Gospel Story Finder

Sister A. J. Hough, also of the Kettering Ward, tells of how emphasis on For the Strength of Youth has helped her be a better parent: “Having three teenagers, I wanted to ensure that I, too, was living the standards completely. I was keen to find ways I could ‘raise the bar’ and set a good example. I decided on the section on ‘Sabbath Day Observance’ and have set myself new goals to improve the example I am personally. I hope I can be a better influence to those I love the most—my family. We now use the booklet during family home evening. And whether we’re being creative with our family activities or planning ahead to fully observe the Sabbath, we use these standards to guide us.”

When I was called to the Relief Society general presidency six years ago this month, President Hinckley counseled me: “You bring a peculiar quality to this presidency. You will be recognized as one who represents those beyond the borders of the United States and Canada and, as it were, an outreach across the world to members of the Church in many, many lands. They will see in you a representation of their oneness with the Church.” He gave me a blessing that my tongue might be loosed as I spoke to the people.
President Hinckley, I want to bear witness to the Lord before you and this congregation that your counsel and your blessing have been literally fulfilled.
I do not speak Korean or Spanish or Tongan. But when I received my assignment to go among the Relief Society sisters and their priesthood leaders in lands where those languages were spoken, I was filled with a great desire to speak to them in their own language. I drew strength from President Hinckley’s words of comfort and blessing. With the help of the Church Translation Department and good coaches who spent hours working with me, I was blessed to deliver my addresses in Spanish, Korean, and Tongan as I went among those people. I could feel the Spirit carrying my words to their hearts, and I could feel “the fruit of the Spirit” (Gal. 5:22) bringing back to me their love, their joy, and their faith. I could feel the Spirit making us one.

As a young teenager, David continued to work on the farm and later attended the University of Utah, graduating in 1897. During his years at college he played football, played piano for a dance band, and was elected president of his senior class. He had made his professional plans as graduation drew near, but shortly before receiving his diploma he received a letter from President Wilford Woodruff, calling him to serve a mission in Great Britain. It was a major decision—and he struggled with it, as must many young men and women today. He decided to set aside his plans and accept the call.
His first months in the Scottish conference, where his father had served years earlier, were not easy, as is the case for many missionaries. He describes this discouraging time and its resultant renewal of his commitment to the Lord in these words:
“I was homesick and a little discouraged on this day. …
“I had just left school. I loved school and I loved young people. I loved youth. And then to go over there and feel … [people’s] prejudice [against the Church] gave me the blues.
“As [my companion and I] were coming back into town, I saw on my right an unfinished dwelling, over the front door of which was a stone on which there was a carving. That was most unusual, so I said to Elder Johnston, ‘I’m going to see what that is.’ I was half way up the graveled walk when there came to my eyesight a striking motto as follows, carved in stone: ‘Whate’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.’
“I repeated it to Elder Johnston as we walked in to town to find a place for our lodgings before we began our work. We walked quietly, but I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’ …
“That afternoon, by the time we found our lodgings, I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”

Perhaps of all the Prophet’s Christmases, none was more pleasant than his last—December 1843. He recorded:
“This morning, about one o’clock, I was aroused by an English sister, Lettice Rushton, widow of Richard Rushton, Senior, (who, ten years ago, lost her sight) accompanied by three of her sons, with their wives, and her two daughters, with their husbands, and several of her neighbors, singing, ‘Mortals, awake! with angels join,’ which caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul. All of my family and boarders [in the house] arose to hear the serenade, and I felt to thank my Heavenly Father for their visit, and blessed them in the name of the Lord” (History of the Church, 6:134).
A large gathering of family and friends dined with the Prophet and spent the evening enjoying good music and dancing “in a most cheerful and friendly manner.” And then an uninvited guest interrupted the party. Joseph described the event:
“During the festivities, a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, … came in and acted [in an uncouth manner]. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and I had an opportunity to look him full in the face, when to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell, just arrived from nearly a year’s imprisonment without conviction, in Missouri” (History of the Church, 6:134–45).

But getting a foothold on the island did not come easily. The earlier effort to place missionaries was met with resistance and threats of danger. “Simmering anti-French sentiment by native Corsicans was increasing in the early 1990s,” Brother Thatcher said.
The native Corsicans showed their displeasure of outsiders by making homemade bombs to destroy foreign businesses and property. “It was not uncommon,” said then-Elder Darin Dewsnup, “to hear multiple explosions every day in the city. We were not French, but we were not Corsican either.”
The missionaries were warned of the dangers, and when a bomb exploded in their neighborhood, the four missionaries on the island were withdrawn to another part of the mission in mainland France.
“Our missionaries were no longer on the island,” Brother Thatcher said, saying this setback was an opportunity to learn and grow.
To better understand heaven’s purposes, the missionaries committed to study the life and ministry of the Savior to better learn His ways. They studied His acts of service and compassion, which included feeding and healing and loving. They concluded that service was important in gaining the confidence of the people and serving in the Lord’s way.
With a renewed focus to serve, three missionaries were sent to reopen work on Corsica in March 1992. This time, they were sent to the island’s second-largest city, Bastia. There they resolved to meet people in a natural manner instead of knocking on doors, which sometimes had caused fear among residents.
“Our prayers were answered. We realized service could demonstrate our sincerity to the community and soften the hearts of people who resisted outsiders,” Brother Thatcher said.
The new missionaries introduced themselves to residents by offering to help any way they could. They weeded family gardens, fixed cars, and in the case of the mayor, painted his weathered hotel. They often made friends, and their efforts were appreciated. They were nearly always asked to sit down to a glass of “limonata” (lemonade) and to “tell us about your church,” Brother Thatcher said. Soon, “our fortunes dramatically changed.”
An early referral led to the baptism of the Lota family, which then led to another referral. When missionaries entered the home of the referral, the mother of the family, who had been praying to know truth, “fell to her knees and wept in gratitude to the Lord for answering her prayers.”

In areas where we have a preponderance of first generation members who don’t have a broad background in the Church, we see the most individual growth. Not long ago, I was talking with a father who had been converted three years prior to our conversation. He said, “Shortly after my baptism, I was called to be in the Sunday School presidency of my branch. I really didn’t have an opportunity to study the gospel during Sunday School classes. Now my teenage children who are enrolled in the seminary program are learning a lot more about the gospel than I know.” This father sought some additional helps to learn more about the gospel, more rapidly. He needed to keep up with the children in his home. The seminary and institute program provided him these additional gospel helps. These helps are particularly significant for the first generation members, but there is a real thirst among people in some of the long-established stakes to know more about the gospel.

I was frustrated and doubtful of my capacity to endure when I discovered Grandpa’s gift—a simple, three-paragraph account of an experience he had when he was just one year older than I was.
My grandpa, Gerald Craven, was 18 when he served in the 52nd-West Yorkshire England regiment during World War I. Before he left home, his father instructed him, “Never deny the gospel as taught by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Grandpa soon became sick when the flu epidemic of 1918 struck. He was forced to report to the military infirmary. While registering, he was asked what denomination he belonged to. The persecution of the Church was intense in England then. It would have been easy for Grandpa to claim he belonged to some other church. But remembering his father’s words, Grandpa announced he was a Latter-day Saint. The commanding officer immediately started harassing him.
Grandpa recovered and returned to his regiment. Because there were no LDS services on the base, he had been attending the services of another Christian church. On the first Sunday after he was well, as Grandpa was assembled to march to church with his battalion, the colonel commanded him, by name and number, to fall out. Grandpa was placed on a large box, and the colonel asked the rest of the soldiers what they should do with a Mormon boy who was trying to attend their church.
The cry went out to send him to the cook house to wash dishes. Grandpa couldn’t attend church and was forced to serve tables when the services were over. While he served the members of his regiment, they spit at him, called him names, and did everything they could to make him miserable.
That night Grandpa prayed for help. The next day he bumped into an old friend from home who had been assigned to form a regiment brass band. Remembering that Grandpa played the cornet, he asked Grandpa to audition. The piece Grandpa was asked to play was the last piece he had learned before entering the army.
The next Sunday Private Craven played hymns in a church he hadn’t been allowed to attend the week before. Being in the band may also have preserved Grandpa’s life, as he was never sent into combat.

That Saturday night, the Phoenix Arizona Temple had just had its cultural celebration, and I came away full of emotions. I felt uplifted, excited, and grateful, and I wanted to do it all over again. How could I possibly share this experience with everyone around me?
Well, on Sunday night my friend and I were talking and came up with an idea. What if we got all the members in our school to wear their bright orange “Be a Light” shirts (from the celebration) on Monday? We knew we didn’t have much time, so we tried to spread the word quickly.
On Monday morning as I walked into school, I didn’t see anyone wearing their shirts, and I got kind of nervous. However, a few minutes later I began to see more and more bright orange shirts. As the day went on, I realized our shirts were getting lots of attention. I kept hearing fun, random comments like, “Mormons are awesome,” “Mormons are the nicest people,” and even, “Wow, Mormons are invading our school!” And people would even ask questions like, “What’s up with all the orange shirts?” or “Why are so many people wearing them?”
Then, in the beginning of my social studies class, my teacher said, “There are a lot of people wearing orange shirts today.” Someone shouted, “It’s the Mormons!” and everybody looked right at me! Right then, I decided to stand up and explain our bright orange shirts. I explained why we were wearing them, and I got to tell them all about the celebration of the temple and how we performed for our prophet. I honestly couldn’t have felt more proud that day!
I am grateful for the temple celebration and the opportunity it gave me to share a little bit about my beliefs. It’s a weekend that will never be forgotten.

I have met some people who have been interested and puzzled why a young man would do what I do. I spend most of my time cleaning the headstones, so that I can read them and take photos, or hacking my way through overgrown grass and weeds. One time I found a small headstone beside a big tree near a footpath, that had been lost in the undergrowth, and completely hidden from view. I cleaned it up and removed the holly bush, other weeds and grass that were hiding it. It was a grave of a five-week-old baby boy, Tony Hamilton, lost from view and forgotten. Now, since I cleared it, someone has mowed around the tree and the grave, so hopefully he will not be lost again.

Long years ago, when I served as a bishop, I learned that Mary Watson, a member of my ward, was a patient in the county hospital. When I went to visit her, I discovered her in a large room with so many beds that it was difficult to single her out. As I identified her bed and approached her, I said, “Hello, Mary.”
She replied, “Hello, Bishop.”
I noticed that a patient in the bed next to Mary Watson covered her face with the bedsheet.
I gave Mary a blessing, shook her hand, and said good-bye, but I could not leave her side. It was as though an unseen hand were resting on my shoulder, and I felt within my soul that I was hearing these words: “Go over to the next bed, where the little lady covered her face when you came in.” I did so. I have learned in my life never to postpone responding to a prompting.
I gently tapped the other patient on her shoulder and carefully pulled back the sheet that had covered her face. Lo and behold, she, too, was a member of my ward. I had not known that she was a patient there. Her name was Kathleen McKee. When her eyes met mine, she exclaimed through her tears, “Oh, Bishop, when you entered that door, I felt you had come to see me and bless me in response to my prayers. I was rejoicing inside to think that you knew I was here. When you stopped at the other bed, my heart sank, and I knew that you had not come to see me.”
I said to Kathleen McKee: “It does not matter that I didn’t know that you were here. It is important, however, that our Heavenly Father knew and that you had prayed for a priesthood blessing. It was He who prompted me to come to you now.”
A blessing was given, a prayer was answered. I bestowed a kiss on her forehead and left the hospital with gratitude in my heart for the promptings of the Spirit. It was the last time I saw Kathleen McKee alive.

Take me for example. I’d had LDS friends since I was 13, and I eventually joined the Church when I was 19. But despite learning a lot about Church culture over those years, I had a hard transition. To me, the Church culture and practices were so different that they seemed kind of weird.
I grew up in a church that in many ways is quite unlike the one you know or are coming to know. At church the ministers and choir wore robes similar to high school graduation robes. During worship service—their equivalent of sacrament meeting—the ministers gave sermons and did all the talking. Every Sunday we all repeated the Lord’s Prayer in unison and always sang the hymn “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” Babies were baptized by having water sprinkled on their heads, but confirmation happened at around 14 years old.
We used grape juice instead of water for the sacrament, and high school kids attended Sunday School with the adults in a class that talked about current issues in society.
Even our building was different from the LDS buildings I had visited. We had a large chapel modeled after Christian churches in Europe, with a high peaked roof and tall, stained-glass windows. There was a cross in the choir loft. A beautiful, tall bell tower stood out front. I loved ringing that bell after church services. It was heavy enough that it could lift a small child off the ground as the rope went up and down.
Our customs and social beliefs were different too. We were taught that it was OK to drink alcohol or smoke. Having a boyfriend or girlfriend as a teenager was OK. In fact, we were taught that you could even have sexual relations before marriage as long as you believed you were in love. We never talked about having a testimony. The first time I saw a fast and testimony meeting—wow! I couldn’t believe how odd that seemed. No one ever stood to share their beliefs like that in my church.
Coming to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints wasn’t just about learning new doctrines, such as the premortal life and baptism for the dead; it was a change in culture and lifestyle and expectations. Resolving those differences was a hard road to walk.
The first six months after my baptism were really hard. I almost didn’t make it. Everything was so different, especially because I was attending church without my family. I still struggled with certain doctrinal points, as well as feelings of being estranged from my past.
Fortunately, my friends in the Church were patient, kind, and constant. They took me to activities, invited me to their homes for dinner and family home evening, and prayed with me. That made a huge difference not just in my joining the Church but also in my staying active and finding strength when my testimony wavered. I owe a lot to them for helping me figure things out.

I had been on my mission for little more than a year when I hit a particularly difficult time. We were right in the middle of a dismal, gray season—just coming out of a cold winter and moving into spring. And no matter how hard my companion and I worked, everyone we spoke to rejected our message outright. When we met with other missionaries, we learned that their work was going strong. I couldn’t think of any reasons why we were so unsuccessful. I had been out long enough to speak the language well, my companion and I were good friends, we had established trust with the members, and we tried to follow the Spirit and obey the mission rules with exactness.
But no matter what we did, we faced rejection at every turn. After weeks and weeks of this, I let my sour attitude get the better of me. During one planning session I finally exclaimed, “What’s the point? Nobody will listen to us anyway.” My companion, having a better perspective than I did, simply said, “We set goals to show our faith. We follow up on goals to count our blessings.”
As I pondered her insight, I realized that I had been using the wrong measuring stick to judge my success as a missionary. Preach My Gospel: A Guide to Missionary Service provides a list of behaviors of successful missionaries,1 and I realized that all those behaviors are within the missionary’s control. I could not control whether or not the people in my mission would accept the gospel message, but I could control the type of missionary I chose to be. My companion showed me that greater faith in Jesus Christ and gratitude for His blessings would allow me to recognize the ways I already was a successful missionary.
It was humbling to realize that my faith was lacking. I looked for areas where I could strengthen my faith and found that when things hadn’t gone according to plan, I had let myself become discouraged. Preach My Gospel says: “Discouragement will weaken your faith. If you lower your expectations, your effectiveness will decrease, your desire will weaken, and you will have greater difficulty following the Spirit.”2 I realized that I had allowed our setbacks to weaken my faith.
I began by praying for a change of heart and more faith. I also relied on the promise given in Mormon 9:21: “Whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, whatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him; and this promise is unto all, even unto the ends of the earth.” This promise led me to pray more fervently for the blessings and miracles my companion and I felt we needed, always adding, “Thy will be done.” These prayers helped me to accept changed plans and setbacks with greater faith, knowing that Heavenly Father always answers prayers of faith—even when the answers come in ways we don’t anticipate. I became more able to recognize the ways the Lord was guiding us throughout our day.
As I worked on strengthening my faith, I found the positive form of the statement from Preach My Gospel to be true: if you raise your expectations, your effectiveness will increase, your desire will grow, and you will be able to follow the Spirit better. Additionally, I was more optimistic about missionary work and my missionary service when I could recognize and appreciate the miracles that happened daily.
The Lord began to show me that He worked miracles for us each day—but I had been unable to recognize them until I made a conscious effort to be genuinely grateful. Expressing gratitude is more than just a good habit or nice manners. When I expressed gratitude to the Lord and to others, I was empowered. I found myself being excited for other missionaries when they had success instead of being jealous (see Alma 29:14, 16). I was more able to focus on what I had and what went right rather than what I lacked and what went wrong.
I learned that gratitude is the antidote to comparing ourselves to others. Those times when I didn’t feel like a successful missionary usually came because I told myself, “I’m not doing as well as they are,” or, “They are better at this than I am.” I also learned that while it is the Lord’s pattern to give us righteous examples to emulate and follow, it is Satan’s counterfeit to tempt us to compare ourselves with them in order to determine our worth or success. But Preach My Gospel is clear on this: “Avoid comparing yourself to other missionaries and measuring the outward results of your efforts against theirs.”3 Ultimately, gratitude helped me avoid pride and reminded me that the Lord is in charge of His work. I did not need to be jealous because my fellow missionaries appeared to be having more success.4
Before I had this change in perspective, I had been so focused on a specific type of blessing that I had forgotten to leave my eyes open to the other ways the Lord was answering our prayers and blessing our missionary work. Eventually, the Lord began blessing the missionary work in our area in beautiful and unexpected ways. We did find people willing to accept our message, but I had learned by that time not to measure my success by the choices of others.
President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) shared one mission president’s counsel about missionary work: “Do your best, your very, very best. Say your prayers and work hard and leave the harvest to the Lord.”5 Preach My Gospel teaches something similar about successful missionaries: “Do your very best to bring souls to Christ, and seek earnestly to learn and improve.”6
As long as I was willing to repent, as long as I could honestly account to the Lord that I was doing my best, I could feel confident that I was a successful missionary—regardless of whether people accepted our message. In many ways, the measure of my success as a missionary could be judged by my willingness to repent and my determination to keep working.
I have many miracles recorded in my journal from this time of my mission. As I strove to be more faithful and grateful, I had a better perspective, I avoided discouragement, and I felt the Spirit more abundantly in the work. I found that what Preach My Gospel teaches is true: “When you have done your very best, you may still experience disappointments, but you will not be disappointed in yourself. You can feel certain that the Lord is pleased when you feel the Spirit working through you.”7 And when I felt the Lord was pleased with me, I could endure any trial.

Eight-year-old Katie didn’t remember until her bus pulled up to a rumbling stop in front of her house. Whitney and Jessie were already knocking at her door. The other girls were probably inside. “Oh no,” Katie thought with a sigh. “It’s Tuesday, and that means Primary activity day.”
“Race you to the door,” her brother said as he scrambled down the bus’s narrow black steps.
“Go ahead,” she called after him. “I want to be last today.” Katie hated activity days. “Well, not exactly hate,” she thought as she trudged across the grass. Her mom was the activity-day leader, and they had done a lot of fun things like making bread, learning to polka, and putting together their own journals.
But Katie just felt uncomfortable at activity days. When everyone came, there were eight girls all laughing and talking. She’d try to join in, but whenever she said something, somebody would say, “Oh,” and then go right back to what they were doing as if she hadn’t said anything.
Today wasn’t any different. When Katie tried to show everyone her new guinea pig, Squeakers, a few of the girls giggled at his soft fur, but as soon as the doorbell rang they raced to the door and forgot all about her.
When her mother told the girls to gather around the kitchen table to make invitations for their daddy-daughter dance, they scrambled around so they could sit next to their friends. Nobody tried to sit next to Katie.
And when the girls were playing tag on the lawn waiting for their moms to pick them up, Katie was sure that nobody noticed that she wasn’t there. They were too busy having fun without her.
“I don’t want to go to activity days anymore,” Katie said that night as her mother tucked her in bed.
Mother looked surprised. “Why not? I thought you liked activity days.”
“I would if it wasn’t for them,” Katie said.
“Them?” Mom asked.
Katie nodded. “Alyssa, Whitney, Jessie—all of them. They’re all a bunch of brats.” Katie knew that she wasn’t being very nice, but that’s how she felt. Mother sat down on the edge of the bed. “What have they done?”
“Nothing—that’s just it,” Katie said, trying to swallow the lump that had swelled up in her throat. “Nobody likes me.” The words sounded as awful as she felt.
Mother wrapped her arms around Katie and gave her a big hug.
“It’s hard to make friends with a big group. In fact, I’d say it’s impossible.”
Katie gulped. Impossible? Mom was supposed to make her feel better, not worse. “Then I’m definitely not going anymore,” she said.
“Impossible with a group,” Mother said. “But you could make friends with an individual. That’s one of the things I love about the gospel. Heavenly Father knows and loves each one of us individually—not just as a big group. Can you think of one girl you’d like to get to know better?”
Katie thought for a moment. There was Alyssa, Jessie, Whitney, Natalie, Hayley …
Katie stopped. Hayley. She hadn’t really thought of Hayley before. Hayley always came to activity days. She just wasn’t as loud as the other girls. “What about Hayley?” Katie asked.
“Why don’t you give her a call and invite her to play tomorrow?”
The next day Hayley arrived just as they’d planned. Katie showed Hayley her guinea pig and let her hold him in her lap. Hayley laughed at the funny whistling noises he made and the way he nibbled at her clothes. Katie found out that Hayley had a lot of pets—a rabbit, two dogs, and four cats!
They spent the rest of the afternoon jumping on the trampoline and making up stories with Katie’s dolls. Katie never knew that Hayley was such a good storyteller. They both had fun creating the latest doll fashions out of scraps of fabric they got from Katie’s mother.
Two hours seemed more like two minutes. Before they knew it, Hayley’s mom was picking her up.
On the next activity day, Katie raced her brother to their door and joined the girls who had already arrived. Katie and Hayley exchanged grins and began talking about all the things they’d done.
“OK, girls,” Katie’s mother announced. “Time to gather around the table.”
“Let’s sit over there, Hayley,” Katie said, pointing at the chairs on the other side of the table. Everyone was laughing and talking. It was fun to have a friend at activity day. Maybe Hayley and Natalie could come over next week.

I learned recently of loving service given to a mother when her children were very young. Frequently she would be up in the middle of the night tending to the needs of her little ones, as mothers do. Often her friend and neighbor across the street would come over the next day and say, “I saw your lights on in the middle of the night and know you were up with the children. I’m going to take them to my house for a couple of hours while you take a nap.” Said this grateful mother: “I was so thankful for her welcome offer, it wasn’t until this had happened many times that I realized if she had seen my lights on in the middle of the night, she was up with one of her children as well and needed a nap just as much as I did. She taught me a great lesson, and I’ve since tried to be as observant as she was in looking for opportunities to serve others.”

“This will be the 10th load of hay,” David’s father called to him. “Drive over to the higher ground.” Young David O. McKay looked across the field to where his father was pointing. The first nine loads they had gathered were full of lesser-quality hay. David knew his father meant for this 10th load of the best hay to go to the bishops’ storehouse as their tithing. But he didn’t understand why they couldn’t give the Lord the same hay they were collecting.
David called back to his father, “No, let us take the hay as it comes.”
David’s father didn’t answer. David was about to repeat himself when he saw his father turn and begin walking straight toward him. Suddenly, the breeze in the hay field was gone, and the sun became feverishly hot. David wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. He knew his father was not crossing the field to give him a pat on the back for his snippy answer. He was coming all this way to be sure that David understood something.
“No, David.” His father spoke sternly, yet the calm in his voice made David pay extra close attention. “This is the 10th load, and the best is none too good for God.” David’s father looked closely at his son’s face to make sure he had been listening. Then he turned and walked away.
David swallowed the lump in his throat and then guided his team to the higher ground. As he loaded the cut hay onto the wagon, he began to think of what his father was trying to teach him. While he knew that tithing is a law, just as much as obedience and sacrifice are, David wanted to put their own needs first. But God had said to take the firstlings of the flocks—the very best—and give them to Him (see Deuteronomy 12:6).
“My father gives the best to God, and we get the next best,” David thought. “Perhaps this is how we make the Lord the center of our thoughts and our lives.”
David turned the hay wagon down the dusty road toward the bishops’ storehouse. He drove into the yard and unloaded the hay. It was a sacrifice for his father to give his best hay to the Lord, but David knew his father would have it no other way. He wanted to give his best for the Lord, just as Heavenly Father gave His perfect Son for the world.
As David turned his team back toward home, a good feeling came over him. He was glad his father had taught him the law of tithing. It was a lesson he would remember all his life.

I am sitting across the table from Brother Fuller, a counselor in the bishopric. He phoned two days ago and had that tone in his voice that almost shouted “We have a calling for you!”
I’ve been off my mission for six weeks, and a calling sounds super. No doubt providing a little Christian service would be good for me.
“I’d like to talk with you about a calling, Nathan,” Brother Fuller says after a few minutes of pleasant conversation. “We need a teacher for the CTR six-year-old class. There are 13 children in the class, and Sister Swenson, the teacher, feels that is a little too many for one teacher alone to handle.”
Six-year-old CTRs? Me? Oh no. I do not want this calling. I’d rather serve somewhere else … priesthood chorister, cannery coordinator, the homemaking committee.
“Well, Nathan, what do you think?” Brother Fuller gently nudges me back into reality.
What can I say? For two years one of the things I’ve been teaching people about is the blessings of service.
“It will be fine, Brother Fuller. I’ll do it,” I say.
“Great. We will sustain you on Sunday. Nathan, I want you to know we feel very good about this calling.”
I wish I could say the same thing.
Sister Morrow, a counselor in the Primary, is wrapping up my orientation. “We’re so glad you’ll be teaching. We love having priesthood holders in the Primary. The children will really look up to you,” she says.
She hands me the class roll. Four boys and three girls.
“You only have one child who is not active, Parker Scott.”
“So what about him?” I ask.
Sister Morrow sighs. “A nice little guy. It’s just that his parents don’t come, so Parker doesn’t either. They’re new in the ward; they’ve only been here about four months. We don’t know much about them.”
“Too bad.”
Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly put a ton of effort into preparing for my first class. I mean, it is about Abinadi, and I’ve only heard the story about a thousand times. So I kind of whip through the lesson manual and figure I can wing it a little.
I stand in front of my class. Wow. They’re so small. Three boys—Robert, Adam, and Zachary—in nice Sunday shirts, two of them wearing bow ties. And three girls—Amelia, Kelsey, and Morgan, all in cute little dresses, shiny shoes, ribbons, and bows in their hair.
“All right, we’re talking about Abinadi,” I say, after a round of introductions. “Abinadi was a prophet in the Book of Mormon. Everyone okay with that?”
I get six puzzled looks, but I decide to push on.
“Well, Abinadi was courageous and when the pressure was on, when he was in wicked King Noah’s court, and when King Noah told him to deny his testimony or be put to death …” The six little kids are squirming. I reach over and grab a picture, one that shows Abinadi testifying in front of King Noah and his priests. “Uh, see … here is what it looked like, according to one artist’s perception.”
One artist’s perception? The wiggles hit my class of six again. Back up, Nathan. You expect them to understand perception? I am beginning to feel a little too warm. Maybe I should have read the lesson a bit more. I nervously glance at the manual and pick up a phrase. “Uh, because of his righteousness, Abinadi was put to death by King Noah.”
I let out a breath of air. Robert raises his hand. “If Abinadi was good, why did he have to die? Wouldn’t Heavenly Father help him to get away?”
“Uh, good question, Robert. It has to do with, well, agency. You all understand what I mean by agency?”
Morgan and Amelia shake their heads. Zachary frowns and looks puzzled.
“Uh, let me start over,” I stammer.
“I wish Sister Swenson was here,” Adam murmurs.
My lesson the following week goes better. The CTRs seem to pay attention for part of it, and nobody begs for the return of Sister Swenson. It helps to read the manual, I realize, and begin preparing early in the week. The third week our lesson is about Ammon and King Lamoni. At the first mention of swords and the first hint of an impending battle, all six of the CTRs, shall I say, immediately focus.
“So Ammon was guarding the flocks when the bad guys come,” I say. “They thought there was only one of him and lots of us. We can take him. First they tried to use their slings and rocks on Ammon, but they couldn’t hit him because the Lord was protecting him.”
Six sets of blue and brown eyes are staring at me. “Next, they tried to use their clubs on him. But Ammon was strong, and he had faith and confidence. When the bad guys got close to him, he cut off their arms with his sword,” I say firmly.
“So he killed some of the bad guys and cut off the arms of others?” Robert asks.
“Yep. That’s the way it happened. Remember, the robbers would have killed Ammon if he didn’t fight them.”
“And then Ammon’s guys took the arms for the king to see?” Robert asks again.
“Yes, Robert.”
There is a long pause as Robert digests this piece of information. Then he lets out his breath slowly.
“Cool!” he says.
Okay, everything is going great with the CTR-6 class. I enjoy teaching. I think about the kids all during the week. I know they like me. They are learning. So am I.
Why then do I not feel quite super about my calling? Something is missing.
After sacrament meeting, on my way to class, Sister Nakamura, the Primary secretary, hands me my roll. “There you go, Nathan. I noticed one of your class members has a birthday this week. Parker Scott.”
“I don’t know Parker Scott,” I say.
“Maybe you should,” she replies cheerfully.
“When is his birthday?”
“Tuesday.”
Guess I know what I’ll be doing Tuesday after work.
Forty-eight hours later, on a warm, starry night, I pull my car to the side of Holly Knoll Drive and squint at the address. Yes, I’m at the right place.
Okay, Nathan, I think, you’ve done this a million times on your mission. Just go to the door, knock, and let the Spirit guide. My heart is pounding as I reach for the door.
A shaft of light pierces the dark evening air and a man—Parker’s father, I assume—stands in front of me, hands on hips.
“Yes?”
“Is this the Scott family?”
“It is. Can I help you with something?”
“Well, I’m Parker’s Primary teacher in church and I came to wish him a happy birthday.”
The man frowns. At the mention of his name, Parker peers around his father at me. “Primary? Church? You sure you’ve got the right place?”
The tone in his voice kind of cools off the summer night.
“Yes, I’m sure. See, I teach the children Parker’s age.”
“Teach them what?”
I began, haltingly. “I teach them about a lot of things. I teach them … to try to choose the right. I teach them about their Father in Heaven. I teach them that the Savior loves them.”
My voice trails off. The man looks at me impassively. From inside the house, I notice someone moving. A woman steps forward to the door.
“Did I hear you are Parker’s Primary teacher?” she asks.
“Yes. My name is Nathan Davis. I’m the CTR-6 teacher.”
“He was telling me what he teaches the kids about,” the man says.
The woman bows her head. “Yes, I know, dear. I know what he wants to teach Parker. It’s okay.” She looks up at me. “I’m Parker’s mother, Karen Scott. I used to teach in the Primary—many years ago, though.”
My confidence picks up. “I’d really like to have Parker come. We have a great class. He’ll make new friends.”
“Yes, I’m sure he would,” says Sister Scott quietly.
“I could pick him up for Primary, if you’d like me to.”
Sister Scott seems lost in her thoughts for a moment. “Thank you, Nathan, but that won’t be necessary.”
My heart sinks. I thought we were getting somewhere.
She looks at me. “When does our ward meet?”
“Our meetings start at 11:30.”
A small smile crosses her face. “It has been too long. Parker, come here, please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, honey.”
Suddenly, things feel very good.
Sharing time is ours in two weeks. I want it to be awesome.
I look at my six CTRs. “Okay, what shall it be for sharing time?”
Robert almost jets out of his chair, bursting with energy. “I know! I know!” he squeals.
“So, Robert, it looks like you have a great idea. Lay it on us, pal.”
“We need to do Ammon and the bad guys.”
A chorus of nodding heads accompanied by hisses of “Yes!” follows. So Ammon it is, presented by Brother Davis’s CTR-6 class. Of course, there is one big question left. Who is the star? Who plays Ammon?
I ask the question, half expecting a bit of a discussion and disagreement about who should get the starring role. Then I witness a moment of greatness, coming from a brown-haired little boy decked out in a white shirt and red bow tie. Zachary looks at me and says, “I think Parker should be Ammon because he’s new.”
“Do you want to, Parker?” I ask. He nods. “Everyone okay with that?” I ask the rest of the class. They are, and central casting’s job is finished. “Okay, we’ll practice in class next week; then we’ll do it for real the following week.”
It’s Thursday evening, and I’m back at the Scott home. This time I have a Book of Mormon under my arm. I feel like a missionary again. The Scotts know I’m coming. I called a couple of days ago and told them that Parker had a part in a presentation and that I needed their help to pull it off.
Mr. Scott opens the door. He neither smiles nor frowns but invites me in. He sits on the couch, and Sister Scott walks in and joins him.
“As I mentioned, Parker has a part in this skit. He’s playing a man named Ammon, and I think it would be great if you could read the story of Ammon in this book. I marked where it is.” I stretch out my hand and give the Book of Mormon to Mr. Scott. “And if you could help Parker memorize his lines I would appreciate it.”
“Yes, we can do that,” Sister Scott says enthusiastically. “This is great. Parker has really enjoyed your class the last two weeks.”
“It’s great to have him there,” I say. We make small talk for a few more minutes; then I stand up to leave. This time Mr. Scott shakes my hand and says something about it’s nice that I’m taking an interest in his son.
As I walk to my car, I hear Sister Scott calling me.
“You’ve just accomplished something I had dreamed about for many years, but had almost given up hope on,” she tells me. I think her eyes are moist.
“What’s that?” I ask, surprised.
“My husband has a Book of Mormon in his hands for the first time.”
I think I’m as nervous as any Broadway director on opening night. The Primary room is full with children and parents. Sister Scott and her husband are near the back, awaiting our presentation.
After a brief introduction, my class production of “Ammon Guards the Flocks and Cuts off a Bunch of Arms” begins. Parker, dressed in a bathrobe and a sweat band around his head and carrying a cardboard sword, marches toward Kelsey and Adam, who are guarding the flocks.
“I am Ammon,” Parker says in a deep voice. “I fear no one because the Lord is my strength. We will protect the king’s flocks.”
Right on cue, three “bad” guys—Morgan, Zachary, and Adam—appear through the door to the Primary room.
“Oh, look Ammon! There are robbers who will steal the king’s sheep! They will slay us!” cries Robert, looking at the three stuffed sheep brought in as props by members of the class.
“And the king will be mad if we let the bad guys take his flocks!” worries Kelsey. “We must run!”
“Fear not!” says Parker. “Stay, and be of good cheer!”
But Kelsey and Robert run out the door. Parker turns and faces the audience. “They have little faith. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” he says, which I know doesn’t exactly come from the scriptures but gets across the general idea. Morgan, complete with a homemade fake moustache, announces, “Let’s attack! There is but one of him and many of us!” They load up their cardboard slingshots and pretend to fire away at Parker. “We cannot hit him!” says Zachary. “We must fight him with our clubs.”
The great cardboard battle ensues. Accompanied by anguished cries of “Ouch! That hurts!” the arms disappear inside the loose-fitting bathrobes and the vanquished thieves, minus arms, slink away.
About this time, Kelsey and Robert come back into the room, dragging a canvas bag. “We picked up their arms to prove to the king your mightiness,” Kelsey says. “Let us go to the king now.”
The three of them march to the other side of the room where King Lamoni, as played by Amelia, is pleased by the story and the bag of arms. Robert pulls out one of the arms, courtesy of an old doll, to show the suitably impressed king.
“Now tell me of your Great Spirit,” says Amelia, her fake beard quivering. At this point, Parker turns to the congregation and says, “As you know, the rest is history.”
Whew. Sharing time is over. And, in my humble opinion, it was awesome.
I’m back in the room with Brother Fuller. Ricks College has accepted my application, and I’ll be sitting in a classroom in less than a week. Trouble is, I can’t be a CTR teacher when I’m 600 miles away. This time Brother Fuller will release me from my calling. I already said good-bye to my class, which was only about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
“You’ve done well in the class. We thank you for your efforts,” he says. “You’ve changed lives for the better, which is a teacher’s primary purpose.”
“Thanks, Brother Fuller. That class means a lot to me.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but I would like to inform you of who will be taking your place. The new teacher is Sister Scott.”
Parker Scott’s mom is the new CTR-6 teacher? It all feels so right.
Two months later I pick up my mail and notice a letter with the scrawled return address of “Parker Scott” in the upper left corner of the envelope. I drop my economics and geology books right there at the curb and quickly open the letter.
“Dear Brother Davis, How are you? I am fine. My mom is our Primary teacher. The missionaries come by and talk to my dad. If he gets baptized, can you be there? Ammon is still my favorite story in the Book of Mormon. We miss you. Love, Parker Scott.”
And for so many good reasons, right there on the edge of the street, I raise my hand high into the air, shout “Yes!” and begin to laugh and cry at the same time.

Our Young Women president gave each of us a challenge to tell our parents that we loved them. It was really hard for me and my sister, because even though our parents knew we loved them, we had never told them.

We decided to prepare dinner and write on their napkins that we loved them. It was a big surprise to our parents and turned out so well that we tell them that we love them every day now.

I believe the key to family unity is family love. Pray, and Heavenly Father will help you find a way to express your love to your family.

I think of her. I think of my father. I think of all those General Authorities who’ve influenced me, and others, including the widows whom I visited—85 of them—with a chicken for the oven, sometimes a little money for their pocket.
I visited one late one night. It was midnight, and I went to the nursing home, and the receptionist said, “I’m sure she’s asleep, but she told me to be sure to awaken her, for she said, ‘I know he’ll come.’”
I held her hand; she called my name. She was wide awake. She pressed my hand to her lips and said, “I knew you’d come.” How could I not have come?
Beautiful music touches me that way.

I was just a young boy when I sat in a stake conference in the Tooele Utah Stake, listening carefully to the visitor. He was LeGrand Richards, and he preached the gospel in his warm and spiritual way. That positive experience has stayed with me. I don’t remember what he said, but I do know how I felt as he spoke. I learned later that I felt that way because I was listening to a special witness of Jesus Christ. I knew he knew, and somehow my roots grew deeper that day as to truths of the gospel.

When I was a freshman in high school, the weightlifting coach asked me to join weightlifting.
“Mmm … no thanks,” I said. “Not my thing.”
But he kept at it. For weeks.
Finally, I tried it out. He was right: I really liked weightlifting. It was definitely weird at first; my body had never done anything like it before. But I grew to love the feeling of working out. I also loved my teammates and the competitions. And I started doing really well!
Now weightlifting is a huge part of my life. I practice every day for at least two or three hours, doing back squats, clean and jerks, and snatches. (And if you don’t know what any of those things are, don’t worry—neither did I!)