Gospel Story Finder

“I can tell you something that happened to me the summer after I was baptized. Is that close enough?”
When Malcolm nodded, Mom went on, “I call this story ‘One Day in the Water.’ This is how it happened:
“Shortly after we moved to the farm, my Uncle Virgil and his daughter Cindy came to see us. She was a year older than I.
“‘How would you girls like to go swimming with Cindy at the town swimming pool for a couple of hours while I do some business?’” he asked my sister, Pam, and me. ‘Afterward you could come home with us and spend the night?’
“Your Aunt Pam and I raced to pack our suitcases with pajamas, clean clothes, and toothbrushes. Then we quickly changed into our swimming suits, grabbed our towels, kissed our parents good-bye, and headed into town.
“I had never gone swimming without your grandpa and grandma being right in the pool with me, but Pam assured me that the lifeguard would keep an eye on us and help us if we had any problems.
“The lifeguard didn’t look nearly as strong as your grandpa, but Pam didn’t seem the least bit worried, so I jumped into the water after her and Cindy and joined in the splashing and races across the shallow end. I was having a wonderful time until Cindy challenged Pam to swim around the entire edge of the pool with her. I had swum in the deep end before when your grandpa was there, but I wasn’t too confident on my own. Still, I didn’t want to be left out, so I started to swim behind them. When we went under the rope, I lost my nerve and decided to circle the deep end by hanging onto the edge.
“Five older boys were taking turns doing stunts off the low diving board. One of them spotted me clinging to the edge, and he started to tease me. ‘This is the deep end, little girl,’ he said. ‘No babies allowed.’
“‘I’m not a baby,’ I retorted, embarrassed that he had noticed me.
“‘Yeah, then why are you hanging onto the edge?’ he jeered. Soon his four friends joined him in the pool, and one of them started to splash water in my face. I turned my head away and looked for the lifeguard. But the lifeguard chair was empty, and there was no one standing around the edge of the pool with a whistle.
“‘Leave me alone,’ I told the boys. ‘I’m just resting.’ I felt tears welling up in my eyes, so I bit my lip hard, trying to control them. If they already think that I’m a baby, I thought, what will they do if I start crying?
“‘Well, you’ve rested long enough,’ the first boy snapped. ‘Now swim.’
“Pam and Cindy, unaware of my plight, had finished their trip around the pool and were sunbathing at the other end.
“‘What are you waiting for?’ the boy who had splashed me demanded. ‘You heard Bruce—swim!’
“I turned to swim close to the edge of the pool, and when the boys realized what I was going to do, three of them lined up in front of me and two got behind me so that I would have to swim across the deep end. I took a deep breath and pushed off as hard as I could. When I reached the middle, I turned to look back. By then the boys had completely forgotten me and were back on the diving board trying to outdo each other.
“I probably would have made it to the other side just fine except that I became frightened without someone watching over me. I panicked and went under. I sank clear to the bottom. I let my knees bend, then pushed off as hard as I could. The weight of the water pulled against me like a giant magnet. My head broke through the surface of the water just below my eyes, but I couldn’t get my nose above it to take a breath. I sank back to the bottom. Once more I pushed up with all the strength of my legs. Once more I was two inches too short. My lungs were really aching as I sank that time. My heart was pouring out silent pleadings to the Lord: ‘I’m drowning Heavenly Father! Help me! I can’t get my nose out of the water.’
“I remembered being told that if someone went underwater three times without being able to get a breath, he would drown. Again I pushed off. Again I failed. As I sank the third time, my mind cleared of all my fears, and I thought, This is what it is like to die. All I have to do now is take a deep breath. My lungs will fill with water, and I will drown. I wonder if my lungs will stop hurting when the water fills them? As I touched the bottom, a thought came to me as clearly as if it had been spoken: ‘Turn around. You will not drown.’
“I did turn around. I found myself at the side of the pool directly under the ladder. How I had gotten there I do not know. But I do know that it was not under my own power. I pushed up one last time, grabbed the ladder, and pulled myself up far enough to breathe. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I silently thanked Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. The warmth of the sun, the song of a nearby bird, the smell of the water—everything was a gift to be cherished.
“When I got my strength back and rejoined Pam and Cindy, I decided not to tell them about my experience. Somehow it was too sacred to talk about. I didn’t even tell your grandma for many years.
“When I ate supper that night, I concentrated on really tasting everything. After Pam and Cindy were asleep, I got out of bed and walked quietly around Uncle Virgil’s house, touching everything. I wanted to store in my mind the look, feel, and smell of everything. I savored my senses as though they were brand new. I wanted to really understand what it was like to be alive. That feeling stayed with me strongly for several days, then gradually faded away. But sometimes, when I’m all alone, it comes back to me for a short time.”

In addition to the badges, there are other projects a Scout must complete to earn his Springbok. One of these is a construction project. Rocco chose to build a bridge. He had to first design and build a scale model of the bridge. Then, with a team of six other Scouts, Rocco had to build it full size, about 20 feet tall (6 m) and 30 feet long (9 m). It took nearly nine hours to build the bridge and then disassemble it.

Then there’s community service, which is a big part of earning both the Springbok and the Duty to God Award. For his Springbok service requirement, Rocco visited more than 40 homes of seniors to help them with various chores and repairs. “The only big thing that overlapped was the 40-hour service project I was able to use for both Scouts and the Duty to God Award,” says Rocco.

Of all the requirements Rocco has fulfilled to earn his various awards, he points to one in particular as most valuable for his personal growth: “Reading the Book of Mormon,” Rocco says without hesitation. “That was the biggest and most rewarding challenge.”

“I had read the Book of Mormon once already, a year or so ago, but I was just reading to get it done,” Rocco explains. “When I started reading it again, I really wanted to learn and gain a testimony of it.” He approached reading the Book of Mormon in a completely different way his second time through. “Every time I read now, I pray before to ask Heavenly Father’s Spirit to be with me as I read.”

Rocco’s already begun on his next big project—to more actively share his testimony with others as he prepares to serve a full-time mission. His Scouting experiences and earning the Duty to God Award have helped him in his personal development and in becoming a missionary. “To spread the gospel, I needed to know what is in the Book of Mormon, and I needed to know that it is true,” he says. “After reading the Book of Mormon for the second time, I received a testimony of it.”

Even if there was not a Duty to God Award to earn, Rocco says he would have fulfilled most of the requirements simply because he wanted to prepare for missionary service. Attending church, reading the scriptures, praying daily, and giving service are just part of who Rocco is, of being what a Latter-day Saint is supposed to be.

Now that he has received his call to serve as a full-time missionary, the testimony Elder du Plessis has built is proving much more useful than the rope-and-log bridge he built for his Springbok construction project. However, some of the backwoodsman skills he learned as a Scout may come in handy as he serves in Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi.

By now our children had joined with us in the discussions, and the two sisters who had originally knocked on our door had been replaced by another pair of lady missionaries. I would put the baby in his playpen, and then we’d start bombarding the missionaries with question after question. We found that the two sticks mentioned in prophecy were the Bible and the Book of Mormon. “Do we get to see the Book of Mormon? When? When can I read it? Next discussion?” This was going to be a long week—I could hardly wait.
The week was long. I kept thinking about the Book of Mormon and could hardly wait to get my hands on it. The day finally arrived, and I hoped in my heart they wouldn’t forget the Book of Mormon. I even thought they might finally have a cup of coffee with us.
As we discussed the Book of Mormon, they told me of a wonderful promise contained in it. Yes, we’d give it a try. We’d pray about it.
It took only a few pages of the Book of Mormon to convince me that it was true. It’s true! This is the word of God! And so, each morning at 6:00 I would take my cup of coffee out on the back steps of the house in the cool morning air and read until the children woke up. How forceful were the words! Who could ever deny, after reading this book, that it was the word of God? It is the word of God! What a feeling of excitement, of discovery, of awe, of warmth, of wonder.

“When I started the challenge to focus on the joy in my life for a month, I honestly wasn’t expecting much to change. However, when I actually studied the talk by President Nelson and tried doing as he instructed, I noticed something: focusing on the joy and good things in my life (even ‘worldly’ things) really helped put it in perspective.

“One Saturday I was stuck inside working on a big chemistry lab report that was due on Monday. I was annoyed that I had to do homework at all on the weekends, and I felt like I was wasting my Saturday. Then my mom came into my room and told me that we would be going to visit my older brother and sister at their college. I could have stayed upset at the chemistry report and let it overshadow the good thing that had just come into my life. But instead, because I had decided to focus on joy, the frustration I felt from my chemistry report seemed instantly insignificant next to the happiness I felt thinking about hugging my older siblings again.

“When I focused on joy, I started to notice the things that I have and should be grateful for. When I don’t focus on the bad, and I see all the good in my life, the bad things pale in comparison.”

Luke G., 17, Arizona, USA

William Holder was on duty as a police officer in London on July 6 when England won the bid for the 2012 Summer Olympic Games. The streets of London were filled with thousands of people celebrating. It was pandemonium for police.
Then, less than 24 hours later, Brother Holder was on duty again. Now, however, he dealt with a different type of pandemonium—terrorists had attacked his city.
Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw—people running out of the Aldgate subway station in terrible shock; some were injured, others were screaming for family. Steps away, Brother Holder of the Gravesend Ward, Canterbury England Stake, realized he was one of the first emergency personnel on the scene of a terrorist attack.
“You are on auto pilot. You do your job,” he said. “It is human to human. It doesn’t matter who they are, you just want to take away their pain.”
No members or missionaries were injured when bombs exploded on three London underground subway trains in a coordinated attack on July 7. At least 56 people died in the blasts, which injured an additional 700 people—dozens seriously—and took place within a 50-second period during the morning rush hour. A fourth bomb went off 57 minutes later on one of the city’s red doubledecker buses.
The terrorist attacks were the deadliest in London since World War II. In response to the atrocity, the Church is making a donation to a victims’ fund set up by London mayor Ken Livingstone and the British Red Cross.
“It is not until you can look back on it that you are able to comprehend the sheer horror of it,” said Brother Holder. “At the time you just do what you were meant to do: be calm and professional and get on with it.”
During the next several days, Brother Holder worked extra hours. In quiet moments, however, he remembered a priesthood blessing he had received years earlier. The blessing said in his career he could be as a lighthouse, that people would come to him for direction and that he would be calm.
He has felt the Lord’s hand guiding him in his work. “I felt peace inside, but also sadness at the same time,” he explained.
Still, Brother Holder said he sees daily reminders of the event: closed subway stations and an increased police presence on the streets of London. It is hard, he added, to escape the memories of the event.
Adapted from Church News, July 23, 2005.

David discovered an interesting person sitting behind the main character in one of his cartoons.
The guy didn’t have a name, but he was just the sort of person David was looking for. In learning to be a cartoonist, David had been fiddling with different drawing styles. Then when he was drawing the background people in a cartoon, suddenly he found he had drawn a guy with just the right look. He had a pudgy nose, no forehead, his mouth in danger of sliding down his neck, and a soft slouching body. And the expression on his face was one of being slightly amused at life’s absurdities. He was the perfect model for the character in David’s new cartoon strip called Larger Than Life.
“I liked him more than the main guy,” said David Gallagher, a young cartoonist whose low-key sense of humor comes out in his cartoon strip. His characters, who find themselves caught in some odd moments, usually have a slightly dumbfounded look. “The emotions and expressions are always toned down,” said David. “I thought it would be funnier just to be subtle about things in my cartoons.”
It’s working. A growing number of people are finding that David’s quick wit and quick pen do tickle their funny bone.
While in college, David is putting to good use the doodling habit he has had since he was a little boy. Growing up in Massachusetts, David and his childhood friends loved the animated movies. At eight, his goal in life was to become an animator. “I learned about animation cells by reading books about Walt Disney,” he said. “I drew my own animation cells. I’d draw on acetate with a marker, and then I’d paint the back of it. My favorite character was one I called Foxy Fox.” Just for fun, he would draw comic books and give them to friends at school.
By the time he was in high school, David gave up on cartoon characters. He used his artistic talent in more realistic drawing. “I never thought I’d be a cartoonist,” said David, “because you have to be a comedian. I was shy, and never very funny. I was serious growing up and hated to be called silly.” The bemused look on David’s face could be a mirror of one of his cartoon characters as he pauses, then laughs, “Nothing like I am now.”
After a mission to Germany and a semester abroad at the BYU Jerusalem Center, David’s interests seemed miles away from art and cartoons. He began an intensive study of the Arabic language and changed his major to Near Eastern studies.
But hidden somewhere in his brain was that pudgy, chinless, slouching character waiting to make an appearance. David started thinking about cartooning again when a friend encouraged him to do a couple of cartoons and take them to BYU’s student newspaper. The publisher liked the cartoons and began running them twice a week. David was kept busy coming up with new ones.
When David had enough cartoons for a portfolio, he began sending them to cartoon publishing syndicates, hoping to sell them to other newspapers. He got some good feedback, but no takers. That’s when David and his wife, Sage, decided to try syndicating his cartoons on their own. They had brochures printed up with some sample cartoons and mailed them out to hundreds of regional and college newspapers. So far, his cartoons are running in 17 newspapers. Not enough to make a living, but a start.
How does he come up with his ideas for cartoons? “That’s the number one question people ask,” said David. “To meet my deadline, I have to come up with one every day. I’m never quite sure if they are funny until the next day or the next week when someone reacts. The worst thing is having to explain a cartoon. It takes all the humor away.”
In developing an idea, David first starts with something that strikes him as odd. When he runs across a funny sign or hears a phrase that interests him, he’ll write it in a calendar he keeps in his back pocket. Then when he’s ready to do a cartoon, he looks over those ideas. He works on the caption first. Only when the wording is exactly right does he start to draw.
For example, David thought there might be something funny about the signs he sees on doors that say, “This door must remain unlocked during business hours.” Then he tried to imagine a situation where that sign would be funny.
“I had an inmate at a prison write this on a sign,” said David, “and post it on the prison door with a guard reading it and unlocking the door. The caption said, ‘Mel knew it was a long shot, but somehow it worked.’”
Another idea. David noticed a treat that people make by dehydrating fruit puree, called fruit leather. It was only a small humor leap to have his pudgy character browsing through a rack of brand-new fruit-leather jackets.
The hard part is coming up with one good idea after another, day after day. A cartoonist doesn’t get a vacation unless he can create cartoons in advance. It’s tough, but David has taken on even tougher challenges in his life.
As a teenager, David was the only consistently active member of the Church in his family. He has an older brother and sister and a younger brother. “Having to stay active alone can either push you away or pull you in. I guess it pulled me in.”
David said, “I looked up to several people in my ward. I wanted to be around people who understood the gospel. To me the Book of Mormon is so obviously good and right. It just exudes this goodness. When you read it you feel like the Lord is right there and nodding his head. I’ve had to do a lot of soul searching, but I felt like I had the testimony to see me through.”
His interest in the gospel also led to his college major. He wanted to learn more about the ancient land of the prophets, but during his stay in Jerusalem he became more interested in the modern Middle East. “I get very emotionally involved when I hear reports from the Middle East. It’s a powerful place, and it has its own beauty. I find the Arabic language an incredible challenge,” said David.
That challenge might be the thing that leads David away from cartooning. He presently works for a computer firm specializing in Arabic software. And he would love to continue his Near Eastern studies into graduate school.
But right now there’s this slope-shouldered, big-nosed, bemused fellow with no forehead that keeps popping up in the strangest places. And he’s making a lot of people laugh.

Many years ago, there was recounted to me an experience of a President Ballantyne who grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming. This is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill. President Ballantyne told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. He said:
“Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not very much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day, a little more than to take care of himself and very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.
“We had our family prayers around the table. On one such night when Father was gone, we gathered together, and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, ‘Here, Mother. You drink mine.’
“‘No. Mother is not hungry tonight.’” Mothers are never hungry in cases like that.
So he said, “It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed. I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, out in the middle of the floor kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, ‘Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.’
“When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, ‘Now, you run along, Son. Everything will be all right.’
“I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans being used in the kitchen and the smell of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, ‘Mother, I thought you said there was no food.’
“All she said to me was, ‘Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?’ I received no further explanation than that.
“Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, ‘My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”
“‘“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice speak to me.”
“‘“What did it say?” she asked.
“‘“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”
“‘“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.” In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.’”

It is important as a parent to use every opportunity that comes to teach your children, says Tim Jensen, bishop of the Frederiksberg Ward, Copenhagen stake. He and his wife, Karen, are the parents of two preteen girls, Pernilla and Mie. Bishop Jensen explains that if you pay attention to promptings of the Holy Ghost when you are with your children, “you will find a lot of great moments when you can bear your testimony in an informal way.” Sister Jensen explains that she often turns to the Lord for guidance. She recalls one day when she found herself praying to help her older daughter overcome a reluctance to go to church. Pernilla felt the effect; she later bore testimony of the loving promptings that came into her own heart.

First example: When my wife, Elaine, and I went to Spain in 2022, we attended Sunday meetings in a small unit of the Church there. As I sat on the stand and my wife in the congregation, I noticed that she sat by an older woman. When the sacrament meeting ended, I walked toward Elaine and asked her to introduce me to her new friend. She did so and indicated that this woman, who was not a member of the Church, had been visiting the Church for about two years. When I heard that, I asked this God-fearing woman what made her come back and attend our meetings for such an extended period. The woman lovingly replied, “I like to come here because you speak of Jesus Christ in your meetings.”

Clearly, members of the Church in that unit in Spain talked, taught, and testified of Christ in their meetings.

About four years later, he set out to enroll at Oberlin College, Ohio, in hopes of furthering his military ambitions. On the way, he met and traveled with David W. Patten, a Mormon apostle.
Subsequently, Lorenzo went to Kirtland, Ohio, where his sister Eliza, who had joined the Church, had gone to live. He became closely associated with the Prophet and, after a time of investigation and study, was baptized in June 1836.

There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him.
And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.

“I remember the excitement of being chosen as a crossing guard in sixth grade and how cold it was walking in the snow all the way to the school on the hill when I was in seventh grade. My biggest challenge was applying myself in school. I was more interested in sports and other things. Then, in junior high school, I was stimulated to learn so that I gained a balance in my life. I was able to pull up my grades and earn a scholarship.
“Serving a mission in Brazil was a great turning point in my life,” declared Elder Sorensen. “When I was twenty and had just completed two years of college at the University of Chicago on an academic/athletic scholarship, I had doubts about my going on a mission. When I returned home that summer, Mom said to me, ‘Well, now you can prepare for your mission.’
“Elder Sorensen told his mother that he had changed his mind and didn’t think that he would serve a mission. “I’ll never forget the hurt look on Mom’s face,” he recalled, “after I told her my decision. She didn’t scold me, but afterward she privately cried and prayed.
“I didn’t go back to school in Chicago that fall. With the help of Mom and Dad and a wise and understanding bishop, I accepted a mission call to Brazil and left for South America in 1940.
“It wasn’t very long after I arrived in the mission field and began studying the scriptures regularly that my testimony really began to grow. Since then it has never wavered but has grown stronger. I’m grateful to the Lord and my parents for guiding me at that very important crossroad.
“Children, listen to your parents. They love you more than anyone else does, except your Father in Heaven, who has an even greater capacity to love. If you follow their good teachings and example, you will always be happy that you did. And remember to follow the counsel and guidance of Church leaders, particularly your bishop.”

When I was about four years old, my family and I spent Easter with relatives in Ephraim, a small town in Utah. We went for a picnic there, and it was then that I saw a cactus for the first time. I ran back to my family, and my uncle was the first person I saw. “I’ve just seen something I’ve never seen before,” I told him. I described what it looked like. “What is it?”
“It’s a cactus,” he said. “You know what cactuses are for, don’t you?”
“No, what are they for?” I asked.
“They’re for sitting on.”
I ran back to the cactus I had seen, and I sat on it. The rest of the afternoon was spent with my mother picking out the painful prickles from the cactus. I learned then that when someone tells you something, you have to pay attention to whether he’s serious or just having fun!

One of the experiences that Brother Ottley still laughs about occurred several years ago when the Tabernacle Choir was performing with the Utah Symphony Orchestra at the University of Utah commencement exercises. As he was conducting the two groups, he recalls, “Somehow my baton got away from me and flew clear over the orchestra and dropped down in front of the choir. We just continued with the performance, and I noticed my baton coming along the floor as orchestra members kicked it forward toward me. The principal violist picked it up to hand it to me but realized that at that moment he had to play so he dropped it. Then the concert master picked it up and handed it to me just at the time I was to cue the choir for a big entrance. It got us giggling to the point where we almost didn’t make the entrance.
“But that wasn’t the end of the story; that was only the beginning. The next day my brother, who had been at the commencement exercises, gave me a tube of glue and instructions on how to stick the baton to my fingers. Then a day or two later a choir member presented me with a glove with the index finger cut out of it so that I could slip the baton in through the hole. Several weeks later a lady member of the choir stopped us in the middle of a rehearsal (and you have to remember that our rehearsals generally have a lot of observers), walked down to me and said, ‘Brother Ottley, something must be done before we can proceed.’ On behalf of the choir, she presented me a package which I was forced to unwrap in front of everybody. In it was an archer’s quiver containing a whole bunch of batons so that if I lost one I could grab another one quickly.”

One day at school my friends dared me to shout a bad word in an empty classroom. When I said no, they teased me and made fun of me. Then I said yes, and I said the word softly and quickly. Then I was very sorry for what I had done. That night I prayed with all of my heart and repented of saying the bad word. I know I can always turn to Heavenly Father to know what is right, and if something is wrong, I will say no, even if my friends tell me to do it. I am grateful for repentance!

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, “but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys in the fifth grade. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Fillmore and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting one time telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY - WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school.
The next day when he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it.” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, What if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned. “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened up on him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was an Eagle Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

This summer, for our Hatch family reunion, we went swimming at Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. I was swimming with Grandpa when I saw two paper bills at the bottom of the pool. I couldn’t reach them, so Grandpa got them for me. He asked me if we should try to find the owner. He didn’t tell me how much money it was. He said that the amount shouldn’t change our minds about what to do. I wanted to keep the money, but I knew what was right, so I told Grandpa to find the owner.
He announced over the loudspeaker that whoever identified the money would have it returned. Several kids said that they had lost money, but none of them knew the right amount. Then a man said that he had lost thirty-three dollars—a twenty-dollar bill, a ten-dollar bill, and three one-dollar bills. Grandpa told him that I had found the twenty- and ten-dollar bills and gave them to him. The man was really grateful to have his money back—it was all that he had with him. I felt so good! I just wished that I had found his other three dollars, too.

The big husky leaped at Jack Norbon, who tumbled backward in the snow, struggling with the dog. They wrestled in the soft drifts, play-growling at each other.
Finally Jack shouted, “Enough, Nanook!”
The dog stopped, panting. His amber eyes glowed with affection for the boy, who scratched Nanook lovingly behind his ears.
Jack glanced at four other huskies tethered nearby. “A guy never had better friends than you,” he told them.
The dogs yelped and leaped when he spoke, but all the while they eyed a large pan of food he had brought.
Jack visited each animal, dishing out gobs of cornmeal and dried fish cooked together.
“You might not have won any ribbons at the Alaska State Fair last week,” the boy said fondly, “but you aren’t built for speed, just good old-fashioned hard work.”
The dogs were huge Mackenzie River huskies—broad of shoulder with deep chests and wide feet. Strong muscles rippled under their think fur, and Nanook, the smallest, weighed ninety pounds. Jack had purchased them from a trapper when they were pups.
When he had finished ladling each animal its share, Jack gave them a final pat and returned to the house. He was hungry himself, for he had worked hard all day helping the family to get ready to leave for town so Jack could attend a regular school. Until now, he had taken lessons by correspondence. “Lessons by mail are fine,” his mother had said, “but a thirteen-year-old boy needs friends.”
Jack admitted it would be a nice change. He did get lonely sometimes, even with the dogs. Town was twenty miles from the small mine that his father owned, and Jack rarely saw anybody his own age.
As Jack entered the living room, his father looked up from a book he was reading. “I’m proud of the way you helped today,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, hemmed a minute, and added, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sell your dogs, Jack.”
The boy stared at his father, scarcely understanding. “Sell them? But why, Dad? I don’t understand.”
“We can’t have dogs in town, son. Out here where they earn their keep it’s different. But we just can’t afford to have them lying around in town.”
“But, Dad, they’re my best friends. I can’t sell them!” exclaimed Jack.
Dad’s voice was firm. “If the mine had paid better this year, we could have kept them. As it is …” Then in a reasoning voice he added, “Jack, they eat like horses. You know that.”
The boy groaned. He knew his dad was right. “If only they had won some prize money at the races last week,” he agonized.
“It would have helped,” agreed his father. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I know what they mean to you, and I’m really sorry.”
“It’s all right, Dad.” Jack sighed. “If the dogs can’t pay their way, I shouldn’t expect anybody else to do it. But I wonder where I can sell them.”
“Ron Snite at the Weasel Mine has offered $500 for them.”
Jack drew back. “Old Snite! Dad, he beats his dogs. I’ve seen him do it.”
“We’ll make him agree not to.”
“I don’t think he’d live up to the agreement. He thinks all dogs are brutes and that’s the way he treats them.” Jack was growing desperate. “Can I try to find another buyer first?”
His father nodded. “Of course. You have a week before we’ll be moving.”
When Jack sat down to eat supper, he found that his appetite had vanished. The thought of Snite getting his beautiful team made him feel sick. There just has to be another buyer somewhere! he thought.
The next few days were hectic for Jack. Helping with the packing and trying to interest people in the Mackenzies forced him to keep long hours. He traveled all over the territory, trying to find a place for his team, but the answers were pretty much the same, “Sorry, Jack, just haven’t got any place to keep those giants.”
For the first time, the boy was sorry the dogs weren’t racers. “Then you’d be smaller, and not so much of a problem,” he said to Nanook. “People don’t want to fuss with big dogs.” Even when Jack pointed out that Nanook was one of the best leaders in the country, the answer was always, “No, thanks.”
One day Snite himself paid Jack a visit. His little beady eyes glittered evilly. “Your dad promised me those dogs,” he growled. “I hear you’ve been trying to sell them elsewhere.”
“They’re mine till they’re paid for,” replied Jack evenly. “Until then I can sell them to anybody I choose.”
Snite grinned, revealing yellow, snaggly teeth. “I’ll get them,” he vowed. “Nobody but me can feed those monsters.”
Yeah, thought Jack glumly, the reason you can feed them is that you won’t feed them enough. And his heart ached when he thought of what could happen to them.
The day after Snite’s visit, Dad went to town to look after their new house, leaving Jack and his mother alone.
His plan was to return the following day, but that night a terrible storm raged across the land. The snow whipped into great drifts and the wind lashed and howled until daylight. The storm left telephone lines strewn through the trees, and the town road had practically disappeared.
“Dad will be lucky if he gets back in a week,” said Jack at breakfast.
“I suppose that makes you happy,” his mother replied with a knowing smile.
“I just hate to sell the dogs to Snite, Mom.”
“I know, son, but you can save the money for college. Years from now, the dogs will be helping you like the good friends they are.”
Jack admitted that that was true, but somehow the thought didn’t cheer him much. The money wouldn’t make up for the damage to the team if they were sold to Snite.
That evening Jack went to feed the dogs. Because darkness comes early in the Alaskan winter, he stumbled through the drifts to visit each animal. He had just reached behind Nanook’s ears for a goodnight scratch when he heard a scream from the house. It was his mother’s voice.
Floundering across the yard, the boy crashed through the door. His mother was lying on the floor, pale and in much pain.
“It’s my leg,” she gasped. “I was cleaning the shelves above the sink and slipped off the chair.”
The leg was bruised and swollen, and there was a peculiar bump halfway up the shin. “I think it’s broken,” she said weakly.
Jack knew he shouldn’t try to move his mother if her leg were broken, so he put a pillow under her head and covered her with a blanket. Meanwhile, his mind was racing frantically. What shall I do? The telephone lines are down, so I can’t call town for a doctor. And the mine vehicles could never get through the drifts.
Whenever his mother moved, she moaned, and Jack knew he was going to have to do something quickly. “I’ll go to town and bring back a doctor!” he declared.
“It’s dark and twenty miles to town,” protested his mother. “I’m afraid you couldn’t make it.”
“Nanook can find his way blindfolded,” Jack assured her. “And something has to be done now, Mom.”
Jack swiftly hitched up the dogs, then checked back in the house to make sure the stoves were stocked with fuel. He covered his mother with more blankets and answered her anxious eyes with a grin. “Don’t worry, Mom. Those dogs and I can go anywhere in the world.” Then he kissed her and dashed to his waiting team. “Mush!” he cried, and the dogs leaped at their harnesses. Though it was pitch black, the team swung out unerringly onto the drifted highway.
“Haw!” yelled Jack, and Nanook, who was in lead position, turned left toward town.
Through the inky darkness they sped, the sled bursting through three-foot drifts in billowing sprays. Over hills and down long valleys the dogs and boy swept. Sometimes Jack rode on the rear runners, but most of the time he ran behind with his hands on the handlebars. It was so dark, he couldn’t see the shoulders of the road, but Nanook held a true course.
An hour passed, but the team’s strength didn’t flag. If anything, their speed increased as they warmed to the job. The night was cold, but Jack was soaked with perspiration as they pushed forward at a mile-eating pace.
Racing dogs might be faster, he thought, but they’d have lost this race. This is a trail that only dogs with stamina can handle.
At one place on top of a huge drift the sled tipped over. Jack tumbled in an avalanche of snow, and the sled landed on top of him. He felt a sharp stab of pain, but quick testing proved he’d only pulled a muscle.
On through the night they lunged, and the boy and his team reached town in just over two hours. Jack ran to the nearest store and called his father at their new home.
“I’ll get Doc Nelson,” his dad answered after Jack explained the problem. “He has a motorized snow car that will go anywhere. You come on to the house.”
But by the time Jack reached their new house, his father had already gone. The boy unhitched the dogs, scrounged some food and water for them, and then bedded them down. “You’re winners,” he said proudly. Then he put his arms around Nanook’s neck and added, “I’m sure going to miss you, my friend.” The husky lavished warm licks on him.
Late that night when Jack’s father returned, he looked tired, but happy. “Mom’s going to be all right,” he said. “Thanks to you, she’s in the hospital resting.”
“No, Dad,” Jack shook his head. “It’s thanks to the dogs.”
Dad considered a moment, then he went to his desk and wrote a note. He gave it to Jack to read—“Mr. Snite, sorry, but we plan to keep the dogs. Ten thousand dollars couldn’t buy them now. John Norbon.”
“You were right, Jack,” said the boy’s father. “You could never sell such good friends.”

I learned this formula in my own life. I started working for a big oil company shortly after I was baptized. These truths about work came into my life and led to my progress in the company.
One manager in particular at the company had a lot of power. He requested that each department send two people to help him do an inventory. And he said the only requirement was that the people knew something about accounting.
I had studied at a trade school, and I had a certificate from my accounting classes. My department boss said, “Go tell him that you are going to help with the inventory and that you are an accountant.” He wanted to see the reaction of the other man because I was so young.
When I arrived, the manager asked what I wanted. I answered, “I’m going to help you do the inventory.” I did as I was instructed by my boss and told him I was an accountant. He laughed.
Then he said, “Well, Mr. Accountant, come to my chair. Take this adding machine, and add everything in every column as fast as you can.”
I started with one finger, very slowly. He pushed me out of the chair and said, “You don’t know anything; you are going to be punished. You are going to sit there in a chair in front of me for two weeks, watching how I do the work.”
I moved to another chair. He said, “Watch me.” He started adding so fast, not even looking at his hands. I was amazed. I thought he was joking about having me watch him work for two weeks, but he wasn’t.
That first day I sat there for six or seven hours. That evening I stayed after work and waited for everyone to leave the building. Then I went to his office and changed the roll of paper in the adding machine and started practicing adding the same columns he did. For hours I worked and got faster and faster and faster. When I felt I was doing it as fast or faster than he did, I went to sleep for an hour or two.
The next morning I just washed my face and went out the front doors when they opened early, then walked in again after the manager arrived. I knocked on his door. He said, “OK, you sit there and watch what I’m doing.”
When he started on the adding machine, he seemed slow to me. I had practiced for seven hours straight. I gently pushed him aside and asked him to sit in my chair. I started adding so fast. He was surprised.
He said, “What did you do?” He forced me to tell him. He said, “From now on, because you learned this, you will work with me, and I’m going to teach you everything I know.”
I switched departments. After a few years he resigned, and I was able to take his place because of his recommendation. I used effort and concentration, and I was happy in what I was doing. I was not angry because he punished me at first.

Photograph courtesy of the author
After general conference a few years ago, my wife, Yenifer, and I felt that we needed to make some changes in our discipleship. We felt prompted to do more than we were doing. We didn’t just need oil in our lamps—we needed more oil.
One of the related goals I set for myself was to do more service. I decided to do family history work, including indexing.
When I started, I quickly learned that the oldest records, which are the most difficult to read and understand, are the hardest to index. But I like challenges, so I decided to start with old records.
It didn’t take long, however, before I was wondering why I was indexing difficult records when I could index more batches of names if I indexed more recent, easier-to-read records. While I was trying to read and understand some difficult marriage records, I got a headache.
“Why am I doing the hardest records?” I asked myself.
Almost immediately, I felt a soft voice say, “Thank you.”
A few seconds later, Yenifer called me on my cell phone to see how my indexing was going.
“What are you indexing now?” she asked.
“I’m doing the oldest records,” I replied.
“You know those are the most difficult ones,” she said. “Why are you doing those?”
At that moment, I again experienced a feeling of gratitude. The people whose names I was indexing had waited over a thousand years for their temple work to be done. Just as I am happy because I have received my saving ordinances in the temple, they also want to be happy by receiving theirs. Indexing names makes that possible because it helps people to search for their ancestors online. Indexing is a first step in preparing names for the temple.
I began to weep as I came to understand the eternal importance of the work I was doing. Many people have waited a long time for their temple blessings. I know that we need to help them no matter how difficult the work is.