Gospel Story Finder

Well, since you insist, I’ll just capture her royal majesty with my humble little black bishop.
No! No! No! No! My queen! Why didn’t I see that? I might as well resign now.
Don’t give up. You can still make a comeback.
Down a queen? Fat chance! You just want the pleasure of checkmating me.
Well, yes, that might be fun. But remember what Sister Simon said—it’s never too late to come back, although it may be hard.
She was talking about life. In chess, what’s done is done, and you just have to live with it.
Well, aren’t you glad it’s chess that’s hopeless and not life?
You have a point there.
So, what’s your move?
Hmmm. My rook is feeling very hungry, and I think it’s going to gobble up your tasty little unprotected pawn. There! Now what are you going to do about that?
Checkmate!
I had to ask.

Sister Hinckley’s maternal grandmother, Martha Elizabeth Evans, married George Paxman, the faithful son of a stake president. He knew carpentry, and they moved to Manti, Utah, where he worked on the temple there. They lived in a sod-roofed house and were happy companions sealed in the sacred covenants of the gospel.
Two months before their second child was born (Sister Hinckley’s mother), George Paxman was injured. He was setting in place the massive east doors of the temple. Perhaps one of the doors slipped a little and he strained to hold it in place.
Within the week he died an agonizing death as a result of internal injuries. Martha provided for her daughters by sewing for a living. She was a widow for sixty-two years, ever sweet, never losing faith. Her daughter’s daughter was to become the wife of an Apostle, a counselor to Presidents.

Jason Johnston’s family was more than 1,000 miles away from home on Christmas Eve three years ago. Jennifer, Jason’s older sister, was scheduled to have surgery in Salt Lake City, Utah, shortly after Christmas, and the family had traveled from Bartlesville, Oklahoma, so they could be near her.
As they gathered around the fireplace of a cabin in Aspen Grove, Utah, that night, everyone knew it would be a different kind of Christmas. But the real differences came unexpectedly.
“I went eagerly to my place in the circle as my parents handed us each a gift,” says Jason, who was 18 at the time. “I held my present close, so as soon as the story of Christ was told, I could open it.”
But Jason’s mother, Ann, started out the traditional family event with tears in her eyes and asked them to first listen to a song about Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ. She then expressed her own feelings for such a mother and child and asked that her children open their gifts right away, a task usually reserved for the evening’s finale.
Being the youngest in the family, Jason got to open his gift first. Jason ripped apart the paper and quickly opened the box. “I was dismayed to see a frame face down,” Jason says. “I picked it up, and, turning it over, I noticed it was a picture of Mary and the Baby Jesus.”
“I didn’t say anything. I just sat and stared at it as each of my sisters and my brother opened the same gift.”
Jason was, to say the least, momentarily disappointed. The same picture each child received was one his mother already had sitting on the table next to the Bible.
But then Ann told them the picture’s story:
It was the same picture she had been given more than 20 years ago by her mother on Christmas Eve. And just like Mary and her own mother before her, Ann wanted her children to know how much she loved them. She wanted them to know how she felt honored to raise each of them. How she worried about them as they went into the world. And how she once lovingly cradled each of them in her arms.
“At this point there wasn’t a dry eye in the house,” Jason says. His disappointment immediately changed to love and peace. “I don’t know why my eyes filled with tears. I guess it really didn’t matter. I was with my family, and that’s all I needed.”
The family finished their Christmas Eve festivities with a testimony meeting, and each child received a priesthood blessing from their father. They also sang carols and ate holiday treats that night. But the memories of carols and food aren’t quite as clear in their minds as are the words spoken by a loving mother and father on that night in a small cabin so far away from home.
Today that simple picture of Mary and her child still hangs on Jason’s bedroom wall in Oklahoma, many miles away from the cabin in Aspen Grove. But he will never forget that night. Nor will he forget the picture’s legacy and the meaning that comes from a Christmas centered around Jesus Christ.

The chute burst open and a raging, bucking bronco leaped high into the air. A cowboy sat atop, in perfect form, his spurs above the point of the shoulders, the rhythm of each move matched to the twisting and turning of the wild horse.
But then the crowd rose to its feet and gasped as the massive animal came crashing down on its side, all of its weight crushing the left foot of its rider.
Zane Davis picked himself up and hobbled over to the chute. When he got his boot off, the foot began to swell. The crushed bones eliminated his chances to continue in the competition, but that didn’t keep Zane down.
Less than a month later he was back in the saddle, working his way to the title as top college rodeo rider in the United States.
Now Zane is serving a mission in Brazil and teaching the gospel to people in Portuguese. And he says, “I wouldn’t trade this mission experience for anything—even a national professional rodeo championship.”
It was in June of 1990 that Zane Davis secured the award as the national collegiate all-around cowboy of the year in the College National Finals Rodeo in Bozeman, Montana. Although only a freshman at the College of Southern Idaho, Zane didn’t get to the number one spot by simply riding a few wild horses and winning a few competitions. Zane’s training started before he could walk, when his father, Shawn Davis (a three-time National Finals Rodeo saddle bronc world champion), took him along to rodeos across North America.
At the age of three, Zane insisted that he be allowed to ride in the rodeo against the 8–12-year-old cowboys, but since he was underage, he was only allowed to ride exhibition. Undaunted, he put on his hat, boots, rope, and spurs, and climbed aboard a cranky calf. Zane says that the next thing he knew he was on the ground and a clown was standing over him fanning him with a giant fly swatter. Apparently, he had ridden the calf almost to the whistle before falling off.
He entered his next rodeo when he was only five, and this time a pony bucked him off. But he still walked away with third-place honors. Hundreds of rodeos later, Zane had accumulated an impressive array of saddles, belt buckles, trophies, and cash prizes. The success came as a result of hard work.
Each day at his parents’ ranch in Wyoming, Zane’s exercise routine included 80 sit-ups, 20 pull-ups, and 400 push-ups. In addition, his riding included roping 10 to 20 calves and practicing once a week for each riding event. Also, before each rodeo, Zane asked his father for a father’s blessing. Zane says, “I feel that these blessings kept me from getting injured on many occasions, and when I was injured, I recovered remarkably fast.”
Zane adds that obeying the Word of Wisdom has been a great blessing in his life. “Other cowboys who drink and do drugs may be good for a very short time, but they never last long,” he says.
Another reason Zane has done so well is because he has learned to face challenges. At one rodeo he drew a bull that had thrown all the college kids off who had tried to ride it. But Zane, at only 13, got on the bull and rode him three out of five attempts. “I don’t remember ever being really frightened at a rodeo,” said Zane. “A little fear is always good for you, but too much fear is not good. If you have a little fear you plan a little better. If you have too much fear you may get out of control.”
One of the hardest decisions Zane ever had to face was whether or not to go on a mission. He had colleges all over the nation soliciting him, and although he had always planned on a mission, the final decision was really hard. “But I decided I had to go on a mission to try to pay the Lord back for some of the many blessings I have received,” he said.
Zane recently wrote from his mission and said, “I’ve learned many things. I’ve changed a lot. I thought riding three head of stock at each rodeo all summer long was tough, but it wasn’t anything as tough as serving a mission; nevertheless, it has been good for me.”
In his life, Zane Davis has ridden a thousand wild horses, roped a thousand more calves. Rodeo became easy to him, second nature. But perhaps the best thing about the sport was the chance to be with his father. Shawn was always there, watching him, helping him stay safe.
A mission in Brazil has not been as easy. There have been problems learning the language and culture. But Zane is improving daily. And, best of all, his Father in Heaven is always there, watching him, helping him stay safe.

Running a close second in the “Best Ways Not to Choose a Career” category is the freshman who came to see me this morning.
“I want to be a doctor,” he announced decisively. It was pleasant to speak to someone so secure in his goals. Yet when I observed, “You must enjoy the sciences very much,” he admitted that he had been an average student in chemistry and biology in high school. On further questioning, it seemed that the only aspect of medicine that interested him was the money. When it became obvious to him that medicine was not his field, he thought for a minute and said, “Well, how about law?”
Neither of these young men had followed the basic steps for selecting a career: (1) know yourself, (2) know the possibilities, (3) know where you will receive the greatest satisfaction.

One year when I was about eight years old, Dad told my brother, my sister, and me that there would not be much money for Christmas gifts. He suggested we use our imagination and talents to make gifts for each other.
I made gifts for Dad, my sister, and my brother, but I had trouble thinking of a gift I could make for my mother. I thought for a long time.
Finally, I came up with a plan. My mother was well known for her sponge cakes with orange-peel frosting. She often made them for fundraisers, and everyone loved them. But making a sponge cake took a lot of egg yolks, and this year there had not been enough eggs. I wanted to give my mother a dozen eggs for Christmas.
Dad had put me in charge of taking care of the young chickens. Usually, these chickens would start laying eggs in January, but I figured if I took extra special care of them they would start earlier.
Twice every day, right on time, I fed the chickens by hand. I carried warm water from the house for them to drink. I covered the windows with burlap to keep the chicken coop warmer. I even cleaned the coop and made six nests with fresh straw.
Every day, I checked the nests for eggs. December came, and there were still no eggs. In my prayers, I began to ask for the chickens to be blessed.
Finally, 12 days before Christmas, I found an egg! I kept checking every day, and carefully collected the eggs in a carton.
Two days before Christmas, my father announced that we would leave early the next morning for Grandma’s house. My heart sank. I only had 11 eggs! I was one egg short of my goal.
All night I tossed and turned. I got up early the next morning and ran to the coop to see if there was another egg. There were none.
At Grandma’s house, I wrapped the 11-egg surprise in pretty paper and ribbon and put it with the other gifts under the tree. I wondered if my mother would be disappointed about the missing egg.
On Christmas morning, my curious mother unwrapped the carton. A look of amazement spread over her face. Then happy tears filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. She looked at me lovingly and told me what a special gift I had given her. There were just 11 eggs, but I had done my best to show my love.

When I was 14, I made a decision that changed everything. I was walking down the street with some friends on a Friday night, and we were having a good time, just as we usually did. But tonight there was a problem, and I knew I had to do something about it. I just wasn’t sure I could.
For the past couple of years, my friends had started experimenting with cigarettes and alcohol. It was slow at first, just a once or twice sort of thing, but by the time this Friday came, they regularly smoked and drank when we were out alone.
I thought that as long as I just kept myself clean, I could still have a good time with my friends. Of course, my parents could tell something wasn’t right with my friends. And my friends could tell that my parents didn’t approve of them. That left me in the uncomfortable middle: I found myself repeatedly defending my friends to my parents and defending my parents to my friends.
So there we were that Friday night, walking down the street. My friends started drinking and smoking, and I finally realized how uncomfortable I was with their behavior. So I made a choice.
I walked to the other side of the road.
My friends laughed at me. They called me a “goody-goody.” And they said that if I stayed over there, I wouldn’t be their friend anymore.
Well, we got to the end of the road. My friends turned left, and I turned right. I was two miles (3.2 km) from home, and they were the longest two miles I’d ever walked. You might think I would feel good about making such a courageous choice, but in that moment, I felt awful. I woke up the next morning with the terrifying realization that I had lost my friends and that I was now alone. For a 14-year-old, that was devastating.
Not too many days later, I got a phone call from a member of the Church I knew named Dave. He asked if I wanted to come to his house on Saturday night. He also invited me to join his family for dinner the next day. It sounded like a lot more fun than I was currently having with no friends, so I agreed.
Dave and I had a good time together—and, of course, there were no cigarettes or alcohol. As I listened to Dave’s dad say the prayer at dinner, I felt so good. I began to think that maybe—just maybe—things were getting better.
Dave and I became best friends. We played football together, went to school together, helped each other go on missions. When we got back, we were college roommates. We helped each other find the right women to marry and kept each other on the strait and narrow path all the way to the temple and after. All these years later, we’re still good friends. And it all started with a simple phone call, right when I needed it.
At least, that’s how I thought it had all started. Imagine my surprise when, years later, I found out that it was my mom, working behind the scenes, who had orchestrated our friendship! Soon after I lost my old friends, she noticed something was wrong with me, so she called Dave’s mom to see if they could figure out a way to help. Dave’s mom then coaxed Dave into contacting me and inviting me over. Sometimes promptings to help someone in need come from the Holy Ghost; sometimes they come from an angel—such as a mother—who “speak[s] by the power of the Holy Ghost” (2 Nephi 32:3).
I’ve often wondered how life might have been different—for me and for Dave—if my mom hadn’t perceived my struggle and taken action. Doesn’t that remind you of the way Heavenly Father blesses us? He knows about our every need, and He sends “blessings from above thru words and deeds of those who love” (“Each Life That Touches Ours for Good,” Hymns, no. 293).
Ultimately, we are all responsible for our own choices. As President Thomas S. Monson has said repeatedly, “The choices we make determine our destiny,”1 and many of those choices must be made personally, individually. Often our decisions make us feel isolated, even lonely. But our Heavenly Father did not send us here alone.
The decisions I made at key moments blessed and guided my entire life. But those decisions were inspired and empowered by my mother’s prayerful efforts and by Dave’s support and friendship.
The test that we call earth life is different from the tests we often take in school—where you have to keep your eyes on your own test and you aren’t allowed to help your neighbor. No, in this test, we can and must help each other; in fact, that’s part of the test. So while your choices may at times take you to the lonely side of the road, please know that all along that road are others who have made their own difficult decision to be on the Lord’s side. They will walk with you, and they need you to walk with them.

I will never forget the first time Jeff tried to kiss me. We were standing in the entryway of my home when my mother unexpectedly walked into the room and caught him in the act. Jeff, being the fast thinker he is, said, “Hi, Sister Terry. Pat and I were just trading gum.”
Later my mother, in retelling the incident to my father, said, “Jeff’s confidence in a difficult situation amazes me. The fact that he can think that fast on his feet will certainly ensure his success.”
My father smiled at me and said, “Confidence is a great blessing to anyone who has it. But Jeff is also smart enough to know what to have confidence in. Both of you need to remember that your greatest strength and surest success will come through humility and dependence upon the Lord.”

Girls in the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake, working for their Summiteer Award in the Young Women camp program, mounted horses and headed for Dead Horse Point on a riding adventure.
For most, riding horses on mountain trails with a sleeping bag tied on behind was a new experience. After receiving instructions on the care of her horse (each girl was expected to brush, saddle, bridle, feed, and hobble her assigned horse during the trip), they headed into the mountains. Past camp experience prepared them for making camp with a minimum of equipment, but long hours in the saddle had the girls discovering new, untested muscles.
After maneuvering up a steep trail to a site appropriately named Dead Horse Point, the group was treated to a spectacular view of the Teton Range from the summit.
At the end of the three days, the girls and their leaders were becoming accustomed to the skills needed to ride the mountain trails. With rain threatening, the group broke camp, loaded the horses, and headed home from an adventure that brought them closer together and left them confident of their abilities to survive and enjoy the outdoors.

Last summer my wife and I had the pleasure of backpacking in the High Uintas with our oldest son, Justin, and three of his friends. We had a wonderful time fishing, camping, and simply observing God’s creations. Of course a large portion of the trip involved hiking.
As many of you know, hikers or backpackers encounter a variety of trail conditions. On any given trek, flat, straight, and easy to locate trail segments can quickly become steep, rocky, and obscure.
When trails become difficult to find, considerate hikers often place markers on the path to map the way for those who follow. These markers are built by stacking several rocks to form what is called a cairn. Cairns are spaced so that a hiker standing near one can readily see the next. By walking from cairn to cairn, a backpacker can successfully traverse the previously unseen path and reach the goal.
Significantly, cairns only have meaning for those who recognize them for what they are. For some, cairns are nothing more than a pile of rocks. For others they are helpful markers on a trail. And yet for others, willing to examine in further detail, cairns can provide even more specific directions. For example, a stack of rocks with a small stone to the right of the stack indicates that the trail heads to the right. Similarly, a rock on the ground to the left of the cairn indicates that the trail heads to the left. A basic understanding of these structures makes it possible to obtain the final goal, but by being more informed about the nature of cairns, the journey can be made even smoother.
During our backpacking trip, each time my wife and I reached a cairn, we stopped to look for the next stack of rocks. When we didn’t immediately find it, a sense of being lost was quick to enter our minds, but that feeling instantly vanished when we located the next small, simple landmark.

Ida Jensen walked into Marion Romney’s life when his father hired her to teach at Ricks Academy. She didn’t see Marion that first day she went to the Romney home—he was sitting in another room, sick with the flu. But he certainly noticed her: “I saw her with her golden hair and her smiling face. I have never seen any girl since that time that I cared about.” (Church News, 15 Dec. 1973, p. 5.) They were married six years later—on 12 September 1924 in the Salt Lake Temple—after his mission and more schooling for both of them. She was the valedictorian of her graduating class at BYU.
“My wife has been a support and guidance all through my life,” President Romney said before her death, “and when I have been discouraged, she has made me feel that she had the confidence that I could succeed, and so I have kept going.” (Church News, 15 July 1972, p. 7.)
Although money was scarce during those first years of marriage, they continued their courtship, frequently spending the evening at the Salt Lake Theater. Sometimes, however, they couldn’t afford to buy two tickets together, and they seldom had money for bus fare.
“We laugh a lot together,” Sister Romney said in 1975. “He’s my dessert in life.” (New Era, June 1975, p. 19.)
The Romneys’ courtship lasted throughout their fifty-five years of marriage. A few days after her death in 1979, he said: “When Ida died, something went out of me.” At the graveside service, he told Elder James E. Faust: “Be good to your wife. Take her with you everywhere you can.” (Tambuli, June 1973.)
As a young couple, Marion and Ida had endured great heartache. Their first two children died in infancy. But faith softened their sorrow—and a promise, given in a blessing when Marion became a General Authority, gave them reassurance: “Blessed are you because of your faith in my work. Behold, you have had many afflictions … nevertheless I will bless you and your family, yea, your little ones, and the day cometh that they will believe and know the truth and be one with you in the Church.” (As quoted in Ensign, Nov. 1972, p. 27.)
They were blessed with two other sons, Richard J. now of Winters, California, and George J. of Salt Lake City, and they have eight grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren. George’s wife, Joanne, speaks of her father-in-law as “a kind and loving man who always treats me like a daughter.”
Sister Romney tells of the fun times they have had together. For years President Romney would put on a Santa Claus beard every Christmas and hand out presents. And since Ida didn’t want Christmas to end, they always had the grandchildren come back on New Year’s Day for more presents. Each year they would rig up a “fishpond” where the children would pull strings and find prizes tied to the end. Grandpa Romney, on his hands and knees, did the tying.
The Romneys shared their love of the scriptures with their boys. On one occasion, when Elder Romney and one of his young sons were reading alternate verses in the Book of Mormon, he heard the child’s voice breaking and assumed he had a cold. After a while the boy asked his dad if he ever cried when he read the Book of Mormon.
“Yes, Son,” he answered. “Sometimes the Spirit of the Lord so witnesses to my soul that the Book of Mormon is true that I do cry.”
“Well,” the boy said, “that is what happened to me tonight.”
“I know not all of [your children] will respond like that,” he later said in general conference, “but I know that some of them will, and I tell you this book was given to us of God to read and to live by, and it will hold us as close to the Spirit of the Lord as anything I know. Won’t you please read it?” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1949, p. 41.)
Over the years, Brother and Sister Romney often had family home evening with their son George and his family, who lived only a few doors away. “We’d read scriptures together,” says Joanne. “You always learned something when you were in his presence and having a gospel discussion.”
Indeed, President Romney had much to share with his family and with the Church because of his own struggles to know and trust the Lord’s will. “During the early years of our married life,” he once said, “my wife and I intensely desired what we considered to be a particular blessing. We set about through fasting and prayer to obtain it. … But though we fasted often and prayed fervently, the years rolled by without bringing us the desired answer to our prayers. Finally, we concluded that we had not fully understood somehow—that we were concentrating our faith and prayers upon receiving the particular thing, which by predetermination we had set our hearts upon. … We had to learn to be as earnest in praying ‘if it be Thy will,’ as we were when presenting our personal desires and appeals. We have no need to fear that our well-being will not be served by such an attitude.” (Address delivered at Salt Lake Institute of Religion, 18 Oct. 1974, pp. 8–9.)

I’m home now, at our dinner table, after working my four-hour shift in the bookstore. Mom has just warmed up a plate of food for me.
“I think we’ll have fun in that class,” she says, scrubbing off a pot in the kitchen sink. “I can’t believe we ended up together. Of course, if you think it’s too awkward to have me in the same class, I could transfer.”
“Oh, no, Mom. I don’t mind at all,” I tell her, hiding the fact that for one more semester my social life probably will be roughly on par with a turnip. “But why family relations? It’s not like you don’t have any experience. Remember us? Your five children?”
Mom stands up straight and sets aside her dish rag. “Well, I’m taking three classes. Geology, because every time I’ve looked out this window in the last 27 years, I’ve seen mountains. I want to know more about those mountains. The humanities class is to help me better appreciate the beauty around me.” She picks up the rag and begins some intense scrubbing on a casserole dish. “And the family relations class—that’s to help me know if I could have done a few things better.”
I know what she is talking about—my younger sister, Jan. A little more than two years ago, when I was on my mission in Peru, Jan left home just before graduating from high school. We don’t really know where she is. A phone call, a postcard, maybe a letter at Christmas, first from Chicago, then somewhere in Florida, then a half-dozen other locations. She just tells us that she is fine, working, and maybe will come back someday. We’ve all lost sleep over her.
I finish my meal and give her a hand with the rest of the dishes before heading to my room to work through some calculations for my building materials class. I hope for the millionth time that Jan is okay somewhere.
I’ve decided not to break things off with the blonde-haired girl from California, at least not yet. In fact, once again I think our relationship is progressing nicely. She did sort of look around in class the other day. I took that as a sure sign she was checking to see if I was there.
Anyway, the big break came when the instructor, Dr. Holgate, took roll out loud. I very casually pretended not to be paying attention, but I was all ears, hanging on each “Here!” as the names were called out.
“Carianne Meacham?”
“Here!”
That’s it! She has a name. I scribble furiously in my notebook. Carianne. A wonderful name. It fits someone used to surfing off Malibu, working on her tan, and playing volleyball on the beach, all important qualities in a prospective wife.
My mother is nudging me. “The teacher’s calling your name!” she whispers hoarsely.
“Here!” I blurt out, standing up. The whole class laughs.
Tonight I am again trying to concentrate on homework. But there’s a huge distraction sitting on the end of my desk.
It is the university phone book.
Inside it, I know, Carianne Meacham’s name will be listed, where she lives, her hometown, her major, and her phone number.
Try this scenario:
“Hello, Carianne. I’m David Williams, the guy you said hello to in family relations class two weeks ago, the ruggedly handsome one who sits next to his mother.” Well, maybe I could get just a few basics about her from one quick peek at the phone book.
I open it and search through the M’s. Voila! Meacham, Carianne L. Sophomore. Nursing major. Lives off campus. But what’s this? She’s from Seattle, Washington, land of perpetual drizzle.
I can adjust. I like rain. I like little green plants growing behind my ears and between my toes. I like rust, honest.
I wonder if Carianne knows what sacrifices I’m making for her.
Family relations class, a debate is raging. Dr. Holgate raised the question. “Is there ever a time when parents are justified in asking their children to leave home?” The arguments churn on. The class consensus seems to be that, yes, there are rare occasions when a child should not be allowed in the home, such as if his or her behavior is damaging the entire family or setting a bad example for younger siblings. Dr. Holgate is at the front of the class, looking slightly entertained. Class is almost over.
“Any other thought?” she asks.
“Yes!” my mom says.
“Go ahead.”
“When you have children, they are yours forever, not just in good times or okay times, but always. You have to love them always, show them that you care always, and be there for them always,” Mom says, her voice slightly quivering.
It is an amazing turn of events. The class bursts into applause. Up front, Dr. Holgate is beaming. The buzzer sounds and class is over. Several students come up to talk with my mom, the new class star. One of them is Carianne who grasps her arm and says, “Ruth, what you said is true.”
While I’m happy for my mom, it’s a little difficult to accept that Carianne is more impressed with my mother than with me.
Not a good day in Family Relations 101. Dr. Holgate announces we need to pair up with someone else to work jointly on our final project. It will be a report on some aspect of family relations. The choice of topics is up to us. Half of our grade will be on our paper, the other half on a 15-minute class presentation by the two-person teams.
“Okay, pair up,” Dr. Holgate urges. “If you can’t find a teammate, I’ll assign you.”
Carianne Meacham stands up and turns toward me. My heart starts to thump. This is it. I knew I was right. All semester long, she’s secretly wanted to get acquainted. I owe Dr. Holgate for this opportunity, I really do.
Carianne smiles. I smile back. I’m already to ask, “How ya’ doin’?” which is my best get-acquainted line. She is only inches away. I hear her voice.
“Ruth, would you like to work together?” she asks my mother!
“Why yes, I’d be tickled to.”
Cruel fate. Aced out by my mom. Again.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up into the bespectacled face of a man in his late 20s, balding, with a lopsided smile.
“Hey, we’re the only ones left without a partner. Whaddya say? Pete LaFete is my name, and I’ve got some great ideas for this project.”
I can’t find the right words to tell him I didn’t take this class to further my male bonding experience. But I’m so stunned, I nod. Peter LaFete and I are a team.
I am slumping. I am a baseball player who has gone hitless in his last 27 at-bats, a singer who comes down with laryngitis the night of the big concert. I’m struggling with my engineering classes, and Family Relations 101, the class I took for enjoyment is turning into a nightmare. Hey, I’m 22 years old, and I should know more about … about … life.
Yes, life. I should be more on top of it than I am now. I need a triumph. Just a small triumph, a little victory to reinforce that I do have something to look forward to.
I got together with Peter LaFete. We are going to do our research paper on successful dating. Pete is single, six years older than I am, and has just changed his major to family relations although he has 224 credit hours and should have graduated before I left on my mission. I told him since neither of us has much of a track record in dating, we might have a credibility problem.
“No way, pard. I know a lot about dating,” he says confidently.
I have a few theories about why Pete is still single.
Dark, cold, and rainy. Sort of like my life right now. I am in my room, studying. It is almost 11:00 P.M. Mom and I went over each other’s notes in preparation for the final tomorrow in Family Relations 101. Then I came up here to hit the books. Downstairs, everything is quiet. The rain slashes against my window. It’s on nights like these that I most often think of my sister and wonder where she might be.
I hear a commotion on the porch. I get up from my desk, wondering what is going on. There is a loud knock on the door. Mom and Dad are at the bottom of the stairs, fumbling with bathrobes, turning on the entry lights. Dad opens the door a little and peers into the darkness. A figure steps into the light spilling from our home.
It is my sister, soaking wet, looking tired, looking very different than the skinny junior in high school I knew when I left on my mission.
“Can I come in?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“This is your home, Jan,” my dad says softly.
“Mom, Dad, I need to start over.”
“We’ll talk later,” Mom says. My sister throws her arms around Mother, and they both begin to cry.
I think my slump is history.
It is Friday, at the end of the semester. All of the work for family relations and my other classes is done. Mom and Carianne were a brilliant team. Their presentation was terrific.
Pete LaFete and I were less than genius. “I’ve found in my experience,” Peter lectured during our presentation, “that a proper way of saying good night on a fourth or fifth date is to kiss a girl lightly on her forehead. Girls remember it.”
I bet they do, Pete.
Anyway, I’m just getting home and pushing my way through the back door. Something smells great in the kitchen. Mom is at the stove.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hi, Mom. Where’s Jan?”
“In the dining room with your dad. She registered at the community college today. Maybe she’s finally turning the corner. By the way, I invited some company over for dinner tonight. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No big deal, Mom,” I answered, since we often throw an extra plate on the table for guests. I peek into the dining room, and there, with her back toward me, chatting away with my dad and sister, is Carianne Meacham.
My mom smiles serenely.
“I got an A in family relations, remember? And I saw her name in your notebook the other night when we were studying. Now try to say something besides, ‘How ya’ doin’?’ Carianne is an intelligent girl, and I don’t think that will impress her at all.”
And that’s the way I got to know Carianne Meacham.
Sometimes I sit back and like to sort things out. I’ve been thinking about the last months. I think about Mom going back to school at age 53 and showing all of us that learning is something you do all your life. I think about her report card, two A’s and a B. (“Geology wasn’t as intriguing as I was hoping,” Mom explains.) I think about my sister and what my mom had to say about loving always. And I understand better that there are at least two kinds of education. One kind deals with the mind, the other with the heart.

I experienced such spiritual gifts when I served as a missionary in Italy. After a few weeks of language practice in the missionary training center, I worried that I did not have the gift of tongues, but I learned to bear my testimony in Italian and understand what others were saying, and most importantly, I learned to love. At other times, I have experienced the gift of tongues through spiritual promptings to open my mouth and say things that I wasn’t necessarily planning to say. I have also been blessed and uplifted by the inspired words of other women.

One night a friend of another faith visited me. I usually study my scriptures alone, and I had taken them out to study that night. I was prompted to invite her to join my scripture study, but I was afraid and began instead to study alone. I knew that I had ignored a prompting of the Spirit. After a few minutes I cautiously asked, “Would you like to study the scriptures with me?” Without hesitation my friend replied, “Yes.”
We then read from the Book of Mormon. She asked me some questions, and I could feel the Spirit guide me as I answered. I bore my testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. After I did this, she told me, “I have been crying and fearful all day. I had just prayed to God for help when you asked me to read the scriptures with you. I feel so much better now. Thank you.”
The Lord had used me as an instrument to answer a prayer and serve one of His children in need. I know that promptings are divine instructions from a wise, glorious Father. When we put aside our fears, we allow Him to manifest His power through our obedience.

And then Miriam finally agreed to go on a date with me. She was the best-looking girl in the ward (also in the stake; probably in the Church), and she had finally broken up with Alvin Hopper, which was no great loss to her and a tremendous gain to a college freshman like myself with excellent taste in girls. On my fourth try she agreed to go out with me. I shot the works. The LTD, complete with car wash, a $30 dinner in San Francisco, a drive through beautiful scenery on the way up, Bayshore Freeway on the way back, and charming, delightful conversation all the way. The conversation was the only thing free on the whole date.
And she was worth it. She could discuss at least 13 different topics intelligently and got a B- on all the others, which means she was more than just a pretty face. She let me open doors for her and took my arm without my even having to hint. She looked me right in the eye and never let her gaze linger for a moment on the slight complexion problem that had appeared mysteriously on my chin the day before. She was perfect.
On the way home, after we left the freeway, she asked, “You don’t happen to have a throat lozenge or anything like that? I have kind of a sore throat.”
“In the glove compartment,” I said. Mom kept the glove compartment like a medicine chest—aspirin, throat lozenges, cough drops, breath mints, Kleenex, eye drops, bandages, and disinfectant. She figured that if we all had the flu and got into a traffic accident, she could make everybody feel better in minutes. Miriam reached into the glove compartment, found the lozenges, and also found the pad of Automobile Record sheets.
“What’s this?” she asked.
So I told her. All about the lease agreement. How much it cost and everything. I was just about to tell her how terrible it all was when she interrupted me.
“That’s terrible,” she said. “I can’t believe parents doing anything like that! Who do they think they are?”
“Parents,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad my parents are more generous than that. It sounds like your father must be Ebenezer Scrooge and your mother must be Shylock.”
“Shylock was a man.”
“Stingy, anyway. How much do they charge you for lunch and dinner?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m surprised. Do they have a coin box and water meter on the shower? Do they make you pay for clean sheets?”
“Of course not,” I said.
“A car is a necessity of life,” she said. “Parents have a responsibility to provide them for their children.”
Now, you have to understand. I’m not an argumentative person. I’m quite easy to get along with. But she was talking about my parents, judging them just by the fact that they ran a rip-off car leasing business with a captive clientele. I couldn’t let her go unanswered. So I answered.
“Listen, Miriam, a car is different from showers and food and bedding. It’s a lot more expensive. And I eat three meals a day and sleep once a night and take a shower every morning. It’s regular and predictable and it doesn’t go up and down. But the car I use as often as I like, and we kids used to use the cars all the time. It cost the folks hundreds and hundreds of dollars every month. And so it was perfectly fair for them to decide we should help pay.”
“You can’t live in the modern world without a car. They might as well charge you for air.” She sounded upset.
“You can live without a car,” I said. “You can walk, for example. I’ve walked to school a lot the last few months.”
“I can imagine,” she said darkly.
“I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve discovered there are things you can’t see from a car.”
“Like bubble gum on a sidewalk,” she said, sounding rather snide.
“I think it’s a good idea for us to help our parents pay for the cars.”
“And I think anybody who thinks that is crazy.”
“You do?” I asked, and I think by now I also sounded upset.
“I do. If word of this gets around, other people’s parents will try it, too, and pretty soon an entire generation of young people will be trapped at home with their families night after night.”
It shows you how angry I was. I said, “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. And furthermore, I think that it’s perfectly possible for people to have a good time together without having a car at all. I think it would be a wonderful date just to walk over to a girl’s house and take her out walking and talking and maybe looking in store windows or maybe just seeing a little bit of the neighborhood and just getting to know each other without spending any money at all.”
“That sounds hideous.”
“Then,” I said, “I won’t ask you out on such a date.”
I took her home and neither of us said another word except for a perfunctory good-night-and-thanks-for-a-wonderful-evening at the door.
When I got home, after filling the gas tank, I wrote down the mileage on the odometer, figured out my total car costs for the evening, and went inside, got the money from my room, and went into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, where they were reading the Old Testament out loud to each other the way they do every night.
“Did you have a nice time?” asked Mother.
“Wonderful,” I said. “I want to settle up for tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that until the first of the month,” Dad said.
“I want to do it now.” I showed them how much I owed them, counted out the money, and handed it to them. Then I carefully placed a five dollar bill on top of the rest.
“What’s that for?” asked Mother.
“It’s a tip,” I said. “For service above and beyond the call of duty.
“I think you’re wonderful. I’m glad you laid it on the line with us. I’m glad you shared the responsibility of paying for the entire U.S. automobile industry with us kids. It’s the most adult thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”
Mother got tears in her eyes. Father said, “I think Jerry’s grown up, don’t you, Mother?”
“Yes,” Mother agreed.
“Well, you’re both wrong,” I said. “I’m just completely out of my mind.”
I kissed them both good-night and went straight to bed feeling pretty doggone good. Also pretty doggone poor, since I had about six bucks to last me through the rest of the month. But as my sister Anne pointed out, money isn’t everything. In fact, it’s hardly anything.

Some time ago I received a letter written by a man who had strayed from the Church. It typifies too many of our members. After describing how he had become inactive, he wrote:

“I had so much and now have so little. I am unhappy and feel as though I am failing in everything. The gospel has never left my heart, even though it has left my life. I ask for your prayers.
“Please don’t forget those of us who are out here—the lost Latter-day Saints. I know where the Church is, but sometimes I think I need someone else to show me the way, encourage me, take away my fear, and bear testimony to me.”

While I was reading this letter, my thoughts turned to a visit I made to one of the great art galleries of the world—the famed Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England. There, exquisitely framed, is a masterpiece painted in 1831 by Joseph Mallord William Turner. The painting features heavy-laden black clouds and the fury of a turbulent sea portending danger and death. A light from a stranded vessel gleams far off. In the foreground, tossed high by incoming waves of foaming water, is a large lifeboat. The men pull mightily on the oars as the lifeboat plunges into the tempest. On the shore stand a wife and two children, wet with rain and whipped by wind. They gaze anxiously seaward. In my mind I abbreviated the name of the painting. To me it became To the Rescue.1

In the rain forest of southeastern Nigeria, young women and Relief Society sisters dressed in brightly colored clothing and head ties gather outside the simple Church meetinghouse to learn how to make patterns for blouses and dresses. Using empty cement bags as drafting paper, the Relief Society sisters gather around the table, listening attentively to the young women who are teaching this new skill. After drafting their patterns, then cutting the material, they take turns using a treadle sewing machine to complete their outfits.

Gregory Evan Francis, 16, attended the National Science Federation Summer Institute at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Arizona, this past summer. Only 25 of the most outstanding high school students in the nation were chosen to attend.
Gregory was the only LDS student at the institute, where he studied the Navajo and Hopi languages among other subjects.
Gregory attends John F. Kennedy High School in Guam. He has a 4.0 (A) average in his high school work and won the math and foreign language awards and ten other academic awards last year. His father is a lieutenant-colonel in the air force stationed in Guam.
Gregory plans to study medicine after graduation from high school.
He is an Eagle Scout and is very active in the Church. He especially enjoys youth missionary work. He goes out with the full-time missionaries whenever he can, dropping whatever else he is doing, even his schoolwork, when they need his help. By talking to his fellow high school students about the gospel he has also been able to give the missionaries many referrals.
Last summer was no different. The first Sunday at the institute Greg took ten of his fellow students to Sunday School. Five of them have received all the missionary discussions and one has committed himself to be baptized. Others are awaiting parental approval.

There were at least two Latter-day Saint connections to the Titanic. Both illustrate our challenge in understanding trials, tribulations, and tragedies and provide insight as to how we might deal with them. The first is an example of being appreciative for the blessings we receive and the challenges we avoid. It involves Alma Sonne, who later served as a General Authority. He was my stake president when I was born in Logan, Utah. I had my mission interview with Elder Sonne. In those days all prospective missionaries were interviewed by a General Authority. He was a great influence in my life.

When Alma was a young man, he had a friend named Fred who was less active in the Church. They had numerous discussions about serving a mission, and eventually Alma Sonne convinced Fred to prepare and serve. They were both called to the British Mission. At the conclusion of their missions, Elder Sonne, the mission secretary, made the travel arrangements for their return to the United States. He booked passage on the Titanic for himself, Fred, and four other missionaries who had also completed their missions.

When it came time to travel, for some reason Fred was delayed. Elder Sonne canceled all six bookings to sail on the new luxury liner on its maiden voyage and booked passage on a ship that sailed the next day. The four missionaries, who were excited about traveling on the Titanic, expressed their disappointment. Elder Sonne’s answer paraphrased the account of Joseph and his brothers in Egypt recorded in Genesis: “How can we return to our families and the lad be not with us?” He explained to his companions that they all came to England together and they all should return home together. Elder Sonne subsequently learned of the Titanic’s sinking and gratefully said to his friend Fred, “You saved my life.” Fred replied, “No, by getting me on this mission, you saved my life.” All of the missionaries thanked the Lord for preserving them.

Sikeli Vuli laughs as he tries unsuccessfully to remember how many times he’s fallen in the river. Until not too long ago, an accidental swim was a fairly regular occurrence for those living in the small village of Navatuyaba, near Suva, Fiji.
That’s because if you needed to go to the city, school, or local store, you would have to cross the river that snakes slowly by the village, take a long walk to the nearest bridge (about two hours), or pay hard-earned and scarce cash for a bus ride.
“I have to cross the river many times a day,” says Sikeli, 13. “My friends live across the river.”
Crossing the river was by far the easiest choice, even if it meant using an unstable raft made of a few long bamboo poles lashed together. And if there were more than a couple of people waiting, it was faster to hold your schoolbooks and school uniform above your head and swim across in clothes that could get wet, because you’d probably fall off the raft anyway.
At least, that’s the way it was before the Church waded in and helped the members put a paddle to the problem. The Church provided a boat. You’d think it was an airplane, though, by the way the members’ spirits have been lifted.
“We’re grateful for the boat,” says Litiana Delai, 12. “It’s so much easier to get to the other side.”