Gospel Story Finder

In our squadron I had a dear friend who was an outstanding football player. Years before, his team played in a New Year’s Day bowl game. Before a sold-out stadium and a large television audience, his team lost 61-6. It turned out he and a few other members of his team had not kept the training rules. They paid a dear price. They had to live with knowing they were not prepared to play the big game; they had to live with the final score for the rest of their lives.
Years passed. Two members of this same football team were in my flight training unit. One was an exemplary, well-disciplined student and a model pilot who had learned his lesson well from the bowl game.
However, the other had not learned to listen to those with more knowledge and experience. When his turn would come to learn emergency procedures and to precondition his mental and physical responses so they would be automatic, even instantaneous, my friend would put his arm around the airman instructor and say, “Check me off for three hours of emergency procedure.” Then, instead of training, he would go to the pistol range or play golf or go to the officers’ club. But he never learned the emergency procedures.
On one occasion he was asked what he would do in an emergency. His answer: “I am never going to bail out; I am never going to have an emergency.”
On an evening mission a few months later, fire erupted in his plane, and it dropped below 5,000 feet, spinning in flames. Noting the fire warning light, the younger pilot who was with him said, “Let’s get out of here.” And with the centrifugal force pulling against him, the younger man, who had taken his training seriously, bailed out. His parachute opened at once and he slammed to the ground, receiving serious injuries. But he survived.
On the other hand, my friend stayed with the airplane and died in the crash. He paid the price for not having learned the lessons that could have saved his life.

I am old enough that when I went on a mission all the missionaries were set apart by general authorities. A newly ordained apostle who had just been called to the Quorum of the Twelve in October Conference of that year put his hands on my head and said among other things, "There will be clouds-but the sun will come out." When I am faced with another patch of dark clouds on the horizon I am always grateful for that personal blessing and reminder given by Elder Gordon B Hinckley. The sun will come out. There will certainly be times when things look dark, but that is an opportunity to build your faith. Without a little bit of darkness there is no opportunity to build faith. Remember, some uncertainty is part of the plan.

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”
The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times.

Some time ago, a young mother of four came to see me upon recommendation from her bishop. She had left her husband about two months prior to our talk.
As we talked about her reasons for leaving her husband, it was obvious to me that she loved him very much and that he was true to her. But he expected her to be a perfect in every aspect of their relationship. He would not tolerate her weaknesses, and he never let her win an argument. If it appeared she might win, he would make sure she didn’t—by physical force, if necessary.
I then talked with the husband, who spent two hours telling me how much he loved his wife. He confessed that he had struck her. He knew it was wrong, and was very sorry he had done it. But now he felt he had repented; he was sure he wouldn’t ever abuse her again, and he wanted a chance to make things right.
He sounded sincere, but that wasn’t enough. I felt he still needed to be carried a bit further in his commitment to a very important principle in building eternal relationships. So we talked about letting others win some of the time.
He admitted that he always had to have his own way and that he got impatient with his wife whenever she did anything differently than he wanted. I tried to help him see that he didn’t always have to be the winner in every little matter. Rather than always trying to prove that he was right, he needed to invite his wife to share her ideas with him so that they could both arrive at mutually satisfactory conclusions. In that way, they would both be winners. I told him she needed the freedom to make some of her own decisions without fear of constant ridicule or criticism. He agreed to try.
It wasn’t easy for him, I’m sure. The habit of years couldn’t be changed overnight. But the two of them gradually worked it out.

One final story from my time spent serving in student wards. Unfortunately, this is a negative example; an example of how someone who didn=t understand this principle Elder Holland was teaching may have became a stumbling block to those around him.

It is often said, Aobedience is the first law of heaven.@ While I don=t know where this exact saying originated, there are many scriptures that teach the importance of obedience. Even the very scripture about love that has been the center of our discussion today reaffirms the importance of obedience:
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. Ye are my friends, if ye do whatsoever I command you. (John 15:12-14)

Any successful returned missionary can bear testimony to the truth of this principle of obedience. If they can=t, I would submit to you that their mission was not as successful as they may think. My story is about one such returned missionary.

As in all singles wards, our brethren consisted of both returned missionaries, the experienced, all-knowing, and mighty RMs, and those whom the sisters lovingly referred to as Apreemies.@ You know what I=m talking about. Too much fun, I fear, may have been had at their expense. But one day they will return to campus, having served the Lord valiantly for two years, and claim their rightful place and the title of Returned Missionary.

In my position as the bishop, I was aware of the influence many such returned missionaries had on the younger brethren in our ward. Great was the example of many of these men on those who would shortly find themselves called as ambassadors of the Lord Jesus Christ throughout the world. Unfortunately, there were also exceptions.

I remember one day as one of my returned missionaries walked into the Elder=s Quorum meeting just before it began and sat down close to a few of our younger brethren. He was an outgoing and seemingly carefree person that seemed to thoroughly enjoy life. Today he was wearing a most unusual and bold necktie. It literally screamed at you, so much so, in fact, that it spawned several comments from those around him.

He explained that he had purchased the tie while on his mission but that his mission president didn=t like it and had asked him not to wear it. Then he said something in such a dismissive way that it made me want to cry for him, and scream ANo@ in the ears of those future missionaries, literally sitting at his feet. ASo I just didn=t wear it whenever the President was around.@ Several laughed with him and the meeting began.

What effect had this blatant expression of a disobedient attitude from one who should have known better had on those who heard it? I would probably never know for sure. Some would argue that we=re only talking about a necktie. But in my mind=s eye, I could easily imagine these future missionaries struggling, as all successful missionaries must do to some extent, to come to an understanding of the importance of obedience in their own lives. My disobedient and unthinking returned missionary certainly had not made their struggle for understanding any easier.

A year or two later I would unexpectedly encounter this same young man in a parking lot in Utah. We chatted briefly about how he was doing and what he was doing after having left Ricks College. I couldn=t help but notice that he was wearing very short cutoffs and a tanktop. It hadn=t just been about neckties, after all. It was, in fact, about obedience and temple covenants. How many others had been, and would be affected by the poor choices he was making in his own life?

I just have to thank you for the New Era. It really brightens my day. Just recently I read one through from cover to cover and then lent it to a girl friend. She quickly devoured every word, and then I took it to my place of employment—the Jackson Hole Playhouse Theater—where it was passed around one evening. One of the guys in the cast “adopted” it, and I haven’t seen it since! I am an investigator of the Church, and I can’t express in words how much the New Era has helped me in my studies. In fact, you may wish to know that I plan to be baptized.
Cindy ShufeldtJackson, Wyoming

Years ago as a young elder, I was called with others to a hospital in Salt Lake City to provide blessings for sick children. Upon entering, we noted a Christmas tree with its bright and friendly lights and saw carefully wrapped packages beneath its outstretched limbs. We then went through corridors where small boys and girls—some with plaster casts upon an arm or leg, others with ailments that perhaps could not be cured so readily—greeted us with smiling faces.
A young, desperately ill small boy called out to me, “What is your name?”
I told him my name, and he inquired, “Will you give me a blessing?”
The blessing was provided, and as we turned to leave his bedside, he said, “Thank you very much.”
We walked a few steps, and then I heard him call, “Oh, Brother Monson, merry Christmas to you.” Then a great smile flashed across his countenance.
That boy had the spirit of Christmas. The spirit of Christmas is something I hope all of us would have in our hearts and lives—not only at this particular season but also throughout the year.

Let me close with an example of how one whose light was burning bright affected others and turned what was a haunted place, at least for one person, into a holy place. It comes from an article written by Rick Reilly, who in my opinion is one of the best sportswriters of our time. It was written in the fall of 2012. Because he writes so well, I will quote extensively from his version of the story:

In the scrub-brush desert town of Queen Creek, Ariz., high school bullies were throwing trash at sophomore Chy Johnson. Calling her “stupid.” Pushing her in the halls. [Making it, I would say, a haunted place.]
Chy’s brain works at only a third-grade level because of a genetic birth defect, but she knew enough to feel hate.
“She’d come home every night at the start of the school year crying and upset,” says her mom, Liz Johnson. “That permanent smile she had, that gleam in her eye, that was all gone.”
Her mom says she tried to talk to teachers and administrators and got nowhere. So she tried a whole new path—the starting quarterback of the undefeated football team. After all, senior Carson Jones had once escorted Chy to the Special Olympics.
“Just keep your ear to the ground,” Liz wrote to Carson on his Facebook page. “Maybe get me some names?”
But Carson Jones did something better than that. Instead of ratting other kids out, he decided to take one in—Chy.
He started asking her to eat at the cool kids’ lunch table with him and his teammates. “I just thought that if they saw her with us every day, maybe they’d start treating her better,” Carson says. . . .
It got better. Starting running back Tucker Workman made sure somebody was walking between classes with Chy. In classes, cornerback Colton Moore made sure she sat in the row right behind the team.
Just step back a second. In some schools, it’s the football players doing the bullying. At Queen Creek, they’re stopping it. And not with fists—with straight-up love for a kid most teenage football players wouldn’t even notice, much less hang out with. . . .
It’s working.
“I was parking my car yesterday, and I saw a couple of the guys talking to her and being nice,” says offensive lineman Bryce Oakes. “I think it’s making a difference around here.”
And the best thing is? The football players didn’t tell anybody.
“I didn’t know about any of this until three weeks ago,” says Carson’s mom, Rondalee, who’s raising four boys and a daughter by herself. “He finally showed me an article they wrote here locally. I said, ‘Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you tell me this?’”
All of a sudden, Chy started coming home as her bubbly self again. When her mom asked why she was so happy, she said, “I’m eating lunch with my boys!” . . .
I get emailed stories like this a lot, but most of the time they don’t pan out. They turn out to be half true, or true for the first week but not the second. But when I walked into the Queen Creek High School cafeteria Tuesday, unannounced, there was 4-foot-high Chy with 11 senior football players, eating her lunch around the most packed lunch table you’ve ever seen, grinning like it was Christmas morning. . . .
“I thank Carson every chance I see him,” says Chy’s mom. “He’s an amazing young man. He’s going to go far in life.”
Nobody knows how far Chy Johnson will go in life. The life expectancy of those afflicted with her disease, microcephaly, is only 25–30 years. But her sophomore year, so far, has been unforgettable. [I might say it has been turned from a haunted place into a holy place.] . . .
But what about next year, when Carson probably will be on his Mormon mission and all of Chy’s boys will have graduated?
Not to worry. Carson has a little brother on the team, Curtis, who’s in Chy’s class.
“Mom,” he announced at the dinner table the other night, “I got this.”
Lucky girl.30

I was once teaching the law of tithing to a group of Church leaders in Africa. One brother said, “Elder Tingey, how can I pay tithing when I have no income?” I inquired and determined that he had a large family of seven or eight children and was unemployed. I asked how he fed his family. He said he had a small garden and raised geese. I asked, “What do the geese do?” He replied, “They lay eggs.” I responded, “What if one morning you discovered 10 geese eggs in the nests of your geese?” A light flickered on in his soul. “I could take one egg and give it to my branch president,” he answered. He understood, and he could become a full-tithe payer.

When a new dean was chosen to fill the post I had occupied here at BYU, I was anxious for the future of that division. For a quarter of a century I had prayed and worked with this stepchild of the University—the Extension Division of Continuing Education. The Lord poured out his blessings upon it over the years to make it one of the most respected extension programs among the institutions of higher learning in this country. There were several promising young men as candidates for the deanship. We could have honestly recommended several. In the office of the new and young president of Brigham Young University we discussed the choice. Then I heard President Oaks say, “This is a most important decision. I think we should kneel in prayer and ask the Lord for guidance.” I knelt down with him and another Ph.D., Vice-President Thomas. The prayer was simple and direct. He asked for light and discernment in whatever course of action we were about to take. And when we arose, I knew by the manifestations of the Spirit that the Lord would not fail us. I didn’t see the name of the next dean written on the wall, but I felt good about whatever might be done. I knew that we would not make a bad choice. And isn’t this feeling the most important blessing that God could give anyone? When President Oaks mentioned a name, we all agreed. And there was a good spirit present.

Now I’m just simple enough to believe that the Lord will stand by that feeling which he gives us. The new dean may stay a short or a long time. The blessings we ask for come in unexpected ways, but if the will of the Lord is done what is there to fear?

Henry Machado tugged the top of his sleeping bag over his tousled hair, rolled over, and tried to rationalize a few more minutes of sleep. Somehow, though, the sun stole its way past the folds of fabric and pried his eyelids open.
It was cozy inside the bag, and his stiff muscles, still aching from 70 miles of pedaling the previous day, urged him to rest as long as he could.
Henry was just one of a group of Explorers from Post 263, sponsored by the San Jose Tenth Ward, San Jose California South Stake. The post members were waking up to the second day of a 480-mile bicycle trip, and even though they had trained for three months to prepare for the effort, they knew they had been through a workout.
“We would get pretty tired sometimes,” Kurk Bakow recalled later, reminiscing about the trip with others in the post. “Some of the big hills nearly wore us out, especially when they came at the end of the day. But the work was worth it for what we got to see and for the closeness it brought to us, working together and pulling for each other.”
Henry knew the struggle was worth it, too. But it was cold outside the covers. Rousing himself, he unzipped the bag and ran to join the others clustered around the supply van as a mildly chilling breeze tickled the tails of their T-shirts. It was time for the daily briefing, an agreed-upon-in-advance procedure for the 11-day trip. Each morning the riders would review the agenda for the day (including the route to be followed, the menu for meals, cooking and clean-up assignments, and locations for lunch), review safety tips (such as wearing helmets while riding), and pray. They would also inspect the mechanical condition of each bike before breaking camp.
On the day the Explorers left San Jose, a ham-and-egg breakfast was served by the Mia Maid and Laurel classes, and then Brother Jensen, a member of the bishopric, gathered the cyclists around him, thanked the Lord for his goodness, and asked him to bless them with a safe trip.
“Most of us work together as a teachers quorum as well as in Scouting. It was reassuring to have the bishopric ask the Lord for his blessing before we left,” Danny Case explained.
Besides briefings and morning and evening prayers, the rest of each day followed a tight timetable, too. Travel began by 8:00 each morning and ended upon arrival at a predetermined camp for the night around 3:00 in the afternoon. There was always time to just lounge around, swim, or play football on the beach, but there was also an evening meal to prepare, and it didn’t take much coaxing to get everyone to bed early. They knew they would need the rest to have energy for the next day.
Some days were scheduled as long rides, consecrated to covering territory so that other days could be spent casually, touring at will. “The neatest part was being able to see so much at one time,” Mike Powell said. “We were out in the open, traveling through mountains and fields, sleeping on beaches, and were able to take time just to enjoy nature. It didn’t rush by like it does in a car. We were part of it. It helped me appreciate the love Heavenly Father must have for us to give us such a beautiful place to live.”
The distance covered daily averaged 65 miles. A one-day rest stop was planned Sunday so the Sabbath could be observed at Arroyo-Grande Ward, Glendale California Stake, in Pismo Beach. Another day was planned for the train trip home (nobody wanted to turn around and pump his bike the same distance the other way), and a day and a half were set aside for Disneyland. This left eight days of pedaling to travel 480 miles.
“It’s important to remember we just didn’t start out cold,” David Sackett said. “Sixty-five miles is a lot of bicycling for one day. We worked for months getting in shape.” The training program required each Explorer to cycle 300 to 325 miles a month for the three months prior to the trip. Each participant had to ride at least four days a week. In addition, once each month the trainees pumped the pedals through a 75-mile practice run.
Squeezing in training around a summer job might seem like a burden, but Steve Fowler managed it well. “Kevin Jolley (the post president) and I would get up early, around 6:00 A.M., and go out on his paper route. When the route was done, we’d just keep on going. I had a late night job, so I could go home and rest before work. When it got hard practicing so much, I’d think that if I didn’t push myself, I’d run out of energy during the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t get to go. That made me work harder.”
Training sessions on bike maintenance (including instructions about which parts to carry in a seat or handlebar pack), safety and first aid (a first-aid kit was attached to each bike), and physical care during periods of strenuous exercise were also conducted throughout the summer. A local bicycle shop provided training and parts. The owner kept his shop open late for classes and worked with each boy individually. He wasn’t LDS, but he seemed eager to talk with the group members about their Church-related activities.
Andy Carlstrom described the orange T-shirts the group bought with funds raised for the trip: “We had them silk-screened with the name of our ward, post, and a map of our route on them. The color made us more visible to traffic and worked as a safety factor in our favor, and the shirts also identified the post as a group,” he said.
Nine post members made the trip, along with Herbert C. “Chuck” Carlstrom, post advisor, and Chet Harmer, a post committee man. They were joined at the third stop by the Young Men’s president, Dale Van Horn, and his wife, Beryl. In the “Sag Wagon,” as the supply van was nicknamed, rode Hank and Olga Machado and their two children, Mike and Andrea. Hank is another member of the post committee. Scott Mortensen, a recently returned missionary, accompanied them. Janine Van Horn joined the group in another truck along the route.
Brother Carlstrom, in his daily journal, narrates the contentment he reveled in one evening: “We made camp. Some of us wanted to sleep on the beach, but after a while we were forced to higher ground by the unusually high tide. … The day’s end caught most of us watching the beauty of the coast as wild fowl flew … before us. As the sun sank … , it filled the sky with all shades of reds and oranges, with slight traces of pink. … It was replaced by the moon, almost full, as it came over the mountains in back of us, painting the ocean’s surface with flickering light. It was soon joined by other heavenly bodies and God’s handiwork was displayed before us. We had just received our compensation for an afternoon of hard, uphill riding, and we all were thankful.”
Danny shared similar sentiments. “Being able to see nature and many of the things the Lord has created on the earth strengthened my testimony of the plan of salvation and the creation of the world. I never realized how much there was to see.” Bob Nelson said he felt the most impressive part of the trip was following the road along Pismo Beach. On the left mountains jutted up into the sky. On the right hundreds of feet below, ocean waves hurled themselves into the rocky shoreline, jetting streams of water high in the air. At the tops of hills, the view continued for 15 or 20 miles.
The trip’s itinerary, along with the distance covered each day, included: Monterey (70 miles), Kirk Creek south of Big Sur (65 miles), San Simeon State Beach (40 miles), Pismo Beach (51 miles), Gaviota State Beach (65 miles), McGrath State Beach (65 miles), Santa Monica (55 miles), and Anaheim (46 miles). The route from San Jose to Anaheim was part of a 1,000-mile Bicentennial bikeway that stretches from Oregon to Mexico. Many of the stops retraced—only backwards—the route taken by the founders of San Francisco, led by Juan Bautista de Anza from Mexico.
The journey offered glimpses into the past, reflecting the colonizing efforts of Spanish, Russian, and Mexican explorers. Forts, lighthouses, missions, and old mining and lumbering areas were passed on the road. The route also showcased the modern agricultural bustle of northern California.
The cyclists divided themselves into sub-groups of two or three. “It was the buddy system used all the time in Scouting,” Andy explained. “Each person is responsible for the others with him. That way no one gets lost or left alone.” Kevin noted that those who were fast or slow were paired together.
Brother Harmer said he felt the Lord had protected the group. “It’s interesting that we went about 6,500 man-miles with only one slight tumble as an accident,” he noted. Others chimed in their agreement, noting that all the flat tires occurred on level ground instead of on steep downhill grades, and most of them at the end of the day, just as the group pulled into camp.
Still, there were a few difficult moments along the way. One morning during the first part of the trip, the cyclists were enshrouded in a damp fog. They had to stop and dig deep in their gear to find jackets. One night they reached the scheduled campground and found it closed. A friendly ranger let them camp a mile away on the beach at a picnic ground.
Later, anticipating an easy trip on flat land, the riders were buffeted by strong headwinds, which slowed their progress almost as much as an uphill grade. Another time they battled two large hills, one 15 miles long and rising 1,500 feet, in temperatures that exceeded 100 degrees F. at 10:00 A.M. What was worse, the road veered inland, away from the cooling effect of the coastal waters.
“We learned to appreciate the ocean more after that,” Mike Powell said. “When we got back to the beach that night, just about everyone went swimming to cool off.”
The rough spots were worth enduring, though. “There’s not one person who went on the trip, including the leaders, with whom I don’t have something in common now,” Danny said.
The final Saturday, having put the bikes on the train the day before, the weary travelers boarded to return home. There was plenty of room to stretch out and relax, and soon they were snoozers, not bikers.
Somehow, though, when the train finally halted in San Jose and they had to remount their cycles for another seven-mile jaunt to the chapel, they seemed almost eager to be riding once again. Soon they would be home recuperating, sharing a slice of their saga with their families.

One of the first skills we taught was lane changing. In order to make it simple, we reduced the proper procedure to a four-step code word, SMOG. The letters stood for the steps the beginning driver needs to take—signal, mirrors, over-the-shoulder glance, and go. When done in proper sequence, these steps lead to a safe lane change. When any of the four is left out, an accident can happen.
One morning I was with a group of new drivers. On a relatively quiet four-lane road we were practicing lane changes. A young man persistently failed to look over his shoulder before making the maneuver. After reminding him several times, I was growing impatient.
“Jim,” I said, “you’re not checking your blind spot. Now try it again.” The result was the same—signal, mirror, and go. He again neglected to glance over his shoulder.
This time I was more insistent. “Check your blind spot!” I roared.
“I did,” he answered.
“You did NOT. And you’re going to get us killed if you aren’t careful.”
“Yes, I did. I looked in my mirrors to check the blind spot.”
I realized then that he didn’t understand the principle of blind spots. We were in the right lane, and I called his attention to an 18-wheeler approaching from the rear.
“See that truck in your mirror?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to keep watching it as it approaches. Slow down a little so he has to pass. Now keep glancing in your mirrors and tell me what happens.”
As the truck approached, my student driver suddenly exclaimed, “He’s gone!”
“Look over your shoulder,” I instructed.
Sure enough, there was the truck hidden in our blind spot. A lane change at that moment would have most likely been fatal. Suddenly I had a believer. The young driver was so startled by the nearness of the truck that I had to grab the wheel and help him steer until he could calm down.
My student learned a lot that morning. Never again did he fail to check his blind spot before making a lane change. I also learned a lot with that experience. I began to realize that life itself is full of blind spots, and we all too often make lane changes without looking very carefully at the consequences.

Sam John could hardly wait until class was over so he could talk with Brother Murphy. He had a very special question to ask—one that he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
At first Sam had gone to Brother Murphy’s classes because he liked being with the older boys and girls who attended. Then he kept going because of the lovely music. Finally he found that more important than anything else was the feeling he had when he listened to the things Brother Murphy said.
Now he had to know if these things were really true!
Sam John waited patiently until almost everyone had left the class. Then he went up to the white-haired man and asked if he could talk with him alone. A bench under a spreading tree made a perfect place for Sam to ask his most important question.
“Brother Murphy,” he began, “are these things you have told us about Jesus and Joseph Smith really true?”
The man looked down, surprised that a boy only eight years old could be so serious and sincere. Then he took the boy’s hand, looked into his eyes, and asked a question too. “Sam,” he said, “do you think Sister Murphy and I and all the other missionaries who have come to these classes would spend money to come to Hawaii and take our precious time to tell you these things if we did not know they are true?”
Without hesitation, Sam answered, “I believe these things too, and I want to be baptized into your Church.”
Then Sam told Brother Murphy that his mother had been baptized when she was just a little girl, but that she didn’t understand much about the Church and had never been active in it.
“What would she think if you were baptized?” Brother Murphy asked. “And what about your father?”
Sam had to admit that he didn’t think his father would be very happy, but he promised to talk to him.
A few days later Sam John’s father, a Chinese-Hawaiian, went to the mission home. “What is this you have been teaching my son to affect him so much?” he demanded. “He even wants to become a member of your Church.”
“Mr. John,” the mission president answered, “I’m glad you’ve come to talk with me. There is nothing we’ve taught Sam that you should not also know, especially since your boy wants to be baptized.”
The next night Sam’s father went back to the mission home, and the next, and the next.
Sam could hardly believe it when a few weeks later his father suggested that Sam wait a little while to be baptized so that he and Sam’s older brother could be baptized.
Now we are united as a family, Sam thought after their baptisms, and it seemed as if his heart would burst with happiness.

“Choises le bien.” That is what my Primary teacher had said. In English that means “choose the right.” She then gave each of us a CTR ring—in French it is a CLB ring—and challenged us to make good choices in our lives. The whole week after that lesson, I tried extra hard to do what I thought Jesus Christ would have me do.
On Monday, when I saw Nicolette fall down, I hurried to help her. This made me feel good inside. My teacher had said that when we made good choices, we would have a warm, peaceful feeling.
On Wednesday, I fought with my sister Tiffany. She had taken the toy I wanted to play with, so I grabbed it from her. Then I saw my CLB ring. Taking the toy from her like that was not choosing the right. When I thought about that, I gave it back, and I again felt happy inside.
On Friday, I did not want to help clean the house, but I knew that the Savior would want me to help my mother. When I was done, I felt snugly warm inside, like my heart was wrapped in a new quilt.
Although I felt good about the choices I had made, something bothered me. What if I did not know what the right choice was? What would I do then?
The next morning I heard Maman’s (Mom’s) voice coming into the room like a tickle of sound. “Bonjour, bonjour (Good morning, good morning),” she said as she came over to me and playfully rubbed my head. Then she stretched to reach Tiffany on the top bunk. Maman’s stretch made one leg leave the ground like the flamingos we saw on our family vacation. I laughed and Maman laughed, but Tiffany did not wake up.
“J’ai faim (I’m hungry),” I said as Maman did another flamingo stretch to try to wake Tiffany. This stretch ended in a “flamingo flop” on my bed. We both giggled.
“So you are hungry? I am making crepes (thin pancakes with something rolled inside). What do you want in yours?”
I was not sure what to choose. What was the right choice? I looked at my ring. I still did not know what to choose. “Maman, what should I choose? All week I have known what the right choice was when I tried to do what Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would have me do. Now I don’t know what I should have in my crepe.”
Maman pulled me close. “You knew before because you were choosing between good and bad. Heavenly Father will help you to make those choices. But some choices are between two good things. Then Heavenly Father may let you choose by yourself. There are many choices that you can make—like what to wear or what to study in school.”
“Or what I want for breakfast? I want peaches and cream in my crepe.”
When I said that, Tiffany sleepily added, “I want strawberries in mine.”

Many of us are descendants of hardy pioneers, and we feel grateful and inspired by their faith-promoting examples of sacrifice. My great-grandmother Margaret McNeil Ballard recorded in her journal a pioneer experience of sacrifice that occurred when she was between nine and eleven years of age. She wrote:
“After landing we planned to go west to Utah with the Martin and Willey handcart companies; but Elder Franklin D. Richards counseled my father not to go with them. Afterwards, we were very thankful because of the great suffering, privation and cold weather to which these people were subjected. There were many of the company who were frozen that year on their journey. …
“The company we were assigned to had gone on ahead and as my mother was anxious for me to go with them she strapped my little brother James on my back with a shawl. He was only four years old and … quite sick with the measles; but I took him since my mother had all she could do to care for the other children. I hurried and caught up with the company, traveling with them all day. That night a kind lady helped me take my brother off my back. I sat up and held him on my lap with the shawl wrapped around him, alone, all night. He was a little better in the morning. The people in the camp were very good to us and gave us a little fried bacon and some bread for breakfast.
“We traveled this way for about a week, before my brother and I were united with our family again.”

In our family we had "our times" for the express purpose of one-on-one communication. And most important during these outings is the time for us to listen. I'll never forget the time when one of our daughters had a very heavy heart. She was not sure what to do or where to turn for an answer. In a busy family, it is not always simple to have a conversation without the listening ears of someone else getting into the conversation. Our daughter needed a listening ear and someone to council with. Part of the purpose of our individual "our times," is for each child to have moments just like these. We purposely set aside times for everyone. We listen closely and carefully to what children were saying or not saying depending upon individual circumstance.

This daughter wanted to go on a mission, but her two older siblings were already on missions. She had not discussed this with us fearing it would stretch the budget too far. In our father/daughter "our time" missionary service was frequently discussed with each of the children. She expressed her concerns and challenge of going on a mission, now that she was of age. I assured her that the Lord would bless her and our family if she decided to go on a mission, and that we would find the funds so she could serve.

We sat down and calculated when she should begin filling out her missionary papers. It was a special moment. She expressed a feeling of relief and gratitude when she was finally able to tell me what was truly in her heart. It was not long before she had her long list of what needed to be done. She was buying, packing and the reality of a mission brought excitement into her life. She left for her mission to Northern Spain, served with honor and returned very self fulfilled.

To this day I am grateful that we always took time to have "our times," and to listen to this beautiful daughter and to each of the children. Perhaps if the time had not been set aside to listen she would not have the experience, the memories, the spiritual development and filled the life of others with the teachings of Jesus Christ. Nothing is more important than listening to gain understanding, which can then translate into action.

When my friend Fernanda (not her real name) didn’t show up to class one Friday, I wondered what was wrong. “Is Fer feeling sick? Is she OK?” I asked as I ran over to some friends at the end of the day. “She isn’t sick,” another friend answered, “she just had to go to a psychologist.” When I asked why, she told me that Fernanda was suffering from depression and had been hurting herself. Shortly after I found out, Fernanda was admitted to the hospital for treatment, and we didn’t see her for a few weeks.
Even though we were friends, she hadn’t shared that part of her life with me. She had been hiding it from everyone because she was ashamed. She later told me that she didn’t want others to pity her or her situation. But I didn’t pity her—I just felt compassion.
That first day, I lay on my bed after school, my face buried in a pillow. I was emotionally exhausted but too anxious to sleep. My world was in chaos. I felt like I was in the middle of a storm, and so many thoughts and feelings whirled in the wind. I felt confused, lonely, and, most of all, so powerless to help.
What could I do or say to help her? How could we as friends pull together and lend our support? I couldn’t find any sort of solution to comfort my friends or myself. I prayed for inspiration but felt like my prayers just weren’t getting answered.
But the next week I had an epiphany. I was sitting in my early-morning seminary class when my teacher reminded us of the First Vision and how Joseph Smith asked Heavenly Father directly for help with his difficulties and concerns. My teacher then said, “If we seek out the Father and ask Him, He will answer us. We will never be alone.”
I realized that in my sadness, I had closed my heart off to my Heavenly Father. Even though I was trying to pray often, it wasn’t enough—I still had too much fear to find peace. I knew that He understood exactly how I felt and that He could help me. But I needed to open myself up to Him and truly trust that He could do it—I needed to exercise faith.
So I did. Over time, as I continued to pray and read my scriptures, striving to let the Savior take my burdens, I came to understand that eventually my friend’s depression would end. Despite the fact that the external chaos continued, I felt calm, balanced, in harmony. My mother kept encouraging me to seek out peace, saying, “Your friend will be OK and so will you. Stay strong in the gospel, and it will all work out.”
When Fernanda finally came back to school, I was able to provide strong support for her, but only because I had sought out and found peace through Jesus Christ myself. I tried my best to be a good listener, to be positive, and to share the gospel. I felt confident when I explained the plan of happiness and when I told her that our Father wants us to find joy, despite our challenges. It may take time, but it is possible for every one of His children.
There have been many situations in my life in which I have felt anguish and sadness, but because of the gospel I always remember where I come from. I know that I am a daughter of God and that He has a plan for me—and for Fernanda. We all walk distinct paths, but each is for our good because He loves us. Each path, each trial, has a purpose. And if we can find peace in those trials, we can share the peace we gain with others.

Many years ago at stake conferences, we would show a film clip to illustrate the theme of the message we were presenting. During the course of a year, as we traveled around the Church on our assigned stake conference visits, we became very familiar with the content of the film. We could almost quote it by heart. The message has remained in my mind over all these years. The film was narrated by President Harold B. Lee and gave an account of an occurrence in the home of his daughter. It goes something like this:
One evening the mother of the home was frantically trying to finish bottling some fruit. Finally the children were ready for bed and were settled down. It was now time to get to the fruit. As she began to peel and pit the fruit, two little boys appeared in the kitchen and announced that they were ready for their bedtime prayers.
Not wanting to be interrupted, the mother said very quickly to the boys, “Why don’t you just say your prayers alone tonight, and Mother will just keep working on the fruit?”
The older of the two sons firmly planted his feet and asked, “Which is the most important, prayers or fruit?” (See Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Harold B. Lee [2000], 143–44.)

In April 1986, a little over a month before Kirill was born, a terrible nuclear accident occurred at Chernobyl, 96 kilometers from Kiev. Many children were taken in buses from town to camps to protect them from radiation. Kirill’s mother went to the country, too. She was afraid he would be born with serious problems. When he was born a month early, his mother asked the doctor, “Does he have hands and legs?” She was relieved to learn that he did. Tanya has trouble with her eyes and has had three operations on them. Her mother doesn’t know if this was caused by the Chernobyl accident or not.

But even with this divine help, all of us face times of doubt and weakness. Sometimes we can feel inadequate and even mired in despair. That was true of me 25 years ago, when I was a young father of three children, each of them now BYU-Idaho graduates. As you may have heard me say before, the year 1996 was an emotionally and spiritually challenging time in my life. Frustrated in my professional ambitions, I let distress get the better of me. And I failed to hide that distress, as was manifested in my hair, which fell out from head to toe, including eyelashes and brows.

Blessedly, Sister Eyring came to my spiritual rescue. I asked her to seek Heaven’s guidance in coming out of my spiritual and physiological funk. I expected that she would return with a new career plan for me. However, several days later she privately said, “I have received a clear answer. I was told, ‘Henry should keep a journal.’”

That, of course, wasn’t the message I’d hoped for. I wanted a solution to my professional and personal struggles. But I knew that Kelly was speaking for Heaven when she said, “Henry should keep a journal.”

So, I resigned myself to obey. Here are a few paragraphs of my revived journal, dated July 24, a Pioneer Day:

It has been more than 12 years since I made a journal entry. The last time I wrote was the night before my mission ended; a Friday late in March of 1984. I had made an independent record of every day of the mission.

Kelly is entirely responsible for my beginning again. Yesterday, after Henry Christian and I returned from a night at an aquatic scout camp at Bear Lake, she informed me that inspiration had come to her about my professional and spiritual struggles. The answer, she said almost sheepishly, was journal writing.

Two things made me believe her. One was her tearful look; the wonderful, remarkable one she gets when the Spirit has touched her. The other was the ridiculousness of the suggestion. In my current state of morose malaise, journal writing seems nothing short of repugnant: unpleasant for me to write, unpleasant for others to read.

As it turned out, over many years, journal-writing became my emotional and spiritual salvation. In the beginning, the writing was sporadic and mostly woeful. Yet, if only to avoid digging myself further into a dark emotional hole, I began to recognize signs of hope and even small miracles in my daily activities. Life still seemed to be serving up more challenges and disappointments than victories, but the win-lose ratio began to shift.

Slowly but surely, as I tried to focus on the good experiences rather than the disappointing ones, my perception and attitude improved. I still felt a sense of falling and failing spiritually. However, the rate of falling was slower.