Gospel Story Finder

An American naturalist was once walking along the seashore looking for interesting specimens of sea life. His attention was attracted to a large, strange-looking object lying ahead of him out a little way in the water. Upon examination he found that it was an immense bird, an American eagle, with a large steel trap snapped onto one foot. Three hundred miles away, on a rugged mountain slope, this great American eagle, the symbol of freedom, the emblem of power and courage, had soared down out of the sky to pick up an enticing piece of bait. In the process of getting the bait, the eagle had put his foot into the jaws of a vicious steel trap. Then the noble bird had struggled with all his might. He had jerked and pulled and fought until he had finally broken the chain and had flown away with the trap to which a part of the chain was still attached.
The eagle had regained enough of his freedom to fly 300 miles away. But he was still fatally handicapped. He must continue to endure the torment of the trap’s steel jaws relentlessly biting into his leg. In addition to the constant pain, he was now unable to maintain the old-time association with his companions. He was also severely handicapped in obtaining his food and maintaining his spirit. After weeks of suffering and exhaustion, this great eagle, worn out by struggle, famished by hunger, sickened by loneliness, and tortured by despair, had fallen into the margin of the sea to die, with the trap still biting into his broken, festering foot.

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.

He sorrowed over his loss of a newborn child and was given permission to care for a neighbor’s child during the day, then return the baby to her mother at night. An older sister of the baby, Margarette McIntire, later reported:

“One evening he did not come [home] with [the child] at the usual time, and mother went down to the Mansion to see what was the matter, and there sat the Prophet with the baby wrapped up in a little silk quilt. He was trotting it on his knee, and singing to it to get it quiet before starting out.” (Ensign, Jan. 1971, pp. 36–37.)

I wanted to be a missionary ever since I was young. It started as a simple desire and continued to grow. But life in the Philippines was difficult. My father and brother didn’t have jobs, so I was the only one who could help my mother support our family. Because I was helping my family financially, my savings for my mission built up slowly.
I wasn’t sure how things would work out. One night I read Ether 12:12: “For if there be no faith among the children of men God can do no miracle among them; wherefore, he showed not himself until after their faith.” Then I read a message from President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) regarding faith: “It takes faith—unseeing faith—for young people to proceed immediately with their family responsibilities in the face of financial uncertainties. … It takes faith to fill full-time missions. But know this—that all these are of the planting, while faithful, devout families, spiritual security, peace, and eternal life are the harvest.”1
These teachings helped me understand that I needed more faith to submit my mission papers and to be a full-time missionary. I knew that even though it was hard, God would help me.
My branch president interviewed me and told me afterward that the last thing I needed to do was make the initial payment and then be interviewed by the mission president. I felt so happy and excited. I would get my paycheck that week, and I would be able to give the required amount. However, when I got home, I found out that my father was in the hospital. I felt overwhelmed when I realized we had to pay the hospital the exact amount I needed for my mission payment.
But Heavenly Father prepared a way. We got some help from relatives and members of the Church, including my branch president. Miraculously my father was out of the hospital after one week, and I was able to make my payment. Two weeks after I turned 22, I received my mission call to the Philippines Olongapo Mission.
I know that Heavenly Father made it possible for me to submit my mission papers. I know that if I continue to trust in Him and to act in faith, He will make impossible things possible. He will answer all our prayers, and He will continue to guide us as long as we continue to obey Him.

I sat through the lifeguard training class in despair. Staring out over the pool, I listened as the instructor droned on endlessly, describing one lawsuit after another. “These cases,” she concluded, “have been warning flags for the Red Cross. There is a need to upgrade standards and for guards to meet new criteria in rescue skills. This, of course, includes the timed swimming tests you will all be taking.”
Ugh. I felt my heart sink. Two hundred yards in three and a half minutes—anything but that.
I worked at the pool as a swimming teacher and lifeguard. I’d been hired because I taught well. I’d never competed in high school or even been a fast swimmer, but it hadn’t been a problem, until now.
“Places,” she bellowed, blowing her whistle. We all lined up at the deep end of the pool, ready for a practice 50-yard sprint. The whistle sounded a second time and I dove in, hauling my arms out of the water. I plowed down to the other end of the pool, turned, and surfaced, gagging on what seemed like a gallon of water. I couldn’t breathe, my throat and lungs lost in a fit of self-protective spasms. Choking, I crawled back up the lane and a 60-year-old veteran pulled me in.
“Seventy-five seconds,” announced the instructor loud enough for the entire class to hear, not even a hint of sympathy in her voice.
I drove home in tears. I loved my job. I needed my job. College and a good job weren’t easy to combine. Kneeling by my bed in frustration, I gave way to the anger and tears. “I can’t do this,” I heard myself saying to God over and over again. I don’t know how long this desperate monologue continued, but at some point, into my mind came the words, “With God nothing shall be impossible” (Luke 1:37). It was the scripture my best friend quoted whenever things got tough. She had it plastered all over her bedroom walls.
But I couldn’t accept anything as simple as this. Besides, the scripture had come special delivery to Mary, and Mary didn’t have to swim 200 yards in three and a half minutes. It had nothing to do with me. On I raged, furious, and again the scripture came into my mind. What kind of answer was this?
“No,” I cried, “I can’t do this. Don’t you understand?”
I was tired of humiliation and afraid that no amount of swimming time I put in would help me pass off the tests. But, despite the doubts, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” returned and sparked a little hope into my heart. I asked Heavenly Father for help in getting my times down enough to make passing a possibility.
Heavenly Father’s help came from the least expected source. At the next class the same seemingly unsympathetic instructor took me aside and told me she wanted to help. “I can take all your times down if you’ll swim with me and follow the workout schedule I give you to the letter.”
Reality dawned. So this was Heavenly Father’s way of helping me pass. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, was the hope that he would just turn me into Janet Evans for a few minutes. I stammered out my thanks and my doubts. “I’m not so sure …” I began.
“It’s not impossible,” she said.
I stared at her in amazement—those very words. “Meet me here at six, starting tonight.”
The next four weeks I forgot about changing places with Janet Evans while I swam, dragged, and pushed my way through the pool. And slowly, every few days, the instructor would scream in genuine delight. “You’ve lost two seconds; you’re cruising. Now, get the lead out! Don’t stop.”
The instructors had postponed the final times test for me as long as they could. The day of judgment arrived, and I sat on the edge of the pool, terrified. A friend who’d passed his tests off a month earlier sat next to me trying to be encouraging. “I’ll follow you,” he said, “and whenever you start to slow down, I’ll tap on your feet.”
“Oh, Randy,” I groaned, “you’re sweet, but tapping isn’t going to do it; you’ll have to push. I’ve worked so hard, but I’m still off on that stupid 200 by three seconds. I just don’t know.”
“You can do it. Come on, she’s ready for you.”
I jumped in the water while the instructor set her stopwatch. Randy did a couple of flip turns and splashed over to my side. “I’m just going along for the ride,” he told her.
“Well, don’t get in the way.” She raised the stopwatch and gave me her ultimatum, “You can and you will do this.” Yeah, I thought, and next week we’re heading for the Olympics. Someone better warn Janet Evans.
I held on to the edge of the gutter, my feet up, ready for the push off. I straightened my goggles, and before I could utter a prayer, the words “With God nothing shall be impossible” found their way into my frenzied heart.
“Ready,” the trainer hollered. “Go!”
Off I went, swimming my heart out, Randy hitting my feet whenever I slowed the pace. The first 50 passed and then the next. The third 50 always hit me hard. With God nothing is impossible, I thought over and over, willing it to be so. I hauled through the last 50 and caught the edge, exhausted.
She screamed, “3:28!” I’d passed.
It’s hard to believe that swimming could become a spiritual experience, but through the power of a simple scripture it did. I found help from Heavenly Father at a time when I really needed it. I felt his love and concern and know that, with him, all things I want to accomplish that are righteous are possible.

With this prospect before us, consider the following story. A young man, full of ambition and energy, enrolled in a fine university. At the time, he was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. His goal was lofty—he wanted to become a doctor. His aim was ambitious—he wanted to be rich. He wanted to play football, so he sought out the coaches and eventually made the team. Now he could have the recognition and bragging rights unique in the world of university sports. Such were the notions in his head.

But he had given little thought to something that would ultimately dismantle his lofty and vain ambitions—he had failed to lay up in store. He had overlooked the importance of adequate preparation, the requirements of regular attendance and disciplined study, and the college chemistry class. The consequence was swift and merciless. It took less than 90 days. It happened this way:

The day he found his 5-foot 8-inch, 170-pound body on the line of scrimmage opposite a mammoth lineman from the varsity squad, he knew he was in the wrong sport.

Unaccustomed to rigorous study, his eyes and mind refused to function after a brief time in the books.

The capstone of defeat was the final chemistry exam. Suffice it to say that his random answers to multiple-choice questions did not even approximate the law of averages. He failed miserably.

Hard work, a mission that awakened in him a correct vision of life’s purposes, and unrelenting preparation eventually overcame the consequence of this brief period of foolishness. Even today, however, I still have nightmares about that chemistry class.

The first nutcrackers were made over 250 years ago. A favorite story with German children about how this kind of nutcracker came about goes like this:
There once lived a very rich farmer who had no friends because he would not share anything. He would not even share his nuts and fruits with friends at Christmastime, which is a German tradition.
The rich farmer was also very lazy. He did not like to crack his own nuts because he thought it was too much work. Once, when his laziness was stronger than his miserliness, he offered a reward to anyone who could find an easy way to crack nuts. His neighbors made all sorts of gadgets, but the rich farmer did not like any of them.
One day a puppet maker took his invention to the farmer. The puppet maker had carved a wooden puppet that was painted to look like a local miner in dress uniform. The puppet’s mouth opened and shut, and it was strong enough to crack nuts easily.
The rich farmer fell in love with this nutcracker. His love for the little wooden puppet changed his life. He started sharing his nuts and all his riches with his neighbors, and he was soon loved by everyone.

During his fifteenth year Joseph F. Smith was ordained an elder, endowed, and sent to serve as a missionary in Hawaii. There he was to experience illness and discouragement far beyond that which is normal for a young man of his age. But with these experiences came an increased deepening of his soul and a broadening of his capacities as new spiritual insights were added in his life. One such experience was a dream, significantly centering in a family experience. This dream occurred during a time in his mission when he was greatly depressed. “I was … entirely friendless, except the friendship of a poor, benighted … people. I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look a … man in the face.”
The dream included many things, but central to the dream was the presentation of a male child to the Prophet Joseph Smith. In the dream he saw his father and his mother, and it was his mother who handed him the child. He carried the child to the Prophet Joseph, handed it to him, and then stepped back. Then Joseph Smith, Hyrum Smith, and Brigham Young—who was still alive at the time of the dream—formed a triangle around the babe, blessed it, and then the Prophet offered the baby again to Joseph F. When the young elder had presented the baby to the Prophet Joseph, he had thrust his hand up against the chest of the Prophet to test the reality of the presence of the Prophet. Upon returning for the baby, Joseph F. had determined to test again whether this were just a dream or a reality.
“I wanted to know what it meant. So I purposely thrust myself up against the Prophet. I felt the warmth of his stomach. He smiled at me as if he comprehended my purpose. He delivered the child to me and I returned it to my mother, laid it on her lap.
“When I awoke that morning I was a man, although only a boy. There was not anything in the world that I feared. … That vision, that manifestation and witness that I enjoyed at that time has made me what I am, if I am anything that is good, or clean, or upright before the Lord. That has helped me out of every trial and through every difficulty.”
It is rather evident from President Smith’s comments that his main interest in this experience lies in the fact that his testimony of the Prophet at that time was intensified and expanded, but one cannot help noticing one detail from that dream, a detail upon which President Smith does not comment, and that is the presentation of a male child to the Prophet Joseph Smith for a blessing. In light of the fact that two of President Smith’s sons were eventually to come into the Council of the Twelve, and one of these Joseph Fielding Smith, was later to become president of the Church to bear, as it were, the mantle of the prophet in succession from Joseph Smith, one might wonder if there was not also prophetic dimension to this dream that he received as a young missionary, “alone on a mat, away up in the mountains of Hawaii.”

We encourage those of you who have a large reservation of names to share them so that members of your extended family or ward and stake can help you in completing that work. You can do this by distributing temple cards to ward and stake members willing to help or by using the FamilySearch computer system to submit the names directly to the temple. This latter option is something Cindy Blevins of Casper, Wyoming, has been doing for years.
Sister Blevins was baptized as a teenager and has been the only member of her family to join the Church. She has completed a vast amount of genealogical work. But there are far too many names for her and her immediate family to complete. Consequently, Sister Blevins has submitted the names to the temple, which, she reports, are often completed in a matter of weeks, usually at one of the two temples closest to her home. She says she likes to think that friends and neighbors in her own ward and stake may be among those helping to complete the work for her ancestors. She appreciates their doing so.

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

Many years later, when I was grown up and had my own family, we heard the message of the gospel of Jesus Christ when the missionaries knocked on our door. There was something in these missionaries—a glow of trust, a glow of hope, a glow of security, and a glow of love—that looked in the beginning to us like a fairy tale.
Could it be true? Could it really be true that we are all children of a loving Heavenly Father, and that through the Spirit of Jesus Christ I could come to an understanding of the feelings I had had at Christmastime in my childhood? Because this door opened, the understanding that led to our conversion and baptism helped us see that we could experience Christmas every day when we focus always on Him, listen to Him, and embrace Him with a loving, grateful heart. What joy came to my family when we opened our souls to the light of the gospel of Jesus Christ!

Like many of you, I am frequently before those who are not of our faith, and the challenge is great and wonderful. Not long ago I was given a little honor before a great group of non-Latter-day Saint athletes. In the proceedings of the convention, one of my great idols, a Hall of Famer, was to take the rostrum and speak to us. Being the great athlete that he was, respected by many, I was shocked to hear his language as he repeatedly took the name of the Lord in vain. As I sat there, I wondered, “What do you do as a Latter-day Saint in these kinds of social situations?” And then I remembered—again, a great influence in my life—the counsel from a prophet and an experience that he had had one time coming out of surgery. An orderly who was wheeling the prophet back to his hospital room on a little metal cart caught his hand between the door and the cart in the elevator and, not thinking, let go with a few adjectives, taking the name of the Lord in vain in the process. And a prophet, sick as he was physically but very well spiritually, lifted his head and said, “Please don’t talk that way—that’s my best friend.”

Not too many months ago I received a letter from a man who once thought he could have it both ways. He has now repented and has brought his life into compliance with gospel principles and commandments. I want to share with you a paragraph from his letter, for it represents the reality of flawed thinking: “I have had to learn for myself (the hard way) that the Savior was absolutely correct when He said, ‘No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.’ I tried, about as hard as anyone ever has, to do both. In the end,” said he, “I had all of the emptiness, darkness, and loneliness that Satan provides to those who believe his deceptions, illusions, and lies.”

I learned early in life that some things are just out of your control. Take my feet, for example. By the time I was 14 years old, they had become a whopping size 12—that’s in inches. Each foot was literally a foot long! For some reason, probably because I was insecure, I was terribly embarrassed about them.
Try as I might, there wasn’t a single thing I could do to change the matter. There were plenty of diet and exercise programs to help people lose inches off their waists but none designed to take inches off their feet. So I was stuck with large feet. I felt my only option was to wait, watch, and hope they didn’t keep growing.
What’s so bad about big feet? Well, for boys, I think they’re normal and pretty much expected. For girls, it’s a little different. Most girls I know borrow shoes from their mom or their sisters. All I could do was borrow my dad’s, and they never did match any of my outfits.
Also, the world wasn’t designed for big-footed women. I felt awkward when I went bowling or skating with my friends because I had to get men’s shoes or skates. I didn’t want my friends to notice, so I would usually wait until they were putting their shoes or skates on before I got my own.
I sometimes wondered why I was destined to have such large feet. Then one day when I was having shoes “specially” ordered for my high school musical, a costume designer told me that my foot wasn’t really all that long; I just had really long, slender toes. I played the piano with my long, slender fingers. Maybe having long, slender toes wasn’t such a bad thing.
That comment was my big turnaround. I decided to take the designer’s observation as a compliment. I stopped seeing my feet as a huge, gargantuan, never-fitting-into-anything embarrassment. I began to see my feet in a whole new light—as something unique to me.
My grandma told me I inherited my feet from my tall ancestors. That made sense to me because I was pretty tall. Maybe my feet had to be longer to give me balance. The size of my feet was imbedded in my own personal genetic code, along with other traits like my skin, hair, and eye color.
As I began to move past embarrassment, I learned to love my feet. I figured I might as well because they would be mine for the rest of my life. They were my wonderful feet. Once I took ownership of that fact, things started to change. I no longer whispered my size when asking for rental shoes but boldly stated, “I need a size 10 in men’s, please”—even when I was on a date! If I received a questioning glance, I would simply add, “Oh, I have big feet.”
I can hardly call this a huge trial, for it pales in comparison to many other struggles in life. But I have learned a bit of a lesson from my feet. Everything in life is not in my control. Oh, I can plan and work hard to reach worthy goals and achieve personal dreams, but some things are pretty much out of my control. But there are two things I have complete and total control over in my life: my attitude and my behavior.
Now I try not to focus on all the things I can’t control. When something happens I can’t control, I instead focus on how I’m going to think and act. I’m not alone, either, because the Savior is always there. He knows me; He loves me; and He wants to help me!
So, when life takes a different road, remember you have control over what you’re going to do about it, even if it’s a little thing—or big thing—like feet.

Derek was born with serious physical handicaps. In his five years on earth, he knew little of the world of those who run, play hide-and-seek, skip rope, or feel free of pain. But he knew how he could feel better. When things were tough, when he suffered and those around him were weary and discouraged, he would hold up his arms and ask, “Let me hold you?” In his innocence, he knew he could kindly lift others—even while he endured hardship.
It is important to develop the attribute of kindness even if we feel we are too shy or too busy. For some, like young Derek, it requires little forethought; for others who have not developed the natural inclination to be kind, it demands a greater effort.

Ric ran his hands across the gold letters on the front of his new book. His friends crowded closer.
“That’s so cool!” Jake said. “I’ve never seen a red Book of Mormon before.”
“It looks like it would fit in your shirt pocket,” Jarom added.
“It does,” Ric said, slipping it into his pocket and then taking it back out again. Just then the Primary president welcomed everyone to sharing time, so the boys stopped talking. But Ric couldn’t help glancing down at his book from time to time.
When Primary was over, Ric stopped by the nursery to pick up his little sister. Dad was already there.
“Have you seen Mom?” Dad asked.
“No, but I hope she’s ready to go,” Ric said. “I’m hungry!”
Ric’s stomach was growling by the time they found Mom, but he smiled when he saw Brother and Sister Bird standing by her. Well, Brother Bird was standing. Sister Bird was sitting in her wheelchair, as always. Mom said Sister Bird had a disease called multiple sclerosis, or MS, which made it hard for her to use her muscles. Sometimes she was in pain, but she always had a smile for everyone. Brother and Sister Bird were some of Ric’s favorite people in the ward.
“Why, hello there, young man,” Brother Bird said, shaking Ric’s hand. “How was Primary today?”
“It was awesome. I got to show everyone this.” Ric held up his small red book.
“What’s that?” asked Sister Bird.
“It’s my new Book of Mormon. My grandparents sent it to me,” Ric said as he handed it to her.
“I’ve never seen one of these,” said Sister Bird, turning the pocket-sized red book over in her hands. “It’s so small and light. I love to read the Book of Mormon, but my hands get so tired holding my scriptures that I have to stop after a few minutes. But I could hold this a long time.” She handed it back.
Ric looked at his cool book. Then he looked at Sister Bird.
“Here, Sister Bird. I want you to have this.” Ric put the Book of Mormon back in her hands.
“Are you sure?” asked Brother Bird.
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Oh, Ric, thank you.” Sister Bird’s eyes filled with tears. “Reading the scriptures helps me get through days when I’m in pain. Your little book will really help me.” She reached out and gave him a big hug.
As they walked to the car, Mom said, “You’re awfully quiet. Are you sad you gave your book away?”
“Not really. It was cool, but I have another Book of Mormon at home. Besides, I think that what’s inside the book is more important than what’s on the outside.”
Mom lovingly squeezed his shoulder.
“I just hope Grandma and Grandpa won’t be sad that I gave my Book of Mormon away.”
“Trust me, Ric, they won’t.”
Ric had a feeling his mom was right.

When I was seven years old I made my performing debut in a Primary operetta in the Douglas Ward in Salt Lake City. I played Raggedy Andy, and the night of our performance is one of my first truly vivid memories. I remember the costume my mother made out of white wool with red, green, and yellow stripes and the large buttons covered with the same material. (Patches of that costume are now in a well-worn quilt in my closet.) I remember the smell of the lipstick making large round circles on my cheeks. I remember the duet I sang with a little friend, “I’m Raggedy Andy—and I’m Little Anne. We’re sewed together, you see. If some little girl chooses one of us, she’ll have to take both you and me.” (We were separated, of course, and the story hung on our getting back together again. It was a sad story with a happy ending, as many stories are.) I remember walking home on that summer night, thrilled with the adventure of performing. And from then on, whenever being in a play was suggested, no hand shot up faster than mine.

Daddy has taken me—only me—camping today! Baby Justin is at home with Mama. And Claire and Michael are home, too—they have each gone with Daddy before. I have waited and waited, and finally it’s my turn.
Daddy and I clear a space for the tent. We fling sticks into the trees, and Daddy digs up a rock with his fingers. “It was waiting to poke into my back when I lie down,” he says.
We put up the tent. It’s a two-man tent that’s just right for Daddy and me. “You could almost put it up yourself,” Daddy says.
We walk down to the river. Daddy straps on my life jacket, nice and snug. When I climb into the front of the canoe, it wobbles. I’m a little scared, but Daddy holds it still while I sit down. “I’m here,” he says. “I won’t let it tip over.” He pushes the canoe away from the shore, and we slip into the silent river. I lift my oar and flip a few drops of water back at Daddy. He flips some at me.
A breeze sends yellow leaves flying. They float down, down, down, to land lightly—golden boats on the shimmering green silk river.
We eat sandwiches on a little island where frogs sing. Daddy teaches me to skip stones on the quiet water. Hop, hop, plop.
Back at our campsite, dusk is falling. We gather wood—tiny twigs, medium-size sticks, and thick logs. Daddy starts the fire.
I watch the flames lick the sticks. Sparks crackle and fly into the black sky to meet the stars. The stars wink and blink. I blink. I think my eyes are sizzling. I move a little farther from the fire.
We eat our campfire supper, then toss our plates and cups into the flames. The cups shrivel. The plates blacken, then flare up.
We roast marshmallows and make icky, sticky, gooey, messy, yummy s’mores. My fingers stick together, so I lick them clean.
I lean against Daddy. He tells me stories of when he was little with his father. The stories are funny at first. Then quieter.
We watch the fire.
“I like to be alone with you sometimes,” I say. “When we’re at home, everyone wants to talk to you at the same time.”
Daddy nods. “I hear you even in a crowd, but sometimes we need to be in quiet places to talk and listen, to know each other even better.”
I snuggle closer.
Daddy continues, “Just like with Heavenly Father. He hears us in crowds, but I still like to pray to Him in quiet places. To talk, to listen, and to know Him better.”
“Me, too,” I say.

Opportunities for Christian acts of service do not always come at convenient times. Approximately two or three years ago I was in southern California. I had reorganized a stake. Just as I was getting ready to go out to the airport where I could relax and just let down, a woman approached me. She was in her mature years and she said, “Elder Featherstone, are you going back to Salt Lake today?” I said, “Yes.” She continued, “Are you going on that four o’clock flight?” I responded that I was. Then she said, “Would you mind doing a favor for me?” I quickly thought about the schedule I had just been through, and the flesh was begging for a little break. I assumed she wanted me to hand carry something to her relatives. I never check baggage unless I absolutely have to. I wondered if I would have to check what it was I assumed she wanted me to bring back. I thought about waiting at the baggage claim for the item; then I wondered where it would need to be delivered. Only a moment’s pondering and as always, the spirit thrust aside all empty excuses and responded as a service-oriented leader should.
I said, “I will be glad to help in whatever way possible.” Then the woman said, “My grandson Phillip has been down here with me for a couple of weeks. How would you like to baby-sit him home to Salt Lake? He is two-and-a-half years old. His mother will be waiting for him at the airport.” We arranged to meet at the Los Angeles Airport, where the grandmother introduced me to Phillip. Before we boarded the plane she said, “Here is an envelope. Will you wait until you are on the plane to open it?” I found out why she made that request later.
Phillip and I boarded the plane. We sat on the row behind the bulkhead.
I reached into my pocket and opened the letter from the grandmother. It went something like this:
“Dear Elder Featherstone, Thank you for taking Phillip back to Salt Lake and baby-sitting him for us. We appreciate it. His mother will be there at the airport to meet you; but if she is not there, then here is what you do.”
Then she had written, “The reason I did not dare have you open the letter before you were on board the plane is that I did not have enough courage to ask you to do another favor for us. Phillip’s brother Ricky is in the University of Utah Hospital. He has had constant seizures, many a day. The doctors do not know what else to do. They have done all they know, and he still has the problem. Do you think you could possibly find time to go by the hospital and give him a blessing?”
When we arrived in Salt Lake, there was no one to meet us at the gate. We walked the length of the terminal. Still no one recognized Phillip. We went down the escalator, past the baggage claim, and out to the curb. I have done some unusual things in our marriage, but I wondered what my wife would say when I came home from a stake conference with a two-and-a-half-year-old boy.
I looked around and stood with Phillip for a moment, and then the mother pulled up along the curb. She had been delayed coming to the airport. The sweet mother was very kind, and she loaded a happy Phillip and all his gear into the car.
A short while later I was standing in one of the pediatric wards at the University of Utah Hospital. There were about six children in cribs. An attendant was mopping the floor, and then he left the room. I was all alone in the hospital room with these six beautiful children.
I found out which was Ricky’s bed and went over to him. I said, “My name is Vaughn Featherstone. Do you know who I just left?” He said, “No,” and I said, “I came back from Los Angeles today, and I brought your brother Phillip home. I told him I was coming here to see you.” Ricky was only four, but tears came to his eyes. He missed his little brother.
Then I said to him, “Ricky, I am a friend of President Spencer W. Kimball, and he loves you. President Kimball is a prophet. Your grandmother asked me if I would give you a blessing. Do you know what it means when someone lays his hands on your head and gives you a blessing?” He said, “Yes.” And then I said, “Ricky, do you believe in Jesus?” He said, “Yes.” “Do you know that Jesus loves you? Do you know that Jesus can heal you?” He answered, “Yes.” Then I asked, “Would you like me to give you a blessing so you can be healed?” “Yes,” he said.
I laid my hands upon his head and gave Ricky a blessing. An interesting thing happened in the little pediatric ward. The other children stopped playing or crying and seemed to listen.
When I finished the blessing I reached in my pocket and pulled out a beautifully polished rock with my name on it that someone had given me. I gave it to Ricky, so that when his mother came she would know that I had been there.
Two years later I was in the Kingsport Tennessee Stake and a sweet young mother came up to me after conference. She told me it was her mother that had asked me to baby-sit Phillip and bless Ricky and then she said, “Have you ever had any feedback on your blessing?” I told her I had not. Then she shared with me the great miracle, “Ricky has not had another seizure since you gave him the blessing.”
It was not opportune to take Phillip home, nor was it convenient to drop by the University of Utah Medical Center; but it was what Jesus would have done. Our service must always lead us to ask, “What would Jesus do?”

“In 1976 an area general conference was held in Copenhagen, Denmark. Following the closing session, President Spencer W. Kimball [1895–1985] desired to visit the Vor Frue Church, where the Thorvaldsen statues of the Christus and of the Twelve Apostles stand. …
“To the front of the church, behind the altar, stands the familiar statue of the Christus with His arms turned forward and somewhat outstretched, the hands showing the imprint of the nails, and the wound in His side very clearly visible. Along each side stand the statues of the Apostles, Peter at the front to the right and the other Apostles in order.
“Most of our group was near the rear of the chapel with the custodian. I stood up front with President Kimball before the statue of Peter with Elder Rex D. Pinegar and Johan Helge Benthin, president of the Copenhagen stake.
“In Peter’s hand, depicted in marble, is a set of heavy keys. President Kimball pointed to those keys and explained what they symbolized. Then, in an act I shall never forget, he turned to President Benthin and with unaccustomed firmness pointed his finger at him and said, ‘I want you to tell everyone in Denmark that I hold the keys! We hold the real keys, and we use them every day.’
“I will never forget that declaration, that testimony from the prophet. The influence was spiritually powerful; the impression was physical in its impact.
“We walked to the back of the chapel where the rest of the group was standing. Pointing to the statues, President Kimball said to the kind custodian, ‘These are the dead Apostles.’ Pointing to me, he said, ‘Here we have the living Apostles. Elder Packer is an Apostle. Elder Thomas S. Monson and Elder L. Tom Perry are Apostles, and I am an Apostle. We are the living Apostles.
“‘You read about the Seventies in the New Testament, and here are two of the living Seventies, Elder Rex D. Pinegar and Elder Robert D. Hales.’
“The custodian, who up to that time had shown no emotion, suddenly was in tears.
“I felt I had had an experience of a lifetime.”2