Gospel Story Finder

Joseph permitted teachers to use the large upper room to conduct their classes. However, the boisterousness of some students frequently disturbed the clerks, who were often at work writing the history of the Church. One of the Prophet’s sons, Joseph Smith III, recalled: “As schoolboys we had good reason to remember Doctor Willard Richards [one of the clerks], for often in going down the stairway from the schoolroom we were noisy, which seemed to annoy him considerably. Upon one or two occasions he met us at the foot of the stairs and refused to let us pass, the while he cautioned us to be more quiet. Doubtless we were annoying as we trampled and jostled, crowding the steps and surging through the door. He especially scolded the larger children. We learned it was better to go quietly than to cause such real distress” (Mary Audentia Smith Anderson and Bertha Audentia Anderson Hulmes, eds., Joseph Smith III and the Restoration, Independence, Missouri: Herald Publishing House, 1952, p. 28).

Two years ago last spring I was caught in the middle of a very heated controversy. A group of creative writing and art students at Brigham Young University, where I am one of the deans, published an issue of the school’s literary magazine which some members of the administration, faculty, and student body felt contained spots of questionable language and photography that should not be permitted to circulate. I was asked as Dean of the College of Humanities to withdraw the publication. Feelings were strong on both sides, and I was painfully squeezed between.
In the confrontations that followed, some teachers and students urged me to really clamp down on those students and their advisors who were responsible for the publication. It was suggested by some that I ought to exercise tighter controls in supervising students and their creative activities. Meanwhile, other teachers and students were pressing me even more strongly to stand up with vigor in defense of academic and creative freedom. Each side stressed the important “principles” involved.
The whole situation was intensely awkward for me because I felt that both sides were, to some extent, right. Surely morality, refinement, and good taste are standards to be defended and practiced, especially by members of the Church and in all Church publications. Equally, however, academic and creative freedom is also surely an ideal to be championed; and its opposite, censorship or suppression, inevitably contains elements that are not only inherently repugnant but also most difficult to control.1
This unpleasant incident of two years ago was particularly tense for a few weeks, but, rather than standing alone, it was merely one of many such incidents that have come to my door during the past twenty-five years in my responsibilities as a teacher and school administrator supervising creative writing classes, publications, and contests. The incident I have referred to happened at BYU, but it could have been in any high school or university. In fact, similar confrontations, often far more severe, have occurred and are occurring all over the world, wherever talented young people are writing, and that is everywhere. It is a problem that concerns all of us who are students and educators; and for those of us who are students and educators in the Church, it is a problem of special concern. The typical pattern is for some students and their teachers to press for increasing freedoms in writing and publishing while other students and educators press for tightening restrictions and controls.

In considering the testing that leads to a degree—or to the bigger goal of eternal life—we could get overwhelmed. I think Elder Hartman Rector, Jr., thought about this:
“I learned this lesson from my father at a very early age. My dad was smarter than I was when I was seven years old. Of course, I was smarter than he was when I was seventeen, but that changed later, too. He said to me one time, ‘You are not big enough to milk the cows.’
“Now, I knew I was. I was seven years old, and I knew I could milk the cows. So I proved to him that I could.
“My dad said, ‘You know, I believe you can milk. You’ve got the job.’
“For the next ten years I milked eight to twelve cows night and morning. You may rest assured I got to the place where I did not want to milk, and once I said to Dad, ‘Dad, I don’t want to milk.’ He said, ‘That’s all right. You don’t have to want to—as long as you do it.’” [8]

Sister Rinne received her first missionary assignments after she moved to Jyväskylä, where she served twice as a district missionary. “In those days there were so many baptisms in Jyväskylä you could hear the roar of the water,” she recalls. “The Lord just sent us the people who were ready to hear the gospel.”
One of Anna-Liisa Rinne’s companions as a district missionary was Sister Kerttu Harinen, who has many good memories of that time. “Sister Rinne was my first companion in missionary work. I myself was still a little timid. I grew at her side and received courage enough to serve as a district missionary for many years afterwards. Our first investigator was baptized before we had been companions one month. We had asked that we could practice our missionary discussions with a family whose father did not belong to the Church. So it happened that as the result of our ‘practice’ the father of the family was baptized.”

My high school graduation was from a small Methodist boarding school in Thomasville, Georgia. I had enjoyed school very much and was hoping to continue my education at Berry College in Rome, Georgia. However, I was facing an uphill struggle to obtain the necessary funds for tuition, books, housing, and other expenses. My parents and family were not in a position to help me, and I made only a limited amount as a waitress during the summer. It was at this time that I received a surprising letter from the Women’s Division of Christian Service of the Methodist church. They offered to put me through college if I would fulfill a two-year mission for them as a teacher after graduation. I was deeply touched and astonished by their offer and wanted very much to accept. A few months earlier this would have seemed like an answer to my prayers, but now I wasn’t so sure.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.

That clouded vision has been both figurative and literal in my life. I was born with an extremely rare eye condition. My vision has always been limited, but within the past year, I’ve lost almost all sight in my left eye. This condition is so rare that there is very little the doctors can do, and I’ve had to place every ounce of my faith in the Lord.
On a particularly hard day, I found myself falling into despair, worrying that my whole life might crumble right before my eyes—literally. And then I remembered a very timely and powerful scripture: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you” (John 14:27).
The Savior didn’t say, “My answers I give unto you on your timetable” or “Healing I give unto you in every case,” but He did promise us peace. He may not remove the figurative curtains of mortality that are sometimes placed over our eyes, but if we take His hand, He can teach us how to move forward with faith, trusting that the answers will come with time. Through Him, our burdens can be made light. President Russell M. Nelson reiterated this, saying, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1 And I chose to focus on Him.
After many months of being afraid to take His hand, I finally did. My sight continued to decline, but I eventually received an answer from doctors about my vision and was able to receive a surgery that could possibly help me retain some of it. There was no guarantee that this procedure would help in the long run, but I went into it knowing that whatever the outcome, the Lord had a plan for me, and this trial could bring me closer to Him if I allowed it to. Peace doesn’t always come after you’ve been healed—sometimes it comes amid the storms of life—but as you rely on the Lord, you can be sure that it will.

The mission home became the organizing point for many of the Saints. By mid-morning the Pacific elders arrived there and found the structure relatively undamaged but waterless due to severed water mains. After consuming sandwiches and bottled fruit (to quench their thirst), they went two by two with local elders to survey the condition of branch members. By noon, reports on all the Saints were in: to the joy and gratitude of the group, not one branch member was missing or seriously hurt.

I glanced out my window one summer day and saw her—my enemy—coming up the street. I dreaded approaching her, but here was my opportunity. It was now or never. My stomach churned, my heart pounded, and I shook all over as I raced out the front door.
Our animosity had started out innocently enough as a motherly instinct to protect our children. My son had fought with her son, and she came to my house to talk to me. But I felt she was telling me how I should be raising my son. While the boys soon made up their differences, their mothers did not.
Then, in the following weeks, I began to hear from our neighbors that she was making critical comments about me. I was deeply hurt, and soon I, too, was criticizing her behind her back. We went to great lengths to avoid each other, including walking on opposite sides of the street. The contention continued for two long years.
One day as I knelt in prayer, I was struck by the thought that if I continued harboring ill feelings toward my neighbor, the Spirit could not abide with me. I realized I had let hate grow in my heart, and the hate was eating away at my soul.
I desperately needed my Heavenly Father and his Spirit to be with me, and I sorely needed to repent. I fasted and prayed for help in mending the breach between us. I needed an opportunity to make things right.
Now it seemed my prayers had been answered. Gathering my courage, I ran out the door and grabbed her by her shoulders. She stared at me in shock. Quickly I blurted out, “Will you please, please forgive me? I do not know if we can ever be friends, and I do not know what you will do in the future, but I vow never to speak ill of you again. I will no longer consider you my enemy.”
What happened next is hard to express. The sweet Spirit of the Lord enveloped both of us. As we embraced, the bitterness melted away. We cried and hugged and laughed.
Love, joy, and peace are such sweet companions that I wondered why I had chosen to carry around the heavy burdens of anger and ill will that had weighed down my soul and sapped my spiritual strength for so long. I am pleased to say I kept my vow, and we did become friends. I have since moved away from that neighborhood, but I have not forgotten the lessons of forgiveness and love I learned that precious summer day.

“This happened to me, and I was the one without any talent. I wanted to be a great artist just like my sister. I asked her how I was doing, and at first she just said, “Yeah, good.” Later she realized that this wasn’t what I wanted or needed. So she tactfully told me my work wasn’t really super, and she showed me how to improve.
“With my sister’s encouragement, patience, care, and great knowledge, she showed me how to draw much better. She also helped me to realize that drawing isn’t my greatest talent, and she did it because she really cares about my future. Even though it hurt a little to realize I’m not a great artist, I’m glad she told me, and I love her for it.”
Florence E. GardnerIrvine, California

Friday was fish day, and Emily always went to the market with her mother on Fridays to buy their supper. Today Emily’s mother had given her a penny to buy a sugar cake. The two of them walked down the narrow streets because Mother couldn’t afford to hire a carriage. But Emily didn’t mind. She enjoyed swinging the grocery basket, watching the ladies sweep by in their long skirts, and hearing the clobble-clobble of horse hooves.
A boy selling newspapers yelled, “Read all about it!”
Emily glanced at the date on the newspaper as they passed by—October 14, 1865.
“Mama!” she cried. “Tomorrow’s Papa’s birthday!”
“I know,” Mother said. “I’m going to make his favorite dish for his birthday supper—steak-and-kidney pie.”
“But what about me?” Emily asked. “What can I give him?”
“You could read to him,” Mother suggested. “He loves listening to you read Mr. Dickens’s stories. He says it’s very restful after a long day in the mill.”
“But I can read to him anytime,” Emily said. Then she remembered the penny in her hand. What can I buy for a penny? she wondered.
When they arrived at the market, Emily felt a rush of excitement. The stalls were filled with all kinds of things! Fishmongers swiftly cleaned fresh fish with their flashing silver knives. A baker held his stick of piping hot sugar cakes high in the air.
“Run along,” Mother said. “But meet me in an hour by the greengrocer’s stall.”
Emily raced off. Seeing a hurdy-gurdy man playing his organ-grinder, she laughed when a monkey in a tiny red jacket held out his tin cup. But she didn’t stop to listen because she wanted to hold on to her penny.
There must be something I can buy for Papa’s birthday, she thought.
Dogs darted in and out of the crowd. She remembered how much Papa admired collies. “I’d love to own one,” he had said. “But it’s hard to keep a dog in the city. One of these days—if we’re lucky—we’ll move to the country.”
Papa’s always saying that, Emily thought. If only my penny could buy us a cottage in the country—one with a white fence around it and a little garden!
But Emily was only day-dreaming, and it was almost time to meet her mother. Emily’s wandering had taken her to the end of Market Street. As she turned to go back, something caught her eye. The last stall stood apart from the others. Behind a counter filled with spices and strange-looking vegetables was an old Oriental man. He wore a golden satin jacket with a high collar, and on his feet was a pair of embroidered slippers the same color as his jacket.
Those slippers! Emily wanted a pair just like them for Papa. She imagined him sitting in front of the fire with his slippered feet propped up while she read to him from Mr. Dickens’s stories.
She walked up boldly to the Chinaman’s stall. “Excuse me,” she said. “Where did you buy those slippers you’re wearing?”
“My daughter-in-law makes slippers,” he replied in a papery-dry voice. “Very fine.”
“Yes, they are,” Emily agreed. “I would like to buy a pair like them for my papa’s birthday.”
The old man smiled. “Ah, a present for your papa. Well, little missy, how much money do you have?”
Emily held out her penny.
The Chinaman’s smile was not so wide now. “Oh, my,” he said. “My daughter-in-law charges much more than that. She uses the finest satin, and she spends many hours embroidering.”
“That’s all right,” Emily said, turning away to hide her disappointment. Her elbow knocked over a little cage on the counter.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, setting the tiny bamboo cage upright again. She smiled when she saw what was inside. “A cricket! Why do you have a cricket in a cage?” she asked.
The old man replied, “It makes very fine music. In China emperors keep crickets in cages made of ivory or jade. But for Li-Fu, bamboo is just as fine. When my cricket sings, it reminds me of my home.”
A cricket! Emily tried hard to remember something she had read …
She offered her penny again. “I know it’s not much, Mr. Li-Fu, but I would love to give this cricket to my papa for his birthday.”
The old man thought for a moment. “Done!” he said finally. He handed Emily the tiny cage.
“The cage too?” she asked.
“It is the cricket’s home. Consider it a present from me.”
Smiling her thanks, Emily pressed the penny into his wrinkled palm. Then, carefully carrying the cage, she hurried to find her mother.
The next night Emily couldn’t sit still through supper. She picked at her steak-and-kidney pie until Father said, “You’re bursting with a secret, Emily. What is it?”
Emily ran out of the room and returned with her hands hidden behind her back.
“Happy Birthday, Papa!” With one hand she presented him with the tiny cage.
“What on earth?” He stared at the cricket in the bamboo cage.
With her other hand, Emily revealed a book and flipped it open. “Your gift is explained in one of Mr. Dickens’s stories. See? Right here it says, ‘A cricket on the hearth is the luckiest thing in the world.’”
“Mr. Dickens is usually right,” Papa said. “We’ll keep our lucky cricket here by the fire where it belongs.” He set the cage on the mantle. “But I’m already the luckiest man in the world to have such a wonderful wife and daughter.”
From its perch on the mantle the cricket chirped, as if in agreement.

I want to serve a mission! The only problem is, I’m not even old enough to drive, let alone leave my family for a year and a half.
Fortunately, I had the opportunity to serve now—by volunteering during the Philadelphia temple open house! I participated in the youth cultural celebration, led tours, and even played the violin with my brother in the reception hall. I realized that I can be a missionary without even wearing a tag!
Katie L., 15, Pennsylvania, USA

A little closer to home, most of you are students. You worry about studies. You worry about passing your class. Sometimes you ask for help. Now if you've worked as hard as you can and studied as hard as you can and then ask for help, my experience is that the Lord will bless you. If you don't do the first part and you simply ask the Lord to help you, my experience is that he will not bless you.

When I was completing my Ph.D. requirements at Columbia, I had taken all the required course work, and I was preparing for the comprehensive oral exam that all Ph.D. students have to take. I had worked hard and I had studied hard, but I had made one decision as I started my studies, and that is that I wasn't going to study on Sundays. I was going to devote that day to church and my family.

As the day drew closer for me to take the examination, three of my classmates took theirs first and they all flunked. I thought, "Oh my goodness, they even studied on Sunday and they didn't have enough information to pass the test. What is going to happen to me?" I was nervous, I was concerned, but I had done all that I could do or all that I could think that I could do.

Shortly before it was my turn, the stake president, who had also earned a Ph.D. years before, knocked on our door. Now think of it, a stake president who had a large stake to run, knocked on the door of a poor young student and his wife. We opened the door and invited him in and he said, "I won't stay long, I just wanted you to know that I and my family will pray for you as you finish preparing to take your examination." Now he had 10 children, I knew that was a lot of prayer. I was excited that he and his 10 children were going to pray for me. And I was touched by the fact that he would personally come and convey that message and so when we got down to pray that night, there was a little extra urgency, but peace, in our prayer.

We didn't pray to know things we hadn't studied. We just prayed to be able to do the best that we could. The next day I went up and sat in a room with five full professors. Each of whom came into the room, I think, thinking, "Now what can I do to flunk him, we want to keep our record clean."

The very first question they asked, I had no idea what the answer was, I assumed that was what everybody else studied on Sunday. I couldn't even remember reading about it, let alone what the answer was. I thought, "Oh boy, here we go." I said another quick, quiet prayer. All of a sudden a feeling of peace came over me and I said, I don't know the answer to that question but here's how I'd get the answer to that question. Here's the kind of information I'd get. Here's the hypothesis I'd establish. Here's how I'd go about testing the data to see what the answer was.

They then went through another series of questions, and then again they asked me a question I had no idea what the answer was. I responded in the same way. That happened three times. I was having a wonderful time. I thought that it was actually kind of fun. I knew most of the answers, the questions I didn't know I just told them how I would get the answers. It turned out to be a wonderful, pleasant exciting experience and as I walked out the door I thought, "Oh, my goodness, I flunked." You see, the Spirit left me and I thought, "Oh, how can they possibly pass me when I had three questions that I didn't have a clue what the answer was?"

The next day I was in a seminar for other Ph.D. students working on their dissertations. I was a little late getting to class. I guess it just took me a little longer to get myself together the next morning. So I walked into the back of the class and one of the professors who was leading the seminar had been on my examination team and he had seen that I wasn't there so he had started talking about me. He said, "Yesterday we gave an examination to one of your fellow students," and I thought, "Oh boy, here it comes." He said, "He passed with one of the three highest grades we've ever given in the 25 years that I've been administering these examinations." I had to sit down. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. How could it be? I'm not that smart!

It turned out that what they were looking for was not only the answers to specific questions but they wanted to know whether or not I was able to think. Therefore, they purposefully asked questions I couldn't possibly have known the answer to, just to see how I would approach those questions. And because of the power of prayer and the peace that had settled over me and the help of the Holy Ghost to think clearly and rationally, I was able to respond in a way that they found satisfactory.

Oh yes, after we have done all that we can do, the Lord does answer our prayers. How blessed you are to have direct access to the Holy Ghost that will help you remember the things that you have studied. And as you pray and ask for that help, if you have done all you can do, the Lord will then help you be the best that you can be. God does answer prayers. I know, because He has answered mine.

The mental image of his wife also gave Viktor Frankl the strength to survive the agonies of a Nazi concentration camp: “As we stumbled on for miles, … dragging one another up and onward, … my mind clung to my wife’s image … her look was then more luminous than the sun. … for the first time in my life … I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love.” Therefore, “He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how” (Man’s Search for Meaning, 1984, 56–57, 12). His “why” was the vision of being together with his sweetheart. Full of such hope, he could live with the awful “how” of imprisonment.

“The Lord could not have put it more clearly when he said, ‘Why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say?’” (Luke 6:46).
Brother Murray’s talk suddenly pushed through my thoughts of the Civil War and tomorrow’s geometry test.
“For decades He has been telling us to prepare our families for self-sufficiency by putting aside a year’s supply of necessities. We have been counseled to produce as much of our own food as possible. But how many of us are really prepared for any emergency the future might bring?”
Thinking of my frequent errands to the supermarket for mom, I looked along the bench. Mom and dad’s faces were serious. Fourteen-year-old Greg looked deep in thought. Even 11-year-old Corey and Carrie were listening. We all probably had the same thoughts. With six of us in the family, it seemed that food started disappearing as soon as a grocery bag entered the house. Live off our storage for a year? We didn’t even have a month’s supply of most things!
But what could I do—16-year-old Joyce Brown? No part-time job was allowed because my parents didn’t want me distracted from schoolwork and Church activities. My allowance of $5 a week covered lunches, school supplies, and assorted small miscellaneous expenses. And, with the junior prom a month away, I’d been saving all my baby-sitting money for a new dress. I couldn’t think of a single contribution I could make to a storage program for the Brown family.
“Church leaders haven’t prescribed a storage system that fits everyone,” Brother Murray went on. “Each of you, each family using free agency has to prepare in its own way. The important thing is to start! Don’t put it off any longer. If you wait until you can buy a year’s supply all at once, you may still be waiting when the chance for preparation has slipped away.”
Brother Murray’s words bounced around in my head. “The important thing is to start!” “Prepare in your own way.” “Start!”
Opening my hymnbook for the closing song, I vowed that this message would not be hidden away in my mind to be dealt with on a distant, vague someday.
At dinner I mentioned Brother Murray’s talk.
“It was a good reminder,” dad said. “We should start putting something aside for the future.”
“When?” I asked.
“Soon,” he said and finished spooning gravy onto his mashed potatoes. “I think Mr. Blanchard is going to come through with that raise within a couple of months. Then we’ll really have some funds to work with. Please pass the salt, Greg.”
“Brother Murray said we shouldn’t wait until we could start in a big way. We should just make sure we start.”
Mom passed the green beans to me. “It takes extra money to buy extra food, Joyce. Of course, being prepared is important, but—”
She didn’t finish because Corey spilled his water while reaching for a slice of bread.
I just couldn’t push family preparedness from my mind. “The important thing is to start! Start!” But how?
Tuesday after school, mom asked me to go to the store for her. “We’re having spaghetti tonight. I need a can of tomato sauce.”
It’s amazing, but the twins can hear the car keys jingle all the way upstairs in their bedrooms.
“Where are you going, Joyce?” Corey asked, bursting into the kitchen.
Carrie was right behind him. “We want to go,” she said when I disclosed my destination.
“I’m starving,” Corey moaned. “Can I buy a fruit pie to tide me over till supper?”
“Me, too?”
Mom smiled. “It’s quite a while till soup’s on. Go ahead. You can have something, too, Joyce.” When we got home, I handed the bag to mom.
“Joyce, I only need one can of tomato sauce.
You’ve got three in here!”
I smiled at the twins.
“It’s for storage,” Carrie explained.
“Joyce convinced us to give up fruit pies for extra tomato sauce.” Corey was looking in the refrigerator. “We’ll have a jam sandwich instead.”
With a puzzled look, mom put the extra cans on the shelf.
Friday was payday. That meant allowances for everyone. As dad handed me my $5 bill, mom said, “You just might have enough for your prom dress now.”
Dad grinned. “My princess is growing up.”
“Oh, dad!” I smiled.
That evening I spent some time going over my clothes. When I finally pulled out my best go-to-school-dances dress, it didn’t look as bad as I’d thought. In fact, Saturday, when Mom took me shopping for a prom dress, I just couldn’t find anything to top the dress that was already hanging in my closet.
After a stop at the market, we went home.
Dad was in the kitchen. “All right,” he smiled. “Let’s see that dreamy prom dress you picked out.”
I laughed because dreamy is dad’s idea of teenage language. He uses it when he wants to show he’s not old-fashioned. I carefully tipped my grocery sack over and let the contents slide onto the table: 3 large bags of pinto beans, 2 bags of rice, and a box of powdered milk!
Dad just stared for a few seconds. “A very interesting prom dress,” he finally said.
“I decided I’d rather add to our storage instead of buying a new dress,” I explained. “My old one is dreamy enough!”
Dad glanced at mom, but she just gave him her don’t-ask-me shrug. She said, “Find a place for all that stuff.”
I finally fit my storage contribution into the bottom of a corner cupboard. At least it would be undisturbed, unless someone wanted to risk a sprained back getting it out again.
Thursday, after I had maneuvered an extra jar of peanut butter into the storage corner, I unkinked my back, had a brilliant idea, and went to find Greg. He was practicing foul shots on our old basketball hoop in front of the garage.
“Greg, I have this idea. Will you help me?”
He bounced the ball a couple of times. “Sorry, Joyce, I’m busy.”
“Not now, I mean tomorrow afternoon.”
“I have a million things to do,” he said, making a basket.
“Nice shot,” I beamed, deciding not to beg. “I can understand your obligations. Just tell me where I can find the hammer and nails.”
“Hammer?”
“And some nails,” I said with a smile.
“You’re going to hammer?” He looked very surprised when I nodded. “Just what are you making?”
“That’s what I was going to get your help with,” I said, starting toward the house. “I know you’ve been doing some carpentry in Careers Ed. I was going to put some of that skill to work.”
“Since you put it that way, I’ll do it, Joyce,” Greg said, following me. “I can make time. I mean, if you really need a carpenter, how can I turn you down?”
After dinner I found dad reading the paper in his favorite chair.
“Dad?”
“Hmmmmm?”
“Greg and I are going to use some of that lumber stacked behind the garage. Okay?”
He didn’t look up. “Sure, honey,” he said without even asking why.
I have to admit, Greg’s carpentry skills surprised me. He had shelves built in half of my closet before dad got home from work on Friday. I was so proud of Greg’s work that I dragged both mom and dad in to show off our storage shelves. The beans, rice, dried milk, peanut butter, and two cans of tomato sauce looked a little lonely, but it would get more crowded as time went on. At least I wouldn’t have to strain and stretch to get things under the kitchen cupboard.
Mom and dad smiled at each other.
“What a perfect arrangement,” dad teased. “If Joyce is going to buy food instead of clothes, it’s only logical to reserve half of her closet for food.”
The next week mom bought a few extra sale items each time she went to the store. Greg gave up a record album and a new sweatband so he could add three cans of honey to the shelves. Even the twins added a jar of jam apiece by giving up ice cream cones.
After a few more weeks, the little bit that appeared on our storage shelves started to really look like something. It was still a little something, but something just the same.
By then, warm spring days were here, and I knew there was one more thing that Joyce Brown could do to help with the family preparedness. One Monday right after school, I got the trusty shovel from the garage and began turning over the far corner of our backyard. Years ago that area was set aside as a garden spot, but something always came up to prevent us from using it.
Greg came out to play basketball, stopped, then sauntered down to me.
“Looking for gold?” he grinned.
“Better than gold,” I puffed. “I’m going to plant a garden.”
“A garden? you’ve got to be kidding!”
“Nope.”
“What do you know about gardening, Farmer John, or should I say Farmer Joyce?” He was smiling, but at least he didn’t laugh.
“Not much,” I admitted, “but I can read, and the library is full of books about raising vegetables.”
He took the shovel from me. “We just might make it … if we team up! Farmer Joyce and Gardener Greg!”
We had a pretty good-sized section turned over when dad drove in. He sat in the car watching us for a long time. Finally he walked over.
“Don’t tell me,” he sighed. “A garden, right?”
We both grinned and nodded.
“Just what the storage program needs!” Greg panted and jumped on the shovel again.
Dad went in while we worked awhile longer.
After supper, dad announced, “Special lesson for family home evening, or maybe I should say, emergency meeting!”
Emergency meeting? It was all very mysterious, so we got settled in the living room very quickly.
“First of all,” dad started, “your mother and I appreciate the special effort all of you have been giving to a storage program. Joyce and the twins showed real initiative in getting it started.”
The twins beamed at each other.
“Then Greg used his talents to help the project along. Now, if you kids could use some more partners, your mother and I would like to join in.”
Everyone agreed unanimously.
“It looks like the next step is a garden. Joyce and Greg have already started turning the ground in the corner of the yard. I say, let’s all help them and make this an organized Brown family project! Now, I really don’t know too much about gardening—”
Corey interrupted, “Carrie and I can stop by the library after school tomorrow. I’m sure they have tons of books on gardens.”
“That’s a good idea,” mom said. “I’ll find that book on food preservation that Aunt Norma gave us a few years ago so we’ll know what to do when all those lovely vegetables start rolling in.”
For the next few minutes everyone juggled for a time to share their ideas about this family food project. Then dad looked at mom, and she smiled some encouragement.
“You all know how we enjoy a pretty nice family vacation each summer,” he said. “We’ve made some special memories while traveling around visiting new places.”
We all nodded.
“Well … your mother and I thought … that maybe the family would like to think about taking some of the vacation money we’ve saved to really get the Brown family preparedness program heading in the right direction.” Dad looked at us uncomfortably. “You know, plan what we’ll need for a year’s supply, keep track of inventory, build a real storage area—things like that.”
All of us just looked at dad.
“We could take one-day-trips and really explore the area close to home.”
The room was quiet.
Finally I said, “We’re quiet not because we don’t want to give up our vacation but because we think it’s a great idea!”
Greg grinned. “In fact, it’s weird, because Joyce and I talked about the same plan while we were working outside, and then we talked to the twins before dinner.”
“We were worried about what you two would say,” Corey added with a smile.
“We know how much you enjoy those vacations,” Carrie said.
Mom and dad looked at each other and then at the four of us. I think there were tears in their eyes.
Dad smiled. “Even with that money, we will still be working at this preparation business slowly, a little at a time. We won’t be able to get ready all at once, but the important thing is to start!”

I can remember a Sunday School teacher telling me once that I wasn’t very spiritual. Looking back, I think she was probably concerned because I had trouble sitting quietly through a whole lesson. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. But it didn’t sound like a compliment, so I went home and thought about it. I figured that maybe spirituality meant being quiet, especially on Sundays. I wanted to be spiritual, but I needed to know what it meant.
Since that time, I have continued my search to understand spirituality and make it more a part of my character. One day I read Elder Bruce R. McConkie’s statement that “no other talent exceeds spirituality.” (The Mortal Messiah, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1982, p. 234.) This idea, that spirituality is a talent, put my search in perspective. There’s probably nothing magical about achieving spirituality. More likely, we develop it much as we develop other talents—through hard work, difficult decisions, critical choices, enduring through hard times, trying again, not giving up.
Foremost in my mind, spirituality implies doing. That makes it difficult for me because I’d much rather sit in a comfortable place and think about it, or discuss it, or read a book about it. But spirituality is God’s asking—his inviting—and our responding—our doing. It’s getting on with it without waiting around for more details.
How is action an integral part of spirituality? We do things because we want to demonstrate to our Heavenly Father that we really mean what we say. That we meant it when we made baptismal covenants with him. (See Mosiah 18:8–11.) That we mean it when we have the privilege of entering a holy temple and making other covenants. That we mean it when, in our quietest, most private moments with him, we ask for his help and make additional promises.
One evening when my parents weren’t home, I answered the telephone. It was one of my younger sisters, crying hard. “Come and get me,” she pleaded. She was calling from a party at a friend’s house where her friends had started swearing. Unknown to any of her family, she had promised Heavenly Father that she would never swear. Spirituality means honoring our promises to Heavenly Father.
Another concept that rings true for me was taught by Bishop J. Richard Clarke, formerly second counselor in the Presiding Bishopric: “It has always been the disposition of the true disciples of Christ, as they reached higher degrees of spirituality, to look after the needy.” (General Conference, April 1978.)
Who are the needy? If we speak of temporal needs, we can identify the poor quite easily. I have seen many in Africa, Asia, and other places who might be identified as “poor.” There are many who are hungry and have no food. They are thirsty and have no water. They are sick and have no medicine.
One day as I watched some women squatting by the river to wash their clothes, I pictured myself putting my clothes into a washing machine. And I wondered what I did with all the extra time I have. In a refugee camp in Thailand, I once visited with a couple as their children played nearby. One little girl knocked over a small plastic bag of rice. With great care, the parents picked up every single grain of rice and put them all back in the bag. I thought about how much food I have wasted in my life. I will never forget the moment in Indonesia when I realized that I was spending more money in a month than some people made in an entire year.
Spirituality is opposed to worldliness, and it is opposed to selfishness. To be worldly is to be concerned with the affairs, pressures, and “things” of this world to the exclusion of more important matters.
When we are worldly, we may actually be contributing to inequality in the world. Spirituality is a conscious moving away from self-indulgence. It is a consciousness that God created the earth with “enough and to spare” (see D&C 104:13–18) and that I have enough and have much to spare—to share.
When we as a people endeavor to find more to share, we reach toward a lofty goal, a society where there are no poor. “And the Lord called his people ZION, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them.” (Moses 7:18.)
But there are so many ways to be needy. There are many who mourn and find no comfort. They are lonely and find no love. Some feel unneeded and find no opportunities to share with others. Anyone who has an unmet need is needy. We are all needy! And those who have something they can share are rich. We are all rich! All of us can share something that may lift a burden or help in some silent struggle.
A friend of mine was very sick at one time. She was home alone when someone knocked at her door. She didn’t feel like getting up, but the knocking continued. Then she realized that it might be her visiting teachers. She knew they had set a goal for 100 percent; it was near the end of the month, and they hadn’t come yet.
When she saw that it was indeed her visiting teachers, she began to feel hopeful. She had a lot of undone work around her apartment. Perhaps, she thought, they might see how sick she was and offer to help. When they saw her and asked if she was all right, her hopes increased. “I’ve been so sick,” she said. “Well,” they replied, “we’ll just give you a quick lesson so you can get back to bed.”
They gave her the lesson, left, and got “credit” for their visit. My friend went back to bed and wept. She thought of times when she, too, had missed opportunities to serve because she was not as sensitive as she could have been.
How often we continue doing good out of a sense of duty, rather than reaching for a level where we do out of love. I have often wondered what would happen if we approached our visiting and home teaching with the primary goal of helping people meet their needs. I suspect that 100 percent might just happen anyway, without giving it much thought.
Spirituality is responding to our God-given ability to know right from wrong—and choosing right without delay. This means we cannot go day after day with the same excuses, the same putting off. I have always thought it’s a wonderful thing that we lose our peace of mind when we do wrong. Let us pray that we will never cause the Holy Ghost to cease striving with us. Imagine that inside each of us is a little device with many sharp points. When we do wrong, it starts to spin, and its sharp edges cause pain. When we stop doing or thinking wrong things, it stops spinning and we feel better. But if we continue doing what we know we should not, the sharp edges wear down and we no longer feel or notice the pain so much. To delay change, once we know it is needed, is to lose a measure of spirituality.
The story goes that someone once asked the great Italian artist Michaelangelo how he could transform ordinary rock into his marvelous statues. Reportedly, the artist replied that he just chiseled until everything that wasn’t the statue wasn’t there. To be spiritual means to have a sense of who we truly are and then to be that person.
Eventually, spirituality becomes such an integral part of our being that we can follow our heart’s true desires without doing anything wrong. Nephi, the son of Helaman, reached that point where there was no conflict between what he wanted and what was right. The Lord promised him, “I will bless thee forever; and I will make thee mighty in word and in deed, in faith and in works; yea, even that all things shall be done unto thee according to thy word, for thou shalt not ask that which is contrary to my will. (Hel. 10:5; italics added.)
This kind of spirituality requires that we consciously move away from all that is unkind, unholy, impure, or unchristian. It requires that we let go of anger and revenge. And it yields a peace of heart and soul. It makes us able to find good things to do without constantly being asked, pushed, or reminded.
As I observe people who seem to have developed a deep spirituality, I notice several qualities they have in common. One is the ability to communicate in a meaningful, personal way with God, to enjoy meditating and pondering. Another is a cheerfulness, an optimism, a buoyancy of spirit. Those who are spiritual also seem to be grateful—not just for obvious blessings, but for the often unnoticed joys of life. They seem genuinely happy when others succeed or receive praise. They obey with a feeling of enlightenment and sense of progression, rather than out of duty or fear or in hopes of some honor. And they seem as much concerned with being—with the state of their souls—as they are with doing.
Perhaps the trait I enjoy most in those who seem to have reached higher levels of spirituality is that they show kind, tender, active concern for others. They don’t seem to need much credit for genuine Christian service. And they seem to be able to help others without creating dependency or a feeling of indebtedness. They have a way of exalting those they help. (See D&C 104:15–16.)
They say, “Here we are, Lord. Send us!” Send us anywhere in the world where we might be of service. Send us next door with some warm bread. Send us to listen to a weary, struggling neighbor. Send us to visit a lonely friend. Send us into the next room to lift a heavy heart. Help us be in tune so that we can respond to all the big and little promptings that come. Help us go beyond “Just call if you need me” to anticipating and helping before there is desperation and helplessness.
The price God asks of each of us is the same: everything. The reward is also the same: a growing feeling of confidence and peace. I will always remember a tall Nigerian who stood in a testimony meeting and said with emotion, “I am convinced that I am a son of God!” I also like to think how Enos must have felt when he knew he was forgiven of his sins and his faith in Christ was rewarded: “Wherefore my soul did rest.” (Enos 1:17.)
May we lift and love and nourish and smile. May we visit and share and sing and serve until joy fills our souls to overflowing. Then we, with Enos, may look forward to meeting God, for we will “see his face with pleasure.” (Enos 1:27.)

Later I climbed the Mount of Olives by way of a very old stone path. The huge stones were polished from the countless sandals of several thousand years. The feet of Jesus probably climbed this path from Jerusalem to Bethany. It was long and steep, and I stopped several times to gulp much needed air and to wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I lifted my eyes to see the top of the hill, I imagined myself to be one of the Savior’s disciples, following him up the path to Bethany. Perhaps I would have stumbled on a projecting rock and called, “Master, wait for me.” Or I might have asked, “Lord, what of the last days?” For a moment I stood there, aboard my own personal time-machine, wondering about the closeness to Christ that I was feeling. As tears came unexpectedly, I understood those I had seen in President David O. McKay’s eyes during a sacrament meeting a few years ago. He had cried in contemplation of the suffering of a close friend, a man called Jesus.

When I’m at a family gathering, I try to spend time, when appropriate, to have a one-on-one discussion with some of our grandchildren. I sit with them and ask them a few questions: “How are you doing?” “How is school?”

Then I ask them how they feel about the true Church, which means so much to me. I try to discover the depth of their faith and testimony. If I perceive areas of uncertainty, I’ll ask them, “Would you accept a goal from your granddad?”

Then I’ll suggest they read the scriptures daily and recommend they kneel down every morning and night and pray with their father and mother and have personal prayers. I admonish them to go to their sacrament meetings. I admonish them always to keep themselves pure and clean, always attend their meetings, and finally, among other things, always strive to be sensitive to the whisperings of the Lord.

Now one time after a talk with Joseph, our eight-year-old grandson, he looked into my eyes and asked this pointed question: “May I go now, Granddad?” He ran from my arms and I thought, “Did I do any good?” Apparently I did, because the next day he said, “Thanks for the little talk we had.”

He delighted in recounting such incidents as this:
“I had a man pointed out to me who married an entire family. He had originally intended to marry Jane, but Jane did not want to leave her widowed mother. The other three sisters were not in the matrimonial market for the same reason; so this gallant man married the whole crowd, including the girl’s grandmother, who had lost all her teeth, and had to be fed with a spoon. The family were in indigent circumstances, and they could not but congratulate themselves on securing a wealthy husband. It seemed to affect the grandmother deeply, for the first words she said on reaching her new home, were: ‘Now, thank God! I shall have my gruel reg’lar!’”

In 1864, Joseph A. Young was called on a special mission to transact Church business in the East. His father, President Brigham Young, blessed him to go and return in safety. As he was returning, he was involved in a severe train wreck. “The whole train was smashed,” he reported, “including the car I was in to within one seat of where I sat, [but] I escaped without a scratch” (Letters of Brigham Young to His Sons, ed. Dean C. Jessee, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1974, p. 4).

I know, for instance, that I stand before you here today primarily because I have a wonderfully fine father. He is as honest and honorable as any man I have ever met. He’d walk ten miles to pay you ten cents he owes you. If he says he’ll do it, he’ll do it. You don’t have to write it down. His word has been his bond all his life. He loves to talk about religion. He is open minded; he will talk to anybody about religion. He never joined a church—hasn’t yet, anyway. I’m still working on him. I found out some time ago why he hasn’t joined a church: he never met a Protestant minister he thought was better than he was. He may have lacked a little bit in humility, but I never met a Protestant minister I thought was better than my dad either. He is an open-minded man, willing to talk about religion or anything else. I grew up that way.

Also I had a wonderfully fine grandmother. Her name was Lucy Ellen Mason Garvin. We call her Mama Lucy. Mama Lucy believed in the Bible with all her heart. She knew it was true. She lived in a small town of Rennick, Missouri, population 167. I’ve always suspected that number included the horses and the cows. But in that small town of 167 back there in central Missouri there were four churches. That was a religious place, and every summer when I had the opportunity to spend a week with her just before school started, there was always a religious revival going on in one of those churches. We went every night. I loved to hear those old revival preachers; they called them evangelists. Of course, they don’t know what an evangelist is. That meant a traveling preacher to them. They could preach hellfire and damnation with the best of them. In fact, they would preach so convincingly that you would look under your chair sometimes to see if there weren’t a fire under there. Then they would invite all to “come to Christ” to be saved, to confess Christ. I wanted to do that. I thought that would be important to me or would make a difference to me if I did it. My grandmother would never let me do it because my father had never joined a church, and she thought maybe he wouldn’t want me to do that. She didn’t want to get in Dutch with him, and so I never was able to go confess Christ. I never did. Some of my friends did, but it didn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference to them. They still put potatoes in the exhaust pipes of cars. I don’t know whether you ever did that or not. And we’d make mud pies and put them on the headlights. Someone would come out and turn on the headlights—nothing. Of course, there wasn’t very much light even if there wasn’t a mud pie on the headlight because the headlights on the cars back in that day and time were so people could see you; you couldn’t see a thing with them. And you had to be a mechanic to make a car run, back in those days. (One farmer said to his friend, “How much do you get out of your car?” And his friend said, “About four times a mile.”)

Every night after the revival meeting, I wound up by sitting on Mama Lucy’s lap, and she read to me out of a great big old picture Bible. There were some of the wildest pictures in there that you have ever seen. Hell was a horrible place. There were fire and brimstone. People there were naked, and these characters with pitchforks were sticking them, and they had horns on their heads and forked tails. I knew I didn’t want to get in that place. I knew that. That was impressed upon me. And heaven was always a beautiful place. There were angels there. They were always female, and my grandmother was sure that no man would ever be worthy of this exalted station. When the elders told me about Moroni’s visit, and they said he was a man, I said, “Are you sure?”

When the elders knocked on my door, they found someone who was open minded, was willing to talk about religion, read all kinds of books on religion because I was looking for the truth and believed the Bible with all my heart (my grandmother had seen to that). I was a pushover for the missionaries, and I’m sure it was, to a great extent, the way I was raised.