Gospel Story Finder

His parents named him Happy Horton Hoggle. But by the time he was six years old, everyone called him Never Happy Horton. When Never Happy Horton started school, everyone there soon knew the reason for his name.
That first morning Mr. Barnes, the principal, was at the front door to greet the students. He reached for Horton’s hand to shake it.
““I don’t like to shake hands!” Never Happy Horton said with a big frown.
““I just wanted you to know that I’m here to help you,” said Mr. Barnes with a smile. “I want to be your friend.”
““No you don’t and I don’t want to be anybody’s friend. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Never Happy Horton. And by the way,” Horton growled, “I don’t like school either!”
Mr. Barnes wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. “Oh, but everyone at Bunker Elementary School tries to be happy,” he said with a nervous smile.
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Oh, I won’t,” Mr. Barnes assured him.
Miss Kate, Horton’s teacher, couldn’t forget either after he had come to her class. Horton was sitting in the darkest back corner all alone. “Wouldn’t you like to join us for story time?” Miss Kate asked.
““I don’t happen to like stories,” Horton said as he folded his arms across his chest.
““But this is a very exciting story,” Miss Kate said coaxingly.
““No story is a good story.”
““But everyone likes some story!” Miss Kate insisted.
““Not me! I don’t even like television. I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!” Horton shouted.
““Oh, I won’t,” said Miss Kate, heaving a big sigh.
At recess the boys needed one more player to make the baseball teams even.
““Come play ball,” Timothy called to Never Happy Horton who was sitting in the middle of a hopscotch square so the girls couldn’t play.
““I don’t like ball games,” Horton replied in an ugly voice.
““C’mon anyway,” Timothy urged. “You might find you like it.”
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton. I don’t even like recess, and don’t you forget that either!” Horton insisted.
““Oh, we won’t,” said Timothy with a shake of his head as he went back to play baseball.
““You can’t fool me, Never Happy Horton! You aren’t always unhappy,” said Suzanna, one of the girls who wanted to play hopscotch.
““I’m Never Happy Horton! Just ask anyone! I’m never, never happy!” Horton shouted.
““But you’re happy right now. You’re happy making other people unhappy,” Suzanna argued.
““That doesn’t make sense!” cried Horton as loud as he could. “I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Well, if you’re never happy, why are you sitting in our hopscotch square?”
““Because … well … because,” Horton folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “Just because.”
““Because you’re happy there,” Suzanna said politely. “And so I hereby proclaim you to be Happy Horton.”
““Wait just one minute,” Horton said with a puzzled look. “That’s a terrible name for a boy! It sounds awful! Happy Horton! I hate it!” Horton squished his face together. “Ugh! Nobody is named Happy Horton Hoggle!”
““You are,” Suzanna said. “You and nobody but you.”
““Well, it’s still awful! At least Never Happy Horton sounds tough!”
““What’s so great about being tough? Anyone can be tough.”
““But Happy Horton Hoggle is an awful name,” Horton said quietly.
““Only if you make it awful. After all, being the one and only Happy Horton Hoggle in the world should make you important,” she pointed out.
““Hey, I never thought of that,” Happy Horton said, and the frown almost turned into a smile. “I’m the only Happy Horton I know of.”
““And you’re the only one I’ve ever heard of. That most certainly makes you very special!” Suzanna repeated.
““It does? I mean, yes, it does!” Happy Horton agreed. “I’m Happy Horton Hoggle, and don’t you forget it.”
““That’s great,” Suzanna said. “But next time could you say it just a little softer please?”
““I’m Happy Horton,” Horton said in an almost normal voice, “And I’m the only Happy Horton Hoggle I know.”
““Good,” Suzanna said. “With a little practice you’ll make it. Now will you go play ball?”
““Sure,” said Happy Horton, and he even smiled.

Comer further highlights how constant haste is a form of violence against our inner selves, drawing from the idea of eliminating hurry from our lives to find healing and union with God. In his book, he tells a story.

The story goes like this: It’s the height of British colonialism. An English traveler lands in Africa, intent on a rapid journey into the jungle. He charters some local porters to carry his supplies. After an exhausting day of travel, all on foot, and a fitful night’s sleep, he gets up to continue the journey. But the porters refuse. Exasperated, he begins to cajole, bribe, plead, but nothing works. They will not move an inch. Naturally, he asks why.

Answer? They are waiting “for their souls to catch up with their bodies.”

The airplane’s engine made a final sputtering sound, and then there was nothing but a dreadful silence. Andrew sat stiffly, pale and frightened. While his father worked frantically to restart the engine, the plane glided earthward in ever-descending circles. Suddenly the engine roared back to life, and Andrew’s father quickly nosed the plane up to gain altitude. But again the engine stopped, and nothing his father could do would make it start.
“Are we going to crash?” Andrew asked.
“No, son, don’t worry. This little plane can practically fly itself, even without power,” his father answered. “Look ahead there; we can glide far enough to land in that snowfield.”
Through the haze Andrew could see the mainland snow and ice at the edge of the Arctic Ocean. And as they glided closer and lower he could see the mouth of a large river.
“That must be the Mackenzie River,” his father said. Then motioning behind them he added, “We have plenty of emergency food back in the cabin—enough to last until someone comes looking for us.”
Andrew’s father had intended to land in the Canadian town of Inuvik within the Arctic Circle, but he had taken a detour and flown the oil company’s plane over the Arctic Ocean so that his son could see it.
Soon they were gliding low over the snow and ice. “Look!” Andrew cried. “There are two igloos and some Eskimos down there!”
“Some dogs too,” his father added. “I hope they have a sled. I’m going to land this ‘bird’ close to the igloos.”
Under his father’s steady hand, the plane landed about fifty feet from the Eskimo homes. Immediately its passengers were greeted by the smiling faces of two women, two men, and a boy about Andrew’s age.
“Kabluna,” the older man said.
“That means ‘men with bushy eyebrows,’ and that’s how they think of all white men,” Andrew’s father explained. “Before knowing about our race, they believed that they were the only people in the world and called themselves Inuit, meaning The People.”
The Eskimo boy said, “Akshunai, pikatigikpugut,” and then he translated for Andrew. “I said, ‘Hello, we are friends.’”
“Nakorami (Thank you),” Andrew’s father answered, and then he turned to examine the plane’s faulty engine.
“Where did you learn to speak English?” Andrew asked the boy.
“At the government school in Inuvik. My name is Ootah.”
While the boys talked, Andrew’s father made arrangements with one of the men for transportation to the closest settlement. A sled with a walrus-hide harness was soon pulled around in front of one of the igloos and the dogs hustled into place.
“I’ll have to get a mechanic, son. This young man is going to drive me into Inuvik; it’s about seventy miles from here,” Andrew’s father explained. “You stay with the plane, and I’ll be back in six days.”
Andrew was a little apprehensive, but he smiled. “OK, Dad,” he said. “I’ll be all right. But I’ll miss you.” Feeling lonely and a little hungry, he waved good-bye as his father left on the sled.
“Come to my father’s igloo,” Ootah invited Andrew. “My mother will give us something to eat.”
When the boys were close to Ootah’s home, Andrew saw an old man and Ootah’s mother crawl out of the low entrance and struggle over a bag of flour. The old man won and marched to his igloo with the flour, muttering to himself.
Ootah was deeply upset. His face flushed and he looked down at his feet. “My grandfather is taking charge of all the food,” he explained. “We’ve had a bad hunting and trapping season and we haven’t had much to exchange at the trading post. We’re short of food.”
“That’s OK,” Andrew said. “I have some food and I can eat in the plane.”
Andrew turned back and climbed into the airplane’s small cabin. Although his father had taken some of the food on the sled, there was still a lot of canned goods left—much more than he would need. As he ate, Andrew thought of taking some food to the Eskimos, but he decided against it. If his father were delayed for some reason, the boy would need the food for himself.
When he left the plane, Andrew found Ootah waiting for him. “Come and see what my grandfather has,” Ootah said.
Ootah led him into his grandfather’s igloo. The old man grunted at the boys, and the old lady smiled. The first thing Andrew noticed was the smell of dried fish and meat and burned seal oil. Then he followed Ootah to a large box against the snow wall. In it were five Husky puppies, climbing all over each other.
Andrew fell in love with a little brown and white one. “Do you think your grandfather would sell it?” he asked. “Maybe my father will buy it for me when he gets back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ootah said. “My grandfather will never sell any of his dogs.”
The old man left the igloo. “He’s going to set snares for the Arctic hare,” Ootah told Andrew. “Do you want to go fishing?”
Andrew loved to fish, so Ootah got fishing lines and hooks for both of them, a hatchet, some bait, and a coil of rope.
As the boys walked toward the Mackenzie River, Ootah looked like a bear in his karlik, attigis, mukluks, and puelluks (fur trousers, parka, high boots, and mittens). Andrew was warm in his modern thermal underwear and outer clothes.
“What’s the rope for?” Andrew asked.
“Just in case,” was all Ootah would tell him.
Near the river the Eskimo boy chopped two holes through the ice. After fishing for several hours Ootah finally caught three small fish. He offered one to Andrew. “For your supper,” he said.
“Thank you, but I have food in the cabin of the plane,” Andrew reminded him.
On their way back to the igloos the boys’ talk was suddenly interrupted by the sound of muffled shouts, and they both began running toward the noise.
“Grandfather has fallen through a snowbridge into a crevasse!” Ootah shouted. “He can’t see too well.”
They found the old man floundering in soft snow at the bottom of a fairly deep hole in the ice, but he appeared to be unhurt. Ootah threw one end of the rope down to him, and together the boys pulled the old man out of the hole.
“Nakorami, Nakorami,” he kept repeating.
Andrew felt terribly lonely when he returned to the plane and fixed something to eat. Before eating he prayed for his father’s safety and quick return. And as he prayed he remembered that his father had taught him to treat others as he would like to be treated. Guiltily he thought of the kindness of the Eskimo who had offered to share his fish even though they were all short of food.
Andrew flung open the cabin door and shouted for Ootah. When he came running, Andrew began throwing cans of food down to him.
On the sixth day an airplane mechanic flew in with Andrew’s father. While the mechanic repaired the plane, Andrew said good-bye to his Eskimo friends. He and Ootah solemnly promised to keep in touch with each other.
As the plane soared above the igloos, Andrew felt something pushing against his leg. He reached down and with a rush of joy picked up the little brown and white Husky puppy Ootah and his grandfather had left in the plane for Andrew to take home.

I remember other Mexican Saints who, because floods had destroyed their crops, were fearful that they would not be able to attend the conference but who, after fasting and prayer, sold some of their belongings and pooled their money for transportation. For many there was no money left for food, but it did not matter. They decided they could fast for the three or four days of the conference. As you would expect, other loving Saints filled their plates as the Lord had filled their souls.

As returned missionaries, Brother Dante and Sister Liaa Nicolas of Camiling 2nd Branch, Camiling Stake were concerned about missionary work during the pandemic. The family decided to help by inviting the full-time missionaries and their investigators to attend sacrament meeting with them. They also helped invite the Spirit of the Lord as they gathered to worship by playing prelude hymns and eliminating distractions like mobile phones.
“The people the missionary sisters were teaching had no wifi connection or gadgets to access church meetings, so we had them experience the Lord’s day right inside our house,” Sister Liaa relates. The Nicolas family continues to host the missionaries, investigators and new converts until conditions improve and face-to-face worship services can resume fully unhampered.

Some time later another family crisis occurred. My teenage daughter lost her contact lenses—both of them. She accused herself, saying—“How could I be so stupid”—and other family members silently agreed. Again everyone scurried around looking everywhere for contact lenses. As I was doing my part in the search, I passed my daughter’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and I could see her kneeling by her bed and could hear her soft, pleading words asking if Heavenly Father would please, please help us find those contact lenses. We all hunted for hours, but despite our best efforts the contact lenses never appeared. My daughter was perplexed; she said, “After I said my prayer I knew we would find those contact lenses. Grandmother’s prayer helped us find the keys. But we didn’t find the contact lenses and I don’t understand why not.”
This teenage girl was wrestling with one of the great issues faced by many people—does the Lord truly hear and answer our prayers, for it seems that sometimes our prayers are answered, and sometimes they appear to be ignored. And some further questions arise because of experiences such as those with the contact lenses and keys—does the Lord answer prayers for Grandmothers and not for teenagers? Do some people have greater influence with the Lord than others? Or is the finding of keys or contacts merely a matter of chance, and the Lord has nothing to do with it?
To answer some of the above questions, let us go to the scriptures. When the Savior was on earth, he gave us the pattern for our prayers. He said, “After this manner therefore pray ye.” (Matt. 6:9–13.)
A. “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”
First there is a recognition and acknowledgment of God as our Father in heaven and an expression of our personal reverence for him.
B. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.”
As we pray, Jesus advises us to ask always that God’s will be done. Many people do not include this as a part of praying. Even for lost keys or contact lenses we often want our will to be done—we want them found right now, please. When even more important matters are of concern—a loved one is ill, a child is away from home, a difficult decision must be made—many people want the Lord to answer their prayers in a specific way. They are afraid that if they ask for God’s will to be done, his will or plan may be different from theirs. It takes great maturity or faith to pray that our own desires be put aside and the Lord’s will be done. Even in little matters like lost contact lenses, the Lord might feel that the lessons learned from not locating them at all may be more important than giving a person what he wants immediately. In the Lord’s perspective of things, what is needed may be far more important than what is wanted.
C. “Give us this day our daily bread.”
Should we pray for such simple things as lost articles? Certainly. The Lord is aware of everything that happens to us. Jesus clearly taught that the very hairs of our head are numbered. (See Matt. 10:29–30.) We are advised to pray always, about all of our concerns, our fears, our sorrows, hopes, aspirations, and problems. In the Book of Mormon we are told to pray over all things in our daily lives. In the case of the Book of Mormon people, they were told to pray over their flocks and fields, representing the concerns of each day just as the Savior said we should ask for our daily bread. But recall that the admonition is to pray for the necessities, not luxuries, the unnecessary things or what you might like to have today. When you are not sure whether you are praying for a necessity, the basic rule is always to pray but ask that “thy will be done.”
D. “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.”
This matter of forgiveness is so important that immediately following the Lord’s prayer in Matthew, the Savior emphasized again the matter of forgiving. He said, “For if ye forgive men their trespasses your heavenly Father will also forgive you.
“But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” (Matt. 6:14–15.)
When we pray we should consider our own lives and pray for help in putting our own lives in order. It is interesting that the Savior identified the issue of forgiveness as one area we should all try to improve in.
E. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
Would God ever lead us astray? Of course not. James E. Talmage comments about this part of the prayer: “We are not to understand that God would ever lead man into temptation … The intent of the supplication appears to be that we be preserved from temptation which we do not have the power to withstand.” (Jesus the Christ, Chapter 17, pp. 240–241, paragraph 20.)
When we look at the counsel of the Lord to us in these latter days, we find that many of the references to prayer in the Doctrine and Covenants have to do with praying that we will be able to resist the power of the adversary, that we will not be overcome, that we can be delivered from evil. Sometimes we pray only for the little daily crisis—for lost keys and contacts—and the more important matters are ignored. Surely we should ask for help in small matters, but we also should pray constantly that we will have the power to resist temptation.
F. “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.”
Again at the end, we should acknowledge the greatness and power of God. He is our Creator, our Heavenly Father, and we are dependent on him. Sometimes, if we think about all the matters that are important in his kingdom and the greatness of his power and glory, we may feel ashamed that we even bother him about misplaced glasses. But he is aware of every sparrow and hair of the head, and he is never too busy to hear the sincere prayer.
Sometimes it seems that Heavenly Father might be more influenced by the prayers of a grandmother than of a teenager, because Grandmother has lived a long life of dedication and service, and teenagers are beginning life. God is no respecter of persons. (See D&C 1:35.) He does not favor one person over another. Each is precious in his sight. But we know that an increase in our own worthiness qualifies us for the blessings of our Father in heaven. It is not so much who prays, but the spirit in which the prayer is given and the faith of the person offering the prayer.
We must also remember that Jesus condemned those who prayed to be seen of men, (see Matt. 6:5) who used vain repetitions (see Matt. 6:7) and were boastful and proud. He was impressed by the humble prayer of the sinner who would not even lift up his eyes to heaven and who prayed only that God would be merciful unto him—a sinner. (See Luke 18:13.)
We are told in the scriptures, “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.” (D&C 112:10.) The Book of Mormon teaches us, “And he inviteth them all to come unto Him and partake of his goodness; and he denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God, both Jew and Gentile.” (2 Ne. 26:33.)
Isn’t it possible that the keys would have been found whether Grandmother prayed or not. Yes, that certainly is possible. Good things occur by chance, or by diligence, or by practice and not just by prayer. Jesus indicated that the rain fell on the just and the unjust—everyone will receive some measure of good fortune (see Matt. 5:45). We are told that there are laws established “before the foundations of the world upon which all blessings are predicated. When we obtain any blessing it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130: 20–21.) Anyone who obeys a law will receive the blessing attached to that law. Sometimes we will receive some blessings because of our obedience to a law not connected to a prayer.
The golfer, Arnold Palmer, once hit a golf ball into a hole that was quite far away to win a tournament. An observer remarked, “Arnold, you certainly were lucky.” Mr. Palmer then commented, “It is interesting that the more I practice the ‘luckier’ I get.” Would the Lord answer prayers to hit golf balls into holes far away if we didn’t practice? Probably not. Some blessings require more than just prayers for as James observed, “Faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone.” (James 2:17.)
However, the scriptures are also clear that God is aware of everything that happens. Jesus told us that the Father was aware of our needs even before we asked him. The Lord has said, “And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments.” (D&C 59:21.) The Lord’s hand is in all things, and we should acknowledge that Heavenly Father can have an influence in those things that are for our good.
How then do we understand prayer? It is one of our most effective connecting links with Heavenly Father. We should be careful to use it wisely and in the right spirit. He knows what we need and in his wisdom will grant us the blessings we need and quality for. In all things we pray for his will to be done and we also pray for the faith to accept his will in our lives.

“Mary, what do you see?” Mary’s stepmother spoke softly from her sickbed.
“The fighting seems to be getting closer,” said Mary, looking out the window. The American Civil War was being fought just a few miles away. The sound of gunshots had filled the air since morning. Mary turned to her stepmother. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think we can leave the house to get the doctor.”
“Come closer.” Mary sat next to the bed and took her stepmother’s hand. “I know your father is still not well,” Mary’s stepmother said quietly, “but you need to take the family to Zion—your brother, your sister, and the twins. Don’t give your father any peace until he goes to the Rocky Mountains! Promise me!”
Mary knew how much her family wanted to go to Salt Lake City. After they heard the gospel and were baptized, they had left England to join the Saints in Zion. But would it even be possible? She glanced at her father, who sat silently in his chair. Three years ago, Father had suffered a terrible stroke that had paralyzed his left side.
Mary took a deep breath. “I promise,” she whispered.
Soon Mary’s stepmother closed her eyes for the last time.
One morning soon after, Mary decided it was time to tell her father about her promise. “I know I’m just 14,” she said, “but I must take our family to Zion.” She heard the twins waking. “I need to go get breakfast started,” she said. “But just think about it, please.”
A few days later, Father called Mary over. “It’s all arranged,” he said. His speech was still slurred from the stroke. “I’ve sold our land and the coal mine so we can buy a wagon, some oxen, cows, and a few supplies. A wagon company is leaving soon for the West. They’re not Latter-day Saints, but we can travel with them as far as Iowa. When we get there, we can join a party of Saints going to the Salt Lake Valley.”
Mary threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.” Soon they would go to Zion!
The days passed quickly as Mary helped get the family ready for their travels. “Everything is going to be all right,” she told herself. “Soon we’ll be in Zion.”
But then Father fell ill. From the way his mouth drooped on one side, Mary feared it was another stroke.
“He’s too sick to travel,” she told the leader of the wagon company. “We just need a few days for him to recover.”
“We can’t wait,” the man said briskly. Seeing Mary’s face, he softened his tone. “You can stay here until he’s ready to travel, and then you can catch up with us.” With no other choice, Mary agreed.
A week later, Mary got her family ready to travel again. “The twins and Sarah can ride on the oxen,” she told Jackson, her nine-year-old brother. “Father can ride in the wagon, and you can help me drive the oxen.”
“I’m scared,” Sarah said in a small voice. She was only six, and she looked tiny on the ox’s broad back. The four-year-old twins looked at Mary with wide eyes.
“We’ll just make good time and catch up with our group!” Mary said with forced cheerfulness.
On and on the Wanlass family traveled, for miles, and then for days. Finally, even Mary had to admit the truth.
The wagon party had not waited for them. Mary and her family would have to travel to Zion alone.
To be continued …

Sid told me of an experience he had on his mission. It was evening, and he and his companion were just about to return to their apartment. They decided to visit one more family. The father let them in. Elder Going and his companion testified of the Savior. The family accepted a Book of Mormon. The father read all night. In the next week and a half he read the entire Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. A few weeks later the family was baptized.

The story does not end there and in fact is still ongoing.
Most of those who lost their fruit crop had some land available on which to plant alternative crops for the season, such as chili peppers or beans. These crops could provide at least some cash flow sufficient to survive on until next year’s fruit crop. However, there was one good brother with a young family who did not have additional land and was facing a year with no revenue at all. Others in the community, seeing the dire situation of this brother and acting on their own initiative and expense, arranged for a piece of property, used their own equipment to prepare the land, and provided the chili plants for him to plant.
I know the men about whom I have just spoken. Knowing them, I was not surprised at what they did. But those who do not know them will probably be asking two questions, both beginning with the word why. Why would they come to the temple to perform their duties and to serve after having been up all night long, only to realize that they had lost the greater part of their revenue for the whole year? Why would they use what were now scarce and very precious resources to help another in desperate need when they themselves were now in such dire financial straits?
If you understand what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, then you will know the answer to these two questions.
Making the covenant to be a disciple of Christ is the beginning of a lifelong process, and the path is not always easy. As we repent of our sins and strive to do what He would have us do and serve our fellowmen as He would serve them, we will inevitably become more like Him. Becoming like Him and being one with Him is the ultimate goal and objective—and essentially the very definition of true discipleship.

The next morning Samuel gave a copy of the Book of Mormon to a poor widow who fed him breakfast. Then he walked 8 miles (13 km) and shared the Book of Mormon with John Greene, a Methodist minister, who took it only to see if others he knew might be interested in buying a copy. Mr. Greene’s wife, Rhoda, was Brigham Young’s sister, but Brigham had not yet been introduced to the Church.
When Samuel returned to the Greenes’ home in two weeks, he learned that Mr. Greene hadn’t found anyone who was interested in the Book of Mormon. So Samuel agreed to return in a few months. When he did, Mr. Greene wasn’t home, but Mrs. Greene told Samuel that she had read the book “and was much pleased with it.” The Spirit prompted Samuel to leave the book with her. She was so grateful “she burst into tears.” Samuel then “explained to her the most profitable manner of reading the book … which was, to ask God, when she read it, for a testimony of the truth of what she had read, and she would receive the Spirit of God, which would enable her to discern the things of God.”
Later Mrs. Greene urged her husband to read the Book of Mormon too. He did, and they were soon baptized.

Allyson Kitchen, 17, could see the stars now, overhead, their sparkle unchallenged by city haze or street lamps. She liked the way the fire created a haven of light in the vast darkness of the woods. And she noticed that although the campfire made shadows prance in the forest, here where it burned brightly there was no fear.
Like the others, Allyson found her mind filled with three days of memories. The time she’d spent with her friends had been important.
“They’re goofy and I love them and I’ll be going away to college soon.”
The service project had made her feel good. “We worked hard and we helped somebody,” she said to herself.
And she even felt closer to her leaders, just because she’d been around them.
“It’s fun to see the bishop in something besides a suit.”
But the memory that Allyson was really thinking about was the morning she had spent, alone on a hillside covered with wildflowers, reading the Book of Mormon and pleading with God to know of its truth.
She looked at the stars again, scattered across the sky, and remembered reading: “The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator” (Alma 30:44).
Allyson felt close to her Father in Heaven and to her Savior. And she took great comfort in the reassurance that they are near.

It had almost been five months since the accident, and I had been away from my children all that time, never seeing them once. In all that time, I hadn't even seen my own reflection either. I had been putting it off, so frightened to see my new face. I knew I looked different, but I was so terrified to actually see and deal with it.

One December evening, Christian walked through my door like he always did. This time he had a mirror in his hands.

"I know you can do it, Stephanie. Let's do it together," he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.

We sat there for hours, and he gently nudged me the whole time. "Okay, okay, I'll do it," I would say, then chicken out right before.

Then I decided I needed to do this myself--and alone. Christian kissed my forehead and quietly walked out of my room. After the door shut, I quietly said a prayer: "Please, Heavenly Father, help me. Help me like what I see. Help me be brave. Please bless me to find the old me somewhere." That prayer went straight to heaven, because almost immediately I felt calm and peaceful.

I took a deep breath and turned the mirror over. I started at my bandaged chest and worked my way up. My neck looked a lot like the skin on my arms--scarred and blotchy. I kept going. I looked at my chin, then my lips. Could those be my lips? They were huge and looked the way they felt: painful.

When I got to my nose, I cried out and put the mirror down. My nose was completely different, smaller and misshapen. I was unrecognizable to myself. My cheeks were blotched with bloody scabs and raised scars, and half of my ear was burned off.

My face scared me, and I knew it would scare anyone. I felt like I was wearing a Halloween mask. Panic took me over. How on earth could my children see me like this? I actually considered having my sisters, who were taking care of my children, put me somewhere where my children would never have to see me and deal with my inadequacies.

Being a mother was my purpose in life, the source of my fulfillment, and I knew my children would be afraid of me once they saw me. They would reject me. That fact leveled me. I was inconsolable. I wanted to die. "There is no reason to be here. My children won't even love me," I said to myself over and over again.

Those precious, beautiful children didn't deserve a disfigured, incapable mother. They needed someone strong who could take care of them no matter what. I was lacking in every way.

Each morning I would wake up with a deep ache in my heart. I wanted to wipe away the accident and everything that went with it. The nurses knew and had anticipated the big moment when I finally looked at myself in the mirror. They wanted to hear how it went, but I couldn't talk about it. "It was awful. Please don't ask me," I said. "Tell the other nurses too. It was awful."

Then I turned to God in prayer. Please help me through this. Please help our children. Then my favorite Primary song popped into my head.

"Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer? / Some say that heaven is far away, / But I feel it close around me as I pray."

In that dark hospital room, I sang the first lines over and over out loud to myself: "Heavenly Father, are you really there? / And do you hear and answer every child's prayer?" I needed Him so desperately. But the next verse, a parent's answer to the child's questions, comforted me too.

"Pray, He is there / Speak, He is listening. / You are His child. / His love now surrounds you."

I prayed for hours that morning, pleading with God for understanding and assistance. I had prayed on my own every day, with Christian and with my siblings when they would come to visit or spend the night with me. I was certain our prayers were being heard by our loving Heavenly Father. At times, I distinctly felt embraced by God's love, and the sweet assurance washed over me that everything would be all right. And I realized something. This broken, sad woman was still me, and underneath all these bandages and medicines, I still had all my toes, fingers, ears, a nose, eyes; and I could see, smell, hear; and, best of all, I had my children, and I had my husband who stood strong and immovable by my side defending me and encouraging me on.

When I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at age 35, one of the many things I quickly learned was that I needed to be willing to serve others. Whether it was to help someone move, offer lawn care, do repairs, or provide transportation, I tried as much as possible to respond to requests for service from my quorum or from individuals.
I felt that I was serving in a good way. In retrospect, however, I realize that I was serving out of a sense of duty and not out of a sense of love for those who needed help. I didn’t really view my service as trying to become the Lord’s hands.1
After I moved to central Missouri, I had the opportunity to serve an older couple. Their small, old country home needed a lot of repairs, including its leaky roof. The couple, however, suffered from serious health challenges that prevented them from doing physical labor.
On a hot day in July, my good friend Dallas Martin and I were up on the roof putting down new shingles. We were uncomfortable and dripping with sweat. Suddenly, Dallas stopped nailing, stood up, and looked at me.
“Do you realize how blessed we are to be the ones capable of being up here doing this work and not the ones inside who can’t?” he asked.
His question hit me like a bolt of lightning. It was literally a life-changing moment. My whole perspective on service took on new meaning. I realized how blessed I was to be able to do all the things that I could do.
At that moment, I felt that Dallas and I were not simply helping because of a sense of duty but were helping with a sense of gratitude. The Lord had blessed us with the ability to truly be His hands. With that realization, it was easy for me to feel love for those we were helping.
Since that day, whenever I have helped with a service project, or whenever someone has needed assistance that I was capable of providing, I have tried to keep that perspective in mind. I have not always been successful, but that perspective has been a huge blessing in my life. It has truly helped me keep a positive attitude about service.
When I have problems or challenges, I try to think of people who face more serious trials than I do. Then I express my thanks to the Lord for all the blessings He has given me.

When you think of the Netherlands, you probably think of wooden shoes, tulips, and windmills. But the Netherlands is also home to youth who are strong in the gospel. Here’s what some of them had to say about their testimonies and beliefs in gospel principles:
“One of my friends joined the Church last year. I had taken her to church and had invited her to activities. She started to get involved and wanted to know more, and eventually she was baptized.”
—Tanya Broekman, age 16

After winning a silver medal in the 1960 Olympic 400-meter hurdles in Rome, Cliff Sushman fell in the 1964 Olympic trials and missed a chance to go to Tokyo. Several fans in his hometown wrote to Cliff expressing sympathy. His reply:
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for some of you.
“In a split second all the many years of training, pain, sweat, blisters, and agony of running were simply and irrevocably wiped out. But I tried. I would much rather fall knowing I had put forth an honest effort than never to have tried at all … Each of you is capable of trying to make your own personal Olympic team, whether it be a school football team, the singing club, the List of students who receive high grades in school, or whatever your role may be. Unless you strive to achieve more than is readily available to you, how can you be sure what you can attain?
“… Certainly I was disappointed in falling flat on my face. However, there is nothing I can do about it now but get up, pick the cinders from my wounds, and take one more step, followed by one more and one more, until the steps turn into kilometers and the kilometers turn into success.
“I know that I may never reach my goal. The odds are against me, but I have something in my favor—desire and faith.
“Some of you have never known the satisfaction of doing your best in sports, the joy of excelling in class, the wonderful feeling of completing the job and looking back on it knowing you have done your best.
“… There is plenty of room at the top, but no room for anyone to sit down.”

Picture this: You sit down to dinner and look around. Gasp! You’re alone at a table with a half dozen of your past and present school teachers. Sitting next to you is Mr. Randal, your fourth period science teacher, and he’s staring right at you. He wants to chat.
Cringing already? Hey, I am, and they aren’t even my teachers.
There’s just something about teachers that makes most of us nervous (even those of us who no longer have to face their pop quizzes and long-essay finals). In fact, they make us so uneasy that the majority of us go through our junior and senior high years without ever getting to know what our teachers are really like, and most of us never even get to say thank you for all they do.
Two groups of LDS youth in the Boston area are doing something to fix that problem. It’s June 1990, and these New England LDS students are inviting their school teachers to “Appreciation Nights” at their local ward houses. The youth are spending an evening eating with, getting to know, and then saluting their teachers. They hope the time together will straighten out some long-standing misconceptions.
The youth of Nashua, New Hampshire, invite me to watch them set up for the following evening’s teacher appreciation dinner, which sounds about as exciting as watching 18 holes of TV golf. But I put some thought into it: a group of kids who would give up a night of summer fun to set up tables and cook for their teachers can’t be all bad.
I’m right.
Dave Eberhard, 17, a tall guy wearing a little black hat that seems too small for his head, says he’s the master of ceremonies for the big night. He looks like he might be a wise guy, but talk to him for a minute and you’ll find he’s articulate and bright—full of positive energy.
He says this is Nashua’s second year in hosting an appreciation night. “Last year’s dinner changed my relationship with my teachers,” he says. “They had always seen me as a class clown, but after they saw I appreciated them they began to notice how hard I really was trying. They looked at me from a different perspective.”
Dave adds that he learned more about his teachers as well. “I found out more about what really goes on after they get out of school. It’s a one-on-one relationship, and it’s not really school related or church related. It’s just you and the teachers out on the night.”
And according to Dave, the teachers loved the attention. “Some actually cried,” he says.
Elizabeth Davis, 16, sits on the front porch of her Pepperell, Massachusetts, home, her blue-rimmed glasses and baggy sweatshirt set against an old New England backdrop—1990 meets 1790. Elizabeth is talking about teachers. She has definite opinions. She loves her teachers, enough to help organize her ward’s own teacher appreciation night.
“Teachers don’t get a lot of respect,” she says. “That really annoys me. Most of my friends don’t think of teachers as people who are there to help them learn so they can get a good job, do something with their lives. The kids can be really mean.”
But Elizabeth says most of her teachers will go out of their way to help a student in need. She says that one of her teachers goes to a student’s house if that student is sick, to teach the day’s lesson (another scary thought, but kind of nice).
“All I hope is that after this night our teachers say, ‘Wow, our students really think of us.’”
It’s Tuesday night in Nashua. Sixty teachers and their spouses begin arriving at the appreciation night. They’re talking with their students, and the youth are relaxing.
I stop 14-year-old Cyndie Munk and ask her how it’s going. Three or four of her teachers are already here. “The teachers are just so impressed that we want to honor them,” she says, grinning. She sees her vice principal walk in and waves in his direction. “He never gets to do anything,” she tells me. “I gave him his invitation and told him what it was for and he absolutely beamed. Every time I saw him around school he just started smiling, asking if he was still supposed to come.”
The meal is served and Dave, the MC, sits with one of his teachers—Mrs. Rogers. Dave looks uncomfortable, but he gets over it. They chat. It’s fun to watch.
After the meal the bishop gives a “rah-rah” education speech and then the youth hand out certificates of appreciation to their teachers. My hometown newspaper would have written, “And a good time was had by all.”
The teachers are filing out and Cyndie sums up the Nashua evening for me. “My teachers said they’ve never had anyone do anything like this for them,” she says. “But I think they work hard. They give up a lot of their own time for us. I think they deserved this.”
“Two years ago I wouldn’t have done this, invited my teachers,” Jason Hunter, 16, tells me at the Pepperell dinner on Friday. Two of his teachers are here. “I’ve learned some things, though. If I am responsible, if I get my homework done, my teachers treat me differently. I’m sure that if I were a teacher and had a student who wasn’t trying, I’d get mad. The past two years I’ve made an effort in class, and now I think my teachers like me. I make the extra effort to think of them, to say good-bye when class is over, or tell them when I’m interested in something.”
Jason’s friend, Mike Bruneau, joins him. Mike’s 15 and feels lucky to be one of eight LDS students in a high school of 1,200—many of the youth in this area are the only member in their school. Mike says he tries to set an example, do the right things at school, and show respect for his teachers.
“I invited my French teacher, who gave me a lot of help earlier this year,” Mike says. “She just kept saying, ‘Thank you, thank you,’ when I gave her the invitation. I think it really touched her to see that someone cared about the good job she was doing.”
The Pepperell youth take a different approach than at Nashua. The students choose to entertain their teachers with a play and music before they hand out certificates. The play, a comedy about a class who is given a robot teacher to substitute for a human teacher, is a big hit. “Super Teacher,” written by Rebecah Davis, 15, illustrates that for the students, there is no substitute for the individual technique, enthusiasm, and humor of their teachers.
Rebecah says that most of the kids in her ward were skeptical of the appreciation night idea, but the teachers were so excited when they received their invitations that the youth lost their anxiety. “We couldn’t believe how excited our teachers were,” she adds. “Nobody had ever done anything like this for them before.”
“This is what it’s all about,” one teacher says to me, leaning close like he’s sharing a secret. “Knowing that you made enough of a difference for someone to say thank you.”
He returns to a group of other teachers who are standing around, talking with their students. They are laughing about something I can’t hear, but I don’t move closer. There’s something happening there, something kind of nice.
Hints from the New England youth on hosting successful teacher appreciation nights:
Hold the event at a time of year when both teachers and students are not very busy. (Christmas or the end of the school year can be bad times.)
Get the support of your leaders and bishopric before organizing anything. They should have some good ideas, or at least be able to help with the planning.
Invite all your teachers, not just your favorites. If word gets around (and it probably will) that you didn’t invite certain teachers, their feelings could be hurt.
Eating with your teachers, instead of serving them, is a nice way to get to know each other.
Make your program short and focused on the goal of honoring your teachers. (Make them laugh or cry, but stick to the theme.)
Give your teachers a certificate or some other memento of the evening.

“What’s the matter with Anderson?” everyone was asking.
“Maybe he’s sick,” guessed Howard Mountain Lion.
“He doesn’t look sick,” replied Ruben Six Killer.
“Come and play, Anderson,” called Aaron Long Run. “You’re always missing recess.”
Anderson kept whittling on a stick. He didn’t even look up.
“Maybe he didn’t do his lessons,” Mary Tall Eagle suggested.
“No, he always does his lessons,” her brother, Freddie, insisted.
“He’s just tired or something,” Aaron said. Then he yelled, “Blackfoot warriors coming!”
Everybody forgot Anderson. The boys galloped off on their stick horses to ambush the invading tribe.
With a gloomy look on his face, Anderson Corn Bread watched the others play.
“I wish that new teacher hadn’t come to our school,” he muttered. “She’s always saying, ‘Be proud of your Indian history!’” Anderson mimicked. “‘Live up to your tribal names!’” He paused and then continued mumbling to himself, “All we ever study are Indian hunters and warriors.”
Anderson glared across the schoolyard at the boys playing as if they were warriors fighting a fierce battle over tribal territory.
“Howie Mountain Lion thinks he’s so brave!” Anderson burst out. “I bet your grandfather was as scared of mountain lions as you were of that badger we saw last summer.
“And look at Aaron Long Run playing as if he’s his great-grandfather, the one Teacher says ran for three days to warn his people the Blackfoot nation was on the warpath. That Aaron, he’d run away if he saw his own black feet!”
Anderson went on spitefully, “And Ruben Six Killer—he couldn’t kill six grasshoppers. And Freddie Tall Eagle—”
“And Anderson Corn Bread,” a voice spoke.
Anderson whirled around ready to fight. But it was only old Mattie Washtub. Some people said Mattie was a witch, and others claimed she was a wise woman who knew all things and heard thoughts not spoken.
Mattie Washtub didn’t look at Anderson. She just poked in the weeds with her stick, mumbling all the while.
All the kids were afraid of Mattie. Anderson didn’t know whether to run or not. He was about to slip down off the fence when he noticed she was muttering about the first one called Corn Bread—Anderson’s father, three fathers back.
“He was a good man,” old Mattie was saying. “Many men asked, ‘Corn Bread, will you tame my wild horses?’ No other man in all the tribe could gentle an animal like he could. Even the wild creatures of the mountain, feathered or four-footed, took food from his hand.”
Suddenly Mattie’s face was right in front of Anderson’s.
“What matters the name or how it came?” Mattie challenged.
Anderson was so startled that he tumbled off the fence. He jumped up and ran to the schoolhouse. But he had heard everything old Mattie said. Her words kept going round and round in his head and in his heart.
Early the next Saturday Anderson went into the foothills with his sister, Nahni, to pick bullberries. Along the irrigation canal they found many bushes with thick clusters of the mellow orange fruit. It was cool there, with only the sounds of plopping berries and chirkling water.
Suddenly the peaceful morning was split by a CRASH! SCREAM! SPLASH!
Anderson went thrashing through the bushes to see what had happened to Nahni.
She had fallen into the canal, and the swift full stream was tumbling her over and over.
Anderson quickly threw his weight on some long overhanging branches. In an instant Nahni was swept into them and she grabbed hold. Gasping, she pulled herself up and held on.
Anderson frantically looked here and there, trying to think of a way to get his sister out. The canal was wide and deep with straight sides. Anderson couldn’t reach Nahni, and if she tried to move, she would be swept off her feet again.
Suddenly Anderson knew what to do. He shouted, “Can you hold on awhile?”
Nahni nodded, but her teeth were already chattering from the icy water.
“I’ll hurry,” Anderson assured her.
He eased himself off the branches and dashed away. Nahni would drown before he could ever get help from the village, so Anderson ran in the other direction like a scared rabbit. When he reached the weir where the mountain creek was diverted into the canal, he tugged and tugged at the main head gate. But the surging water jammed it tight. Frantically, Anderson smashed against the supports with a big rock, weakening them until the water itself tore away part of the gate and rushed through. Then Anderson was able to divert most of the water endangering his sister.
Back he ran to help her. Carrying a long pole, Anderson jumped in beside Nahni. Finally he was able to get her over the bank to safety.
A few weeks later the tribal council called all the people to an important meeting. Everyone was surprised when the council chief announced, “It is the wish of the tribal council that the boy Anderson Corn Bread stand before them.”
Anderson couldn’t believe his ears. He was terrified. He tried to think what mischief he had done that the council would handle the problem instead of his own father. Someone gave Anderson a nudge, and he went forward on wooden legs. He felt as if the eyes of all the world were on him.
Anderson heard a voice speaking. It sounded far away, and at first he couldn’t catch even a word. But then as the voice continued, he heard “… in wisdom and action … to face trouble, not whining, crying for help, or making excuses … acting as a man … tradition of tribe to earn his own name … known forever by his proudest deed. We, the tribal council, decree that hereafter Anderson Corn Bread be known forever by all people in all places … this new name … earned by his own …”
Anderson felt as if he had been struck with lightning and was glowing with fire! They were honoring him! They had given him a proud new name! But just for helping his sister?
Anderson saw his mother, who looked pleased, but he could not tell how his father felt. Father was a good man and, like all the Corn Bread men, one of the best with animals.
Now there was silence. Anderson realized the council waited for an acceptance of their honor. The proud new name buzzed in Corn Bread’s head but other thoughts struggled in his mind. His eyes ran around the room seeking words to make his tongue work. His mother looked nervous; his father had a wondering look; the elders looked solemn.
Sitting on the floor in the corner old Mattie Washtub nodded as if asleep. But she was giving Anderson the most searching look of all. Anderson remembered the words Mattie had spoken to him that day. And suddenly he knew what he wanted to say!
Anderson spoke in a shy quiet voice, but the room was so listening-still that everyone heard clearly.
“I thank the tribal council for this great honor, but I do not wish to have the new name,” Anderson spoke haltingly as he looked at his father. “My father’s name is a good name. All the men of his family have made it a good name. I want to make it a good name too.”
Then, raising his eyes to old Mattie, who was staring at him, Anderson repeated her words, “What matters the name or how it came?”
Suddenly Anderson knew that a man’s real name is the thought of him other men carry in their hearts.

One young lady had a missionary experience that started on a shopping spree.
“A couple of weeks ago my mother and I were talking to the owner of a dress shop, and my mother was hinting around about how I had to wear my dresses long, and the lady didn’t say anything. Then my mother said, ‘It’s really cold where she’s going next fall.’ The lady said, ‘Oh, where’s that?’ Mom answered, ‘Brigham Young University.’ Then we talked a little bit about the Church, and the lady asked, ‘How does a person go about becoming a Mormon?’ My mother answered, ‘It’s easy.’
“We were interrupted right then, but we went back the next day so I could try on an outfit I had liked. We were trying to think of a way to start talking about the Church again when the lady walked over and said, ‘Do you remember what you said yesterday about it being easy to become a Mormon?’ My mother tried to look nonchalant and said, ‘Yes?’ The lady said, ‘Well, will you please explain that?’
“So we sat there talking for about three hours about the Church, and she just kept asking questions. She and her husband had gone to church after church after church, and nothing satisfied them. Every time we answered a question, she said, ‘That’s just what I’ve always believed.’ I think she had a testimony already, before she ever heard about the Church. So now she and her husband are taking missionary lessons, and I think she wants to be baptized. It’s pretty exciting.”

Recently I was participating in a groundbreaking ceremony for a chapel at the Utah State Prison. After the ceremonies, Warden Morris invited Governor Scott Matheson and me to take a tour of the facilities. We had noticed the extra care that had been taken to make the grounds around the maximum-security building pleasing and beautiful. When we asked the warden who had done the work, he indicated that two inmates had been given time outside of their cells to improve the landscape. We asked if we could meet the two men. The warden took us into the maximum facility to see them. As Marvel and Brown shuffled toward us from their restricted confinements on death row, we felt that the look on their faces reflected, “What have we done wrong now?”

“We want to compliment you men on the work you have done on the grounds,” we said. “The flower beds and vegetable gardens look beautiful and well kept. Congratulations on your good work.”

The change that came over their expressions was marvelous. The unexpected words of praise had given them reason for self-esteem. Someone had noticed that their efforts had changed a rocky, weed-filled yard into a beautiful garden. Sadly, they had failed earlier to make productive gardens out of the rocky, weed-covered fields of their own lives. But we hold hope for men like these who could see a need for change in one area and had accomplished such good. Perhaps their part in changing the gardens will lead to improvement in their own lives.

When I was called to serve a mission in 1980 to the Philippines, I was the oldest son and the oldest grandson on both sides of my family to accept a call. The last missionary to serve was my father, who served in the 1950s. I had never been away from home for more than a night or two in my life. Sensing my nervousness, my bishop told me I would be the best missionary ever to have served from our ward. That gave me some confidence. I am pretty sure he deliberately gave that message to every missionary. Fast forward two months, I am now serving in some very remote village hours from the mission home and across the planet from my family. There was only one telephone in town, no email, and we received our mail in batches, a month's worth of letters at a time. I was not only very homesick but became both anxious and depressed. Best missionary—not hardly! I began to doubt and, true to my fallen-man nature, became very focused on myself. I beat myself up for every negative thought. I tried listening to hours of church music, memorizing scriptures, and doing countless pushups—all trying to make myself feel better. When I shared my challenges with my mission president, he invited me to “cross the bridge.” He told me, “You are on the man-to-man side of the bridge. You are only focusing on yourself, your happiness, your baptisms, your chances for leadership. When you cross the bridge, your whole focus shifts to bringing others to Christ. Your investigators, your companion—everyone you have been asked to serve. On your side of the bridge, it is all about yourself; on the other side of the bridge, it is all about others.

After my mission, I learned that as a discouraged young missionary Gordon B. Hinckley received this simple counsel from his father: “Dear Gordon, . . . I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.” [10] Like Elder Hinckley, I took my mission president’s advice and poured myself into the work. And though it wasn’t immediate, my homesickness, anxiety, and depression lifted. Regarding the value of serving God by serving others, Sister Ester Rasband stated, “It is still true that we must lose ourselves to find ourselves. There is no “I” in PEACE.” [11]