Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago, I had a friend. My friend made a very poor choice, and unfortunately, because of our closeness, I was drawn into the situation. I felt angry, betrayed, and conflicted in my loyalties. I found myself literally consumed by the situation and consequently unable to feel joy. Disturbed by the way I was feeling inside, I prayed and turned to the scriptures. As I opened my scriptures one evening, I was drawn to a bookmark that I had been using for many years. This bookmark said the following: "Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow."[11]
In that moment, I thought of all of the things that I was grateful for: the gospel in my life, a husband who loved me, two young boys and a beautiful baby girl, a home, and a great job. The act of feeling gratitude overwhelmed and pushed away the anger and other negative feelings.
As I continued searching the scriptures, I was impressed that I needed to forgive my friend. I read, "I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men."[12] In this case I said to Heavenly Father, "Really? My friend is not the least bit sorry for her poor choice." The answer was, "Yes, really." It took time, but I was able to forgive. Extending forgiveness was liberating for me. Gone were the feelings that were keeping me from feeling joy. I still felt some sadness occasionally for her sake because I knew how that choice would eventually affect how she felt inside.

The Second Call came some time later. Closer to the end of our time in Chile. This time it came to the mission home at a very late hour. It was not a call from a General Authority, nor a concerned parent -- but from a University Co-ed who I'm sure had not taken into account the four hours difference in time zones. It was rather late at night. She began by introducing herself and helping me to understand the nature of her call. "this is highly unusual" she said "I hope you won't be angry with me for calling you". But I must have some answers about one of your former missionaries". In words similar to those of the General Authority, she said. "President Christensen, I need to know what kind of missionary he was". You need to know brothers and sisters, that we love each of the 563 missionaries assigned by the Lord who served with us in Chile as if they were our own sons and daughters. Probably much like Helaman felt about his 2060 sons who labored with him in the trenches of war. I responded "Yes, he was a fine missionary." She asked a few other questions to which I gave short, positive, answers. Then, after a moment of silence I could hear in her voice. NOT A NON-SMILING VOICE neither was it a CHEERFUL - CHUCKLING voice, but kind of a desperate and pleading voice. "President Christensen, I appreciate your answers, but I can't tell if you are being honest with me." "I am considering a long term relationship with your former missionary -- I need to know what kind of a missionary he was, how he treated his companions, was he obedient, was he extraordinarily good, did he honor his priesthood and live with a sense of sacrifice," and as she went on, I was thinking to myself -- "Wow, I prefer to be interviewed by a General Authority, this girl is tough!!! As she spoke and with each question, I was beginning to examine what I truly knew about this Elder, about our interviews, about his work ethic, about his level of obedience as a missionary, and about his companionship relationships. Then she asked the most penetrating questions of all.

"President, I understand that you have several daughters." "Yes I do" I responded, "six to be exact." Then she pulled out her most soul searching question -- "Would you want one of your daughters to marry this missionary?" "Do you believe him to be the kind of priesthood holder based on his performance in the mission field who can lead me and our children to the Celestial Kingdom? Would you feel 100% comfortable based on his constancy and obedience in the mission field to be the father of your grandchildren?" Do you see what I mean? This girl was tougher than 'Mike Wallace' on 60 minutes! Our telephone conversation continued -- I remained loyal to the missionary. I did not utter a single negative word about him in any way. However the questions and the process had been a searching one for me. Instead of answering her with comments about the missionary, I took a turn to ask her some questions. "I am not your bishop or priesthood leader so you don't need to answer theses questions but maybe they will help you." I responded. Then I asked her about her prayers? Had she fasted? If she had counseled with her parents? If she had listened to and paid attention to her feelings as directed by the Holy Ghost? I told her that I admired her for her desire to search and find answers to important questions about our former missionary.

In her case, unlike the General Authority, I sensed that she wasn't comfortable with the feelings she had felt. I suggested that her 'questions and concerns' were perhaps a signal or a flag that maybe the Holy Ghost was trying to tell her something. I told her that I had taught our missionaries on occasion, that IF THERE'S A QUESTION about something -- a kind of gnawing doubt or an absence of 'PEACE', THEN MANY TIMES -- THAT IS THE ANSWER. I shared with her that in my experience, affirmative "yes" answers from the Lord come in peaceful feelings, and gentle nudgings -- not in confusion. This telephone call continued on for a few minutes longer and then ended cordially. She expressed gratitude and we said good bye.

A few months later we received a special thank you note from her informing us that she had received a call to serve a mission of her own in a far away European nation. The Spirit had helped her sort through her feelings and the answer she sought had come.

“Are you the one who has been calling my daughter each week?” was the question.
The answer, from Keri Peterson of the Bountiful 29th Ward, Bountiful Utah Central Stake, was simple and direct, “Yes, I’m a captain of ten, and your daughter is on my team.”
“Thank you,” was the response from a grateful father. “Thank you very much.”
The youth of this Bountiful ward were involved in a project called Moroni’s Promise. It came in response to a challenge from Elder M. Russell Ballard given to the youth of the Bountiful 29th Ward to adopt a meaningful and significant project for the year. This challenge was brought before the bishop’s youth committee for discussion. The youth leaders decided that reading the Book of Mormon would surely be a meaningful and significant project.
One Sunday evening, all of the youth and their parents were invited to a meeting to launch Moroni’s Promise. It was the young, valiant captains of ten who gave the vision, reviewed the promise (see Moro. 10:3–5), spoke of agency and obedience, explained the program, and called for volunteers to join one of their teams.
One young captain of ten, Michelle Gardner, referred to the promise made by President Gordon B. Hinkley to all the members of the Church who read the Book of Mormon. He promised those who read daily that “there will come into your lives and into your homes an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord, a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to his commandments, and a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God” (Ensign, Nov. 1979, p. 9).
Appealing to the youth for whom she now felt a keen sense of responsibility, she added her own personal testimony. “I know when I read each day, especially when I study and don’t just skim over what I’m reading, I do feel a greater desire to live the commandments and to have the Spirit of the Lord in my life.”
Individualized packets were provided which included the quote from Moroni printed on parchment ready for framing, a system for recording progress, recommended target dates, helpful study methods, a promise of celebration stations, and a letter to be sent to a trusted friend or relative requesting support and continuous encouragement during the coming months as they read the Book of Mormon. An application form was also provided requesting the parent’s signature as well as the signature of a member of the bishopric.
Each participant was invited to add his or her own signature as an indication of willingness to be diligent in endeavoring to reach the goal of having read the entire Book of Mormon within the set time limit. This could be accomplished by reading approximately 16 pages per week. A captain of ten also signed the application indicating a willingness to be in touch each week to determine progress and provide encouragement to each member of his or her team.
Individual progress was not a public matter. However, increased interest was awakened when the aggregate “scores” of the teams were recorded on an attractive chart that was periodically displayed in the chapel foyer with pictures of various activities.
As eager participants finished the last verse of Alma 63, “And thus ended the account of Alma,” they would rush, regardless of the hour, to Sister Bonnie Guthrie, who helped with the records, assisted in making calls for captains as needed, and dispensed T-shirts to each one finishing the book of Alma. The T-shirts with “STOMP” (for “Students Trying Out Moroni’s Promise”) printed in bold letters across the front provided the incentive that urged many through the pages of Alma.
A celebration station was an event scheduled at regular intervals along the way to give strong incentives and provide continuous encouragement to the captains, who in turn, inspired their team members as they made their weekly contacts. The captains were to then give an accounting to the specialist in a brief weekly meeting following sacrament meeting. Many, many extra calls at various times were required to accomplish this necessary follow-up.
As the group completed Alma, a celebration station was scheduled. The snow had been falling all night, and it was unseasonably cold, but nothing would daunt the plans for the scheduled tree planting celebration. A flowering cherry tree had been selected. The hole was dug, and all ward members were invited to gather at the church.
Robert Davis stood before the group holding a scroll containing all the names of those who at that time had finished reading Alma. He rolled the scroll, put it in a plastic-coated container, sealed it, and then respectfully placed it in the hole at the base of the tree and explained, “You’re probably wondering why we are planting a tree. If you will recall in Alma the planting of a seed which became a tree has meaning because of the analogy to a growing testimony.” He then read Alma 32:27–41, “But if ye will nourish the word, yea, nourish the tree as it beginneth to grow, by your faith with great diligence, and with patience, looking forward to the fruit thereof, it shall take root; and behold it shall be a tree springing up unto everlasting life.”
On Mother’s Day following sacrament meeting, the entire ward was invited to gather around the flagpole for yet another celebration station. Richard Newman and Mike Bettilyon, both captains of ten, unfolded the beautifully designed flag with the large dark blue letters “Moroni’s Promise” centered in a white open field.
There were other names on that flag also. Those who had finished the Book of Helaman had added their signatures to the flag as an official Mother’s Day record. Bishop Bradford reminded everyone of the stripling warriors who did not fear death for they had been taught by their mothers that if they did not doubt, God would deliver them (see Alma 56:47). The captains attached the flag and pulled the ropes raising it to the very top of the long silver pole. Hearts were opened and feelings were tender as expressed by a younger member of the group, who whispering to a friend close by, said, “My name is on that flag,” and his friend responded reverently, “So is mine.”
By now the flowering cherry tree planted earlier was bursting into bloom nearby as a reminder of growing testimonies.
What difference has all this effort made? There have been 120 readers, 38 adults and 82 youth, participating in Moroni’s Promise.
Thirteen-year-old Wid Covey, standing before an audience, volunteered his testimony, “I’m thankful for this Moroni’s Promise program because it helps me understand the scriptures. When I sit down with my dad to read the Book of Mormon he helps me understand about it also. I’m thankful for Michelle Gardner. She calls me every week, and it helps me a lot and she encourages me.”
Sister Margaret Kirkham reported, “Our whole family looks forward to Richard Newman, our captain of ten, coming to encourage us. This project has been a great influence to our entire family.”
Bishop Bradford reflected on the past eight months. “It has made a great difference. There are few activities that could have unified our youth as well as this. I can’t say that all our youth now have a strong personal testimony of the Book of Mormon, but it’s a super beginning. With the help of our inspired specialist, a great number of young people will be better missionaries in every aspect of their lives, and all of them are better prepared to withstand the evils of the world.”

Several years ago I went on a bicycle trip in France with my sister, sister-in-law, and her daughter. Each morning we were given three pages of detailed instructions that, if followed exactly, would guide us to our destination of the day. While we were cycling through vineyards, the directives might instruct us to “go 165 feet (50 m) north, then turn left and go 330 feet (100 m).” More often, the instructions gave signs and street names.
One morning we cycled down an attractive road but soon realized that our instructions no longer fit the territory. Rapidly becoming lost, we decided to return to where we last knew we were on the right track to see if we could sort out where to go.
Sure enough, when we got there, we found a small road sign, noted in our instructions, that we had failed to see. Soon we were on our way again, matching our progress with the instructions, which again were making perfect sense.
The experience served as a metaphor that answered a puzzling question I’d had: Why, when someone has had a testimony of the gospel, would he or she ever fall away? It became clear to me that when we take a wrong turn (sin) or fail to follow God’s commandments, the instructions (the word of God) no longer make sense. The map, as it were, no longer fits the territory we’re in. If we haven’t strayed too far, we may recognize that the fault is ours and that we need to return (repent) or recommit to live as God has commanded to where we knew we were following the route correctly.

Those years brought Dallin opportunities for great growth in Church service. He was called to be stake mission president for the Chicago Stake in 1961. His law practice had him working nights, and he wondered how he would be able to fulfill the responsibilities of the new calling as well, Sister Oaks recalls, but he took it on faith. As he committed himself to the calling, the way was opened many times for him to finish his legal work early, or to achieve more than he thought was possible in the time allotted.

All of you will recall that during the last few years of his life President Hinckley always had a cane with him. He would walk to his seat in the Conference Center while waving to the crowd with his cane or using it to tap someone on the shoulder. President Hinckley and I for years went to the same doctor, and during one of my visits a few years ago, the doctor said to me, “Could you please do me a favor? President Hinckley should use his cane for walking because it steadies him. The last thing we want is for him to fall and break a hip, or worse. Instead, he waves it around and doesn’t use it when he walks. Tell him the cane has been prescribed by his doctor, and he needs to use it as it was meant to be used.”

I listened to the physician’s request and then replied, “Doctor, I am President Hinckley’s counselor. You are his doctor. You tell him!”

Last spring, I was asked to model for the prom fashion show on a local television station in Los Angeles. I was so excited to be one of the five girls chosen to be on TV. After weeks of rehearsal and preparation, we finally had the dress fitting. I quickly learned that the director of the show had already picked out all of the dresses to be modeled. I had been chosen to wear the most revealing dresses.
When I saw the dresses I was expected to wear, a line from the Young Women theme came to me: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’ (Mosiah 18:9).”
I felt extremely uncomfortable with the dresses that had been chosen for me, and I knew that I would not be standing “as a witness of God” if I wore them. I requested a dress change but was told that the director wanted me to wear those specific dresses and not any others. My only other option was to exclude myself from the show.
The decision was difficult to make, but I knew I was doing the right thing when I chose not to be part of the show. I wanted to keep the commandments under all circumstances, not just when I had nothing to lose.
[illustration] Photograph © PhotoSpin

Marny agreed. “They can have so much more fun without those things. A group of kids came over to my house after a football game. It was near Christmastime, and I was the only Latter-day Saint in the group. I think it was the best time I ever had. There were about eight of us, and we sat around the Christmas tree and sang Christmas carols. We stayed up till one o’clock. These were people who would normally go out partying. If they hadn’t been there they would have gone out to the levee and gotten drunk. Later I talked to this guy who had been to the party, and he said, ‘That was one of the best times I’ve ever had.’”

What would you prefer: enjoying a day at the beach with friends or going to a family history conference? Most teens would choose the beach, but Sierra Y., 17, chose to participate in a family history conference instead. She and other youth from Texas, USA, discovered that family history is not only uplifting but also fun and exciting.
Sierra posted an Instagram image that said: “Fall in Love with Your Family Tree” to encourage others to come to the conference. She says the conference motivated her to find ancestors’ names and do their temple work. “The conference had a wonderful spirit about it the whole time,” Sierra says. Other youth were asked not only to text and tweet but also to teach and train conference goers on how to use technology with family history. They participated in 55 classes and worked in the “Discovery Zone,” a room filled with computers where they provided hands-on help with technology.

When my grandson Andrew was seven, his Primary teacher challenged his class to read the scriptures for 100 days in a row.
Andrew started reading and made it to 20 days when he missed a day. So he started over. Then he made it to 25. But he missed a day again.
Here’s what Andrew wrote to me:
“I was a little mad, but I tried really hard the next time. I got into the habit of reading my scriptures every night. I picked them up without thinking about it. Then I got to 100 days. When I was done, I thought, now I can stop. But my mom said I should keep reading. So I did, and I got good at it.
“My brother decided he would start too. I was happy that he started so he would get this good habit. He finished the Book of Mormon before he was baptized. My cousin also started reading the scriptures. I was happy that he did and that he is still doing it.
“I’m still reading my scriptures and haven’t missed a day yet since. Now I’m 12, and I’ve been reading scriptures for over four years.”

“There it is,” I whispered to Randy as we watched the magpie glide through the air and land in the poplar trees just this side of Jed Franklin’s place. We clutched our rocks and glared at the shiny black bird with the white tips on its tail and wings. Dad had said that he didn’t like magpies eating our vegetables, so Randy and I had chased it out of the garden. Chasing magpies was lots more fun than weeding.
“Do you think we ought to follow it over there, Russell?” Randy asked.
I thought about going back to the garden to finish weeding. I scratched my head. “Dad said that if they’re not chased miles away, they just come back.”
Randy swallowed. “But it’s on Mr. Franklin’s place now.”
I shuddered just a little. Jed Franklin was the meanest man I knew. He lived alone on a little run-down farm just down the road from us.
“I figure we can sneak over there through the trees without his seeing us,” I whispered.
Before Randy could answer, I started down the dirt lane toward the Franklin place. I heard Randy scramble after me. The magpie was still in the poplar tree when we got there. We each threw a rock.
“We didn’t throw close enough to it,” I muttered as I watched the magpie fly away, then perch itself right on top of Mr. Franklin’s new light pole. “We can chase it a lot farther away from there,” I said excitedly.
“But, Russell,” Randy gasped, “we can’t go into Mr. Franklin’s yard!”
I started ahead and suddenly grinned. “He’s not even there. His truck’s gone.”
A few moments later Randy and I were hunched down by the corner of Mr. Franklin’s barn, looking almost straight up at the magpie. “Be careful,” I said.
I don’t know which rock went where. All I know is that we shattered Mr. Franklin’s new light! Glass flew everywhere.
We ran for home—past the poplar trees, across the dirt lane, and to the garden, where we should have been all afternoon. We grabbed our hoes and started chopping weeds as fast as we could. Even when we were finished, we kept looking for weeds where there weren’t any. And every few minutes we glanced toward the Franklin place.
It was almost suppertime when we heard Jed Franklin’s old truck rumble down the road past our place to his. We didn’t dare stay in the garden after that. We put our hoes away and went into the house.
That night after we’d gone to bed and should have been sleeping, I lay on my pillow with my eyes wide open and a thousand things going through my mind. When I’d said my prayer that night, the words didn’t seem to go anyplace. They just stayed in the room with me. “Are you awake?” I whispered down to Randy, who was on the bottom bunk.
Randy kicked his covers back and muttered, “Yes. I can’t go to sleep. I keep thinking.”
“We didn’t mean to do it,” I argued. “It was an accident.”
“I know,” Randy came back, “but Mr. Franklin still lost his light.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” I muttered.
The next morning, Randy and I were helping Dad fix a sagging barn door when Mr. Franklin pulled up in his truck. I took a step backward, bumping Randy and spilling a sack of nails on the ground. Mr. Franklin leaned out his pickup and glared at us. “Well, they’ve done it again,” he said angrily.
Dad straightened up. “Who did what?” Dad asked.
Mr. Franklin stared at Randy and me. I gulped, wondering how he’d found out. “They broke my new light,” he growled. “It hasn’t been in a week, and they shot it out yesterday while I was away.”
“Who did it?” Dad asked.
I got ready to turn and run. I just knew Mr. Franklin was going to point a finger at Randy and me and yell, “They did!”
“Kids!” Mr. Franklin snorted. “Probably those kids on the motorcycles. They’re always racing through my yard and driving up into the hills. They leave gates open, tear things up, and scare my stock. Now they’ve gone and knocked my light out. If I ever get my hands on them … !”
“Those guys on the motorcycles sure saved us,” I muttered after Mr. Franklin had left and Dad had gone into the house to answer the phone. “And we didn’t even have to lie or anything,” I said, smiling, but still feeling dark and sick inside. I kept thinking of something Mom had told us once. She had said that you could tell a huge lie without saying anything, just by being quiet when you knew the truth.
“Why does Mr. Franklin have to be such a mean old guy?” I asked Dad when he came back.
Dad thought for a moment, then answered, “Oh, he’s not mean. Just lonely.”
“He sure seems mean to me,” Randy said, “always running around with that ugly frown.”
Dad scratched his head. “Sometimes Jed looks mean and angry with everyone because nobody ever seems very nice to him.”
After we had finished the door, Randy and I sat in the barn and talked.
“I wish we hadn’t done it,” Randy said.
I nodded. “We ought to pay him for the light.”
Randy gasped. “But then we’d have to tell him we broke it in the first place.”
“Well, maybe we could work for him. We wouldn’t tell him why, and that way we could pay for the light without his even knowing it.”
It was the best idea we had had. We hated to hoe corn, but we knew Mr. Franklin had a little patch that needed hoeing, so we headed for it. The sun was hot, bugs buzzed around our heads, sweat trickled down the sides of our faces, our backs ached, and I even wore a blister on my hand. But for the first time since Randy and I had broken the light, I felt good because we were making up for what we had broken.
“What are you kids doing?” a voice boomed out at us as we were finishing the last two rows.
We turned around, and there stood Mr. Franklin leaning against a fence post.
I gulped and licked my lips. “We’ve been hoeing your corn.”
“Why?”
“The corn needed hoeing,” Randy spoke up.
“We wanted to,” I added. “You don’t mind do you?”
“No, I don’t mind.” He almost smiled. “Mighty fine work.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown wallet. “I guess you boys could use a little spending money.”
“We didn’t do it for money,” I burst out.
Mr. Franklin looked at me, then at Randy, who was nodding in agreement.
“But I’d like to pay,” Mr. Franklin said, counting out some money. “I don’t remember any kids ever helping me before. Sometimes kids come over and shoot my lights and windows out, but this is the first time any showed up to help.” He held the money out. “I insist that you take it.”
We couldn’t make ourselves tell him about the light, so we took the money and headed for home, feeling worse than we’d felt before we hoed the corn.
“Why don’t we feel good, Russell?” Randy asked me. I thought you were supposed to feel good after you did something good. I just feel rotten.”
“I guess it’s because we did something good just to cover up something bad.”
For a long time we stayed in the barn, thinking. We both knew that there was only one thing we could do to make us feel better, but we were both scared to do it.
“I’m going back,” I finally announced.
“Going back!” Randy gasped.
“I’m giving the money back.”
“But what will you tell him?”
I took a deep breath. “I guess I’ll just tell him the truth. That’s what we should have done to start with.”
It was hard going back to Mr. Franklin’s place, one of the hardest things I’d ever done in my life. I would rather have hoed a dozen fields of corn than explain what we had done to his light.
We found him by his old truck. The hood was up, and he was hunched over the engine, banging and tugging with a wrench. His hands were greasy, and his face was red.
As soon as he looked up and saw us, I pulled the money from my pocket and set it on the fender of the pickup. Then I stepped back and looked directly at him. I could see out of the corner of my eye that Randy was doing the same.
Mr. Franklin looked at the money. “What’s this for?” he demanded gruffly.
I swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. I watched a tiny ant tug and pull at a piece of straw that was ten times bigger than it was. “We didn’t hoe the corn for money,” I explained in a raspy whisper. “We did it to pay for your light.”
“My light?” He straightened up and wiped his hands of his pants.
My heart was hammering so hard in my chest that I thought it was going to burst. I opened my mouth to answer, but I didn’t have any breath to speak. I sucked in some air. “The kids on the motorcycles didn’t break your light,” I said. “We did.”
“But we didn’t mean to,” Randy got out. “We weren’t trying to be mean or anything. We were just trying to chase away that old magpie.”
“Did your dad make you come over here?” Mr. Franklin asked.
We shook our heads. “We’re sorry,” I mumbled. “That’s why we wanted to hoe your corn. To make things right.”
For a long time he just stared at us without saying anything. I could feel little drops of sweat trickle down my back. And a fat, pesky fly kept buzzing around my head, but I didn’t slap at it or anything.
Finally he spoke. “Thanks, boys.” He even sounded nice. “I appreciate what you’ve done. Telling me about the light is more important than hoeing my corn.” He actually smiled. “Everybody makes mistakes, but only those who are really grown-up take the blame for them and make up for them.”
When Randy and I finally left the Franklin place, that dark, ugly feeling inside us was gone. I knew that that night I wouldn’t have any trouble saying my prayers or going to sleep.

“For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.
“But thou, O man of God, flee these things; and follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness.
“Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses” (1 Timothy 6:10–12).
I related to my family how I had prepared myself for the banking profession. Dad was the bank attorney. From my newspaper delivery earnings, I saved enough to buy 10 shares of First National Bank stock. Dad insisted that I attend the stockholders’ meetings and vote my 10 shares. He thought that was a way of introducing me to the banking profession. A job offer came after graduation that was much more lucrative than banking. I thought I would accept the position for a few years and then return to banking. I never did become a banker. I tried to teach my grandchildren that choosing a major in college is not as important as developing integrity, ethics, and good study habits and building character as a person of faith, confidence, and industry.

A number of years ago I went with a brother to tow in a wrecked car. It had been a single car accident, and the car was demolished; the driver, though unhurt, had been taken to the hospital for treatment of shock and for examination.
The next morning he came asking for his car, anxious to be on his way. When he was shown the wreckage, his pent-up emotions and disappointment, sharpened perhaps by his misfortune, exploded in a long stream of profanity. So obscene and biting were his words that they exposed years of practice with profanity. His words were heard by other customers, among them women, and must have touched their ears like acid.
One of my brothers crawled from beneath the car where he had been working with a large wrench. He too was upset, and with threatening gestures of the wrench (mechanics will know that a 16-inch crescent wrench is a formidable weapon), he ordered him off the premises. “We don’t have to listen to that kind of language here,” he said. And the customer left, cursing more obscenely than before.
Much later in the day he reappeared. Subdued, penitent, and avoiding everyone else, he found my brother.
“I have been in the hotel room all day,” he said, “lying on the bed, tormented. I can’t tell you how utterly ashamed I am for what happened this morning. My conduct was inexcusable. I have been trying to think of some justification, and I can think of only one thing: In all my life, never, not once, have I been told that my language was not acceptable. I have always talked that way. You were the first one who ever told me that my language was out of order.”
Isn’t it interesting that a man could grow to maturity, the victim of such a vile habit, and never meet a protest? How tolerant we have become!

To illustrate this further, I share the true account of a family with five sons who moved from Los Angeles, California, USA, to a small community some years ago. The two oldest sons began playing high school sports and associating with friends, leaders, and coaches—many of whom were faithful members of the Church. These relationships helped lead to the baptism of Fernando, the oldest, and his next younger brother.
Fernando later moved away from home, where he continued his education and played college football. He married his high school sweetheart, Bayley, in the temple. As Fernando and Bayley finished their schooling, they eagerly anticipated the birth of their first child—a baby girl. But during the process of their families helping to move Fernando and Bayley back home, Bayley and her sister were driving on the freeway and were in a tragic accident involving many vehicles. Bayley and her unborn daughter lost their lives.
Yet as deep as was Fernando’s pain, as well as that of Bayley’s parents and siblings, so too was the depth of contrasting peace and comfort that distilled upon them almost immediately. The Holy Ghost in His role as Comforter truly sustained Fernando through this incomprehensible affliction. The Spirit communicated an abiding peace that led Fernando to an attitude of forgiveness and love toward everyone involved in the tragic crash.
Bayley’s parents called her brother who was serving as a missionary at the time of the accident. He described in a letter his feelings upon hearing the difficult news of his beloved sister: “It was amazing to hear your voices so calm in the midst of a tempest. I did not know what to say. … All I could think of is my sister may not be there when I come home. … I was comforted by your infallible testimonies of the Savior and His plan. The same sweet spirit that brings me to the verge of tears as I study and teach filled my heart. I was then comforted and reminded of the things that I know.”8
The Holy Ghost will help you by comforting you, as He did Fernando and Bayley’s family.

One day I biked home from school. As I got closer to my house, I saw my mom holding our new puppy. I was excited to see them, so I quickly pushed myself off my bike. All of a sudden, I heard a big pop! Pain shot through my right arm. I could barely lift it up.
My mom drove me to the hospital. When we arrived, the doctor took an X-ray of my arm. He told us that I had a cyst in my bone. I didn’t know what that was, so he explained. “A bone cyst is when part of the bone is hollow and filled with fluid,” the doctor said. “That’s why it was so easy to break.”
The doctor said that I might need to have surgery. That sounded scary. He told us that he would see us in a few weeks to decide if I needed surgery or not. Until then, I would need to wear a sling for my arm. On the way back home, I kept saying prayers in my head. Heavenly Father, please help me be brave. This is really scary. Please help me be confident.
A month later, I had a doctor’s appointment to see if I needed surgery. I was still scared. The Friend magazine had just come out for the month, and I started to read it. The Matt and Mandy comic was about how Matt broke his arm (Oct. 2019). He had to have surgery. Just like me!
After I read it, I felt peace. I said a prayer thanking Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. I knew I could be brave no matter what happened. I also thanked Heavenly Father for always listening to me and being there for me, like a true friend.

Christmas was almost here. Amalie was excited. Soon she could unwrap the presents under the tree!
At family home evening it was Mom’s turn to give the lesson.
“Why do we give presents at Christmas?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s Jesus’s birthday!” Amalie said.
“Then shouldn’t we give a present to Him?” Mom said.
Dad helped Amalie’s brother Noah read a scripture. It said that when we serve other people, we are serving God (see Mosiah 2:17).
“Is serving others giving a gift to Jesus?” Mom said.
Noah nodded.
“What else is a gift for Jesus?”
“Keeping the commandments,” Amalie said.
“Being nice,” Noah said.
“Great ideas!” Mom said. “Now let’s play a game. I’ll say a gift someone gave to Jesus. Tell me if you know who it was. Here we go. This person gave out Christmas cards at the care center.”
Noah raised his hand. “Amalie did that!”
“This person went home teaching.”
“That’s Daddy,” Amalie said.
Soon they had named lots of gifts they had already given to the Savior.
“We can give gifts every day,” Mom said.
The next morning it was time to clean the house. “Oh no,” Amalie groaned. But then she remembered. Serving others is a gift! If she helped Mom, it was the same as helping Jesus. She found a cloth and wiped the counters until they sparkled.
The next day Amalie earned some money.
“Your tithing is eight cents,” Mom said.
Amalie remembered again. Tithing is a commandment, so paying it is a gift. She put eight cents in her tithing jar.
Later that week Amalie helped pick up pillows. Her baby brother had thrown them off the couch. “Another present for Jesus,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad told Amalie they were proud of her. “You’ve been giving gifts to Jesus all week long,” Dad said. “That’s like having a little bit of Christmas every day.”

At the unofficial 1906 games in Athens, Greece, an Austrian weightlifter, Josef Steinbach, was booed by the partisan crowd because it was alleged he was a professional. The frustrated Austrian left the stadium, allowing the Greek in second place to win the event. The flag was run up, the crowd cheered. Then Steinbach reentered the stadium, walked up to the weight the winner had lifted with great effort, and with ease hoisted it three times over his head.

Besides his new responsiveness to the Holy Ghost, which he felt in hearing the missionaries’ testimony and on the day of his baptism, one of the most interesting, and perhaps most significant, of these changes was the sudden release of language in Brigham. While with a group gathered at Heber Kimball’s house for family prayer, Brigham reports that “the Spirit came on them, and I spoke in tongues, and we thought only of the day of Pentecost.”30 Despite his lack of formal schooling, or even much incentive for self-education before he was 30, Brigham, because of the motivations and opportunities brought by his conversion to Mormonism, became one of the greatest and most prolific orators the Church has produced—and one of the most powerful, interesting, and honest voices to ever use the English language. That achievement took many years of careful, “gritty” (as he called it) cultivation of his own capacities and of the Spirit of the Lord, but the process began dramatically: Brigham started his first diary the day after his baptism, the first written material we have in his handwriting—and very important in revealing a young man of exceptional tenderness and perceptiveness. And within a week he had begun to give his first sermons and embark on the missionary service that became a central part of his life and identity. He tells of a meeting only one week after being baptized:
“I think there were present on that occasion four experienced Elders. … I expected to hear them address the people on the principles that we had just received through the servants of the Lord. They said that the Spirit of the Lord was not upon them to speak to the people, yet they had been preachers for years. I was but a child, so far as public speaking and a knowledge of the world was concerned; but the Spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I felt as though my bones would consume within me unless I spoke to the people and told them what I had seen, heard and learned—what I had experienced and rejoiced in; and the first discourse I ever delivered I occupied over an hour. I opened my mouth and the Lord filled it. …”31

I’ve seen what “suffereth long” and “endureth all things” mean. A family moved into a house near us. The home was new, so I was part of the crew of Latter-day Saints who spent a number of nights putting in landscaping. I remember the last night, standing next to the husband of the family as we finished. He surveyed our work and said to us standing nearby, “This is the third yard you Mormons have put in for us, and I think this is the best.” And then he quietly but firmly told me of the great satisfaction he got from membership in his own church, a conversation we had often in the years he lived there.

In all that time, the acts of kindness extended to him and his family never ceased because the neighbors really came to love them. One evening, I came home to see a truck in his driveway. I had been told they were moving to another state. I approached to see if I could help. I didn’t recognize the man I saw loading household things into the truck. He said quietly as I drew near, “Hello, Brother Eyring.” I hadn’t recognized him because he was the son, now grown older, who had lived there, married, and moved away. And because of the love of many for him, he was now a baptized member of the Church. I don’t know the end of that story because it will have no end. But I know that it begins with love.

When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.