now then, for our records. Name?”
“Debbie Forsburg.”
“Where from, Debbie?”
“Columbus.”
“I see you’re a freshman. Where do you live?”
“Ellsburg Hall, room 212.”
“Phone?”
“Yes. Extension 2364.”
“Now, Sister Forsburg, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but we need to know this in planning activities. Are you engaged?”
“No.”
“Currently going steady with anyone?”
“No. I was, but we broke up at the first of the summer.”
Forgetting the role I was playing, I asked, “Debbie, for our records, what color eyes are those?” I once stood on a high cliff and looked down into a pool of clear water. And that’s the way her eyes affected me.
She was beginning to suspect the line of questioning. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I’m a member of the Church?”
“My very next question.”
“I am. I was baptized two years ago.”
“Debbie, I want to welcome you here. I see that our program is about ready to start. But I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
I walked out into the foyer and grabbed my coat. As much as I wanted to get to know Debbie, I knew it was time to go. As I walked out the door, I heard the bishop announce, “We’d like to have you meet the officers of the Student Association.”
The next day I walked over to her dorm and phoned her from the lobby. “Debbie, this is Greg Jeffreys. I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not really with the Student Association.”
She laughed. “They spent the entire evening reassuring me of that.”
“Could you come down and walk with me over to the SUB for a fresh lime? We need to get acquainted.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to the festival dance and I wouldn’t want you to go out with a stranger.”
That was the beginning. We spent a lot of time together after that. And that meant that sometimes she went with me to a Student Coalition for Peace meeting. But it also meant that I went with her to Sunday School and Sacrament meeting.

Even Maricar Mendoza, who admits she’s somewhat shy, didn’t hesitate to raise her hand when her teacher one day asked who in the class wasn’t Catholic. A discussion of religion was going on, and Maricar felt she had to speak up. “I said, ‘Ma’am, I’m a Mormon.’ I explained to her what our church is, and I was able to discuss a lot of things such as latter-day prophets, Joseph Smith, and the plan of salvation,” she says.
Maricar still considers herself shy. But she’s glad she spoke up.

I am reminded of three related learning experiences from my own youth. Each illustrates a specific point using a knife as the subject. The first story in this trilogy of knives begins when, as a young Boy Scout my troop had a fund raising event to sell tickets for a ward Spaghetti dinner. Back in those days, wards were allowed to charge money for attendance in order to raise local funds. To the Scout that sold the most tickets went a beautiful new Swiss Army knife. I did not have a pocketknife and I knew that every good Boy Scout had to have a good pocketknife. I honorably went about trying to sell everyone I knew a ticket, or better yet, family pack, to our ward Spaghetti dinner. But what began as a noble want, and an honorable process eventually changed course. When the night of the ward dinner finally arrived, I discovered that one other Scout had sold almost exactly the same number of tickets, as had I. I reasoned in my young mind that there was no way I could, or even should, lose. After all, I had invested so much work, time and energy into winning the beautiful Swiss Army pocketknife. I observed that my two close friends were staffing the table were members of the ward, who hadn't previously purchased tickets to the dinner, could make their purchase and enter into the cultural hall. After careful calculation, I convinced my friends, also members of the Scout troop, to credit these members, who had not yet purchased tickets, to my tally.

When the evening's dinner and events where completed, the time came to identify the winner of the ticket selling contest. How shocked and happy I feigned when the announcer loudly read out my name as winner of the Swiss Army Knife. To the applause of all I received my reward, knowing in my heart, that I had blighted my name and dishonored the very Scout Law to which every Boy Scout pledges. One of life's caustic lessens soon followed. Before the night was over, the knife that I may have won anyway, honorably and with integrity, was lost, forever. That night, I lost more than the knife. I lost sight of my original and honorable goal. So likewise, many go about with initially honorable goals and desires. However, somewhere along the way, these honorable goals become forgotten in efforts of empty pursuit.

One evening my children and I were driving down a hill near our home. I noticed a boy about 12 years old wearing a backpack and walking up the hill. It was a strange time for him to be coming home from school, but I didn’t think too much of it.
Then I had a strong impression that I should turn around and help the boy. But I was worried it would frighten him if a strange car pulled up next to him at night, so I continued driving.
As I got to the bottom of the hill, the impression came again: “You need to go help that boy.”
I turned the car around and drove back to the boy. I rolled down the window and said, “Do you need help? I had a prompting that I should come back and help you.”
The boy looked at us with tears streaming down his face. He said, “Would you? I’ve been praying that someone would help me.”
He had stayed after school for an activity and had missed the last bus. He had walked several miles already. It was getting dark, and he was frightened. Because of the boy’s prayer and the Spirit’s prompting, we were able to help him find his way home.
We can all pray when we need help. I received a spiritual feeling that helped the boy return home. You too can receive promptings through the Spirit that will help guide you safely home to Heavenly Father.

During my first semester of law school, my contracts class was taught by a distinguished professor who was very kind and gracious—when he was not in the classroom. In class, he was a master at teaching using the Socratic method—a method of teaching that involves asking probing questions in a way intended to develop critical thinking.
For most class periods we were assigned to read three legal decisions or cases. During class, a student was called upon to summarize the facts of the case and then describe the legal principles of contract law that the cases established. The unfortunate student was then subject to the professor’s probing, twisting questions that followed. This was almost always a humbling experience.
The first time I was called upon, the cases dealt with a principle of contract law known as unilateral acceptance. As a result, I have never forgotten that principle.

Take the month’s Young Women–Young Men combined activity, for example. The activity is a special-needs night. They are going to learn what it’s like to be restricted to a wheelchair or find out how handicapped accessible their building is. They are also going to have someone give demonstrations on how it feels to be blind or deaf. But this isn’t just a nice activity. The youth are learning what some of their own ward members are going through. The mother of two of the young men is confined to a wheelchair. It would help if some of their friends knew what they could do to help her on occasion. The other youth of the ward need to learn in what ways she struggles.
One young woman’s grandfather is blind. She will demonstrate how to be an effective guide. Another ward member is hearing impaired. A young woman is planning to demonstrate some of the things that restrict this sister because of her deafness. The activity is a good one, but it is even better because it meets the needs of several of the youth and ward members.
In youth council, the group in charge has divided the work for the activity night into six assignments. One group quickly volunteers to round up some wheelchairs. Another offers to bring refreshments. Another offers to do the publicity. Soon the last assignment, cleanup, needs to be made. Again, it goes to the deacons. Everyone starts to laugh. The deacons haven’t learned how to speak up quickly enough on assignments and usually wait too long and get stuck with cleanup. But they are good-natured about it. It’s a job they know how to do well.