Gospel Story Finder

Another influence in my life was our bishop’s wife. She was a nurse, and she taught me about the power and authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood to heal the sick. She also taught me about the gift of being healed. One day while playing in a silo, my cousin accidently knocked over a rock that hit me in the head. Even before she bandaged my deep gash, the bishop’s wife asked my father and her husband to administer a blessing. My wound healed, and I didn’t have to go to the doctor.

A while ago one of my friends in school started saying one of Heavenly Father’s names over and over in a rude way. I asked him to stop. At first he thought it was funny, so he started laughing and said it even louder, again and again. I asked him once more to please stop because he was using Heavenly Father’s name as if it were a joke. This time he could tell that I was serious, so he stopped. I am glad to know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love us so much. I hope we will always remember to say Their names with reverence and love.

I used to look at the Old Testament in sort of the same way I looked at fairy tales—neat stories that didn’t really mean much to me. Separated by thousands of years of history, they seemed out of my grasp. However, my seminary teacher loved the Old Testament, and his enthusiasm and humble testimony began to instill in me a greater reverence for these scriptures.
One night as I was reading, I came across this scripture: “And the Lord spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend” (Ex. 33:11).
I read these words and thought little of it. The Lord spoke to Moses. Of course he did. It was only natural that the Lord would appear personally to one of the greatest prophets that ever lived.
Then I prayed, and I started to think about that scripture. I knew Heavenly Father wouldn’t appear to me that night, but maybe I should try to speak to him “as a man speaketh to his friend.” It was then that I felt his love envelop me. As I prayed, I restated what I had read in the scriptures.
“Moses spoke to thee face to face, just like a friend.” I stopped. I said it again and then again. Then it hit me. The realization was so profound, yet so simple. Moses saw God face to face. Suddenly, the days of the Old Testament weren’t so distant, and I realized that Moses was a mortal, just like me. The scriptures came to life in my mind; I simply knew that Moses had actually lived and breathed, that he, too, had experienced challenges and struggled with lack of confidence. Yet he talked to the Messiah, the Jehovah of Israel, his Lord and Redeemer, my Lord and Redeemer, in the same manner that I spoke to my own earthly father.
“Heavenly Father,” I prayed again, “I want this more than anything else. I want to return to thee!” I closed my prayer and crawled into bed, feeling His love more tangibly than I ever had before in my life.

By then, running had become a way of life. She challenged herself more, pushed herself harder, and then, in 1978, faced the two greatest challenges of her life. One challenge was to run completely across the United States. The other was to accept the message of the Mormon missionaries.

She met the missionaries just before she left for the United States and asked them to come back because “I was frantic with last-minute preparations.”

In some real though not yet understood ways, that gruelling run had prepared her for the gospel. The open road “opened my mind and heart to the hidden reaches of a hidden existence. I was ready to discover myself.” Beyond the fear of failure and the pain of the hard work lay an unshakable sense of self, a self that honored the truth and despised sham. And the “purifying solitude” of long runs had given her an instinct for joy.

The chance to plunge into another layer of self-discovery came within a month of her return to Johannesburg. Two missionaries—different ones—called on her. She participated enthusiastically in the six discussions, “sure that they would keep coming indefinitely since I so greatly enjoyed their visits.” But when they asked her if she would be baptized on the next Saturday, “I was completely stunned, I made sure that I was lousy the next Saturday—and the next, and the next.”

But she knew too much about herself now to avoid this second great challenge. “I knew I was just making excuses. I also knew that if I choice not to join the Church I would lose my way again, for I knew there was light in my life that hadn’t been there before.”

The clarity of the decision she must make did not make it any easier. She would have to be baptized alone, the only member of her family to join the Church. She would be changing her life-style for a third time. These things would hurt. But she prayed and “felt the Spirit of Heavenly Father telling me that I must do the right thing.” The Spirit also whispered “that only I could make the choice.”

She made her decision. On 30 September 1978 at 4:30 P.M., she was waiting in Ramah Chapel for her turn to be baptized. It was emotionally a repeat of her experience in Los Angeles. “There were many people being baptized with me. They all looked so calm, so sure, and so radiantly happy. I was very nervous and very unsure and, at that moment, very unhappy. Had I prepared properly? Was I doing the fight thing? It was an enormous commitment—would I be able to keep it?”

And was joining the Church worth it? Again, yes! “I know that I made the right decision. I know there will be many times when I will pray for strength merely to take the next step, but I knew, after I was baptized, that I could get to the end of the road. This is the most important journey of my life.”

Since her baptism she has served as Sunday School secretary, Relief Society social relations leader and visiting teacher, and—naturally—as athletic adviser to the Activities Committee.

Some years ago, I found myself in an auditorium at the Churchill College of the University of Cambridge in England for an annual meeting for the company I worked for. On that occasion, I had the privilege to receive from the company’s global president and CEO an award in behalf of my team for the excellent work we performed that year.
As company leaders from all over the world, representing 80,000 employees, clapped their hands and praised our team for our achievement, I thought, “This must be my best day of work ever!” The atmosphere of that moment was exhilarating.
Upon reflection, I decided that receiving an award at Cambridge was my second-best day of work. The best and happiest day at work was in a much more humble setting: a little bakery with no audience or standing ovation. It was just me and my dad. That day, he taught me to love and value work and helped me feel the joy of making something from scratch with my own hands. I learned that hard work is satisfying to both the body and the soul.
I can still hear the applause and the words of encouragement coming from that audience at the University of Cambridge, but more dear to me is the memory of my day at the bakery with my father and the smell of those loaves of bread as they came out of the oven.

The river is a poem, a rune, a mystery. The water flows deep with rhythm and verse and beauty. But beneath the beauty, beneath the constant silk flow and tranquility, there are teeth.
“If you aren’t afraid of the river, if you don’t respect it, it will get you,” Bill Barnes said. But he reassured us that all of the guides are expert swimmers and are trained in lifesaving and first aid.
We started quietly, two to a boat, a zigzagging line of canoes desperately pursuing our guide’s course downstream. The current coaxed us away from the shore and slapped us back and forth in the choppy waves. We knew we had experts leading us, but a wariness gnawed at us just the same. The sheer power of the current increased rapidly, pulsing and coursing with a raw anger that could snap a tree trunk. Soon paddles seemed almost useless, but paddles were all we had.
“They had warned us not to run into trees,” David Black of Cottonwood said. “But we thought we could push against one. We tried to push away and it didn’t work. They had told us not to lean the wrong way, but we leaned the wrong way. We went under.”
Thanks to his life preserver, David popped to the surface, grabbed his paddle, and this time following instructions, clung to the canoe. A guide raced up alongside, made sure Dave and his partner were safe, righted their canoe, and coached them as they climbed back in. It was a scene repeated often, sometimes several times for the same partnership. “I’m wetter than a wet dog,” one frustrated Explorer yelped after he had swamped for the fourth time in a row.
“I tipped over nine or ten times,” said Steven Allred of Brigham City. “It demoralized me. But after a while you got used to cold water. And you figured out that if you didn’t want to spend all day swimming, you’d better pay attention.”
As the day wore on, confidence grew. We learned that there were difficult times and times to recover. At a smooth place in the river, everyone was relaxing.
“King Rapids is next,” one of the guides shouted. “Get ready!”
The guides had been talking about King Rapids for two days. It was the biggest, meanest, orneriest, most grizzly rapid on this stretch of the Snake. There were stories about it throwing canoes clean out of the water.
We were close to the base. We could stop and carry out our canoes if we wanted to and avoid King. But none of us did.
“I knew if I quit I’d regret it,” Doug said. “I’d look back later and say, ‘That would have been fun.’ I knew I could make it if I’d just keep trying. I’d already made it through a lot of tough things.”
The water sprayed. It pounded our canoes. We lost our breath, but this time from exhilaration. Even though many of us capsized, we didn’t panic. We glided on down to a smooth basin where the current eddied and fished ourselves and our boats out of the water. Then we all returned to the base to head for home.

Just as his star seemed to be shining brightest at the start of his senior season, Devin began to experience tremendous back pains that persisted for several weeks. Then tragedy struck. While going up for a slam dunk in his first league game, Devin came down hard and grimaced in pain. After some moments of silent concern, he slowly got up. Holding his hands on the small part of his back, he was barely able to leave the floor on his own power.
As I watched him sit on the bench during the remainder of the game, I thought to myself, “All the desire to be a winner and all the ability in the world is no good to a man with a back that cannot bear the stress and strain of competitive basketball.”
After the game I walked with him to the waiting bus. Even though he was in pain, he was happier than I thought he could be. His positive winning spirit left no room for discouragement. He sensed my concern and said, “Pop, don’t worry. I’ll be all right.” But I did worry. Only a father knows how I worried.
After arriving home I retired, but I was not able to sleep. I arose and sat alone in a dark front room, sometimes thinking and sometimes praying.
For the next several days, Devin’s back was in my every prayer and in his own. He asked for and I gave him a father’s blessing. With the faith of a winner and a strong back brace, Devin was again able to play and play and play.

My wife and I requested the addresses of Namie and Joan and wrote to them on their missions. We had never met them and didn’t know them at all but felt such an instant bond that is difficult to describe in words. It was almost as though they were our own daughters! Through our letters, we rekindled a love for the Bautista family and especially for Namie and Joan—who were full of the Spirit, working hard as full-time missionaries. In a letter, Namie asked if she could telephone us on Christmas Day, as her parents didn’t have a telephone at the time. With the approval of her mission president, she called on Christmas Day in 1997, and we both just cried for several minutes. I then reminded her that an international long-distance collect call was too expensive to waste just crying to each other. We laughed and had a wonderful conversation, even with her limited English skills. She invited us to come to the Philippines the following summer for her homecoming talk.

In the summer of 1998, as Namie returned home from her mission, I made plans with my 16-year-old daughter to go to the Philippines. We arrived in Manila and met with Ruth. We attended the Manila Philippines Temple together. Then we flew south to her family’s home in Tiwi. It’s impossible to describe the joy of seeing Romeo and his family again. The deep bond of brotherhood was instantly renewed. We talked and hugged and reminisced; we ate together and read scriptures with his family each night we were there. They were such strong rocks of testimony in their small branch. We attended sacrament meeting in the Tiwi Branch and listened to Namie report on her mission. It was amazing. It was nearly celestial. Truly this was missionary heaven.
At that time, Romeo was serving as the branch president of the Tiwi Branch. He had been instrumental in bringing the gospel to his extended family in northern Luzon. Romeo took his family to the temple, where Naty and their children were sealed. Now all five of the children have been married and sealed in the Manila Temple. Several married returned missionaries. Joan was instrumental in converting her boyfriend. She waited with him for a year after his baptism and then married him in the Manila Temple. Naty died suddenly in 2007, but the family remained strongly rooted in the gospel. They are thankful for the sealing covenant and know they will see their beautiful wife and mother again if they are faithful.
Now there are more than 70 members of the Bautista family who are active in the Church. The family and extended family have accounted for 17 full-time missions and 14 temple marriages. Family members have also served as bishops and branch presidents; stake and district presidents; and Relief Society, Young Women, and Primary presidents and counselors! Romeo’s son, John, was a bishop in the Quezon City area. Ruth’s husband was a high councilor in that same stake. Lyn’s husband was also a branch president in Tiwi. The Bautista family surely is building a strong legacy of service and strength in the Philippines.
My wife and I served a senior mission in the Philippines San Pablo Mission from 2008 to 2010. One day at the temple in Manila, most of the Bautista family gathered for the marriage of John Bautista (Romeo’s son) to Sister Victorino, one of the sister missionaries from our San Pablo Mission who had completed her mission and recently returned home.
Our mission president asked if we would like to attend that joyous event, and we immediately made plans to be there. My wife knew of my relationship with the Bautista family but was completely blown away by how many family members there were and how much they loved her. She had 70 new friends for life.
I often think of Doctrine and Covenants 18:15: “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” Like a ripple in a pond, the influence of one soul, Romeo, has sent out waves of strong testimonies and Church service in the Philippines.
I was fortunate to help toss the pebble into the pond four decades ago with the baptisms of Romeo and Avelia. I have experienced unspeakable joy in my relationship with this great family, now into their third generation of gospel living. This is truly the ongoing legacy and joy of missionary work. This is a little bit of missionary heaven!

Several years ago, my son Jack and I had the opportunity to play the Old Course at St. Andrews in Scotland, where the game of golf began. It was simply amazing! Upon my return I tried to convey to others the magnitude of the experience. But I couldn’t. Photos, videos, and my best descriptions were totally inadequate. I finally realized the only way for someone to know the grandeur of St. Andrews is to experience it—to see the vast fairways, breathe the air, feel the wind in their face, and hit a few errant shots into the cavernous bunkers and burly gorse bushes, which we did with great efficiency.

A tender letter came to me while I was serving in the Salt Lake Temple. It was from a young man not many years older than most of you here today. He was in a foreign prison. He indicated he could be there for a long time. His purpose in writing was to ask that his name be included in the prayers of the temple. At the end of his letter, at what seemed almost an after thought, he asked, “How did I lose my way?”
I don’t know the answer as to how this particular young man lost his way–exactly when or where he drifted from the path to happiness, but now in his sorrow, he recognizes his great loss.

We called him Grandpa, but everyone else in town knew him as P. A. My earliest recollection is watching Grandpa, dressed in blue and white pin-striped coveralls and a neatly pressed white shirt, hoeing and pruning in his garden.
Grandpa was blessed with an appreciation of beauty, and was a talented sculptor. When he was a young man, Cyrus E. Dallin, a famous sculptor, invited Grandpa to come to Boston and study under him. Grandpa planned to accept Mr. Dallin’s offer, but in the meantime he worked as a fireman on a train to provide for his growing family.
One foggy day, there was a mix-up in schedules and two trains collided head-on. Grandpa was caught beneath the engines of both trains. Escaping steam scalded his face and arms. Seeing that his left leg was pinned in the wreckage and partially amputated, he free himself by completing the amputation with his pocketknife. Blood poured from the wound, and the faithful priesthood holder, in the name of Jesus Christ, commanded the bleeding to stop. It did. The stump of his leg turned white and did not bleed again.
Later, in the hospital, doctors amputated his other leg below the knee. During his long period of recuperation, Grandpa spent much of his time visiting and encouraging other patients.
After the accident, Grandpa traveled in several neighboring states representing a coal distribution company, taking orders and collecting money. Many a hitchhiker found himself riding in Grandpa’s car, sharing his lunch and his philosophy of life.
Sometimes Grandpa’s generosity got him in trouble. A hitchhiker once pulled out a gun and tried to rob him. Grandpa said, “I have only the money in my wallet. Take that and go.”
Apparently the man knew that Grandpa collected money from the coal company’s customers and was expecting to find a few thousand dollars. But after a thorough search of every possible hiding place in the car, all he got was a five-dollar bill from Grandpa’s wallet. After letting out the frustrated thief at the edge of town, Grandpa chuckled and drove away—with ten thousand dollars in collection money tucked safely inside his artificial legs!
Later, Grandpa became the owner of a roadside cafe. At Christmas time he gave the widows in our town a supply of coal and groceries. Grandpa took very seriously the admonition of Christ to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction. In fact, no one who came to him for help was ever turned away. One cold winter’s day, a couple with five young children came to the cafe. Despite the freezing weather, they wore only lightweight summer clothing.
The family was travelling through to another state where a job had been promised. Their car had broken down, and they had walked many kilometers into town through the snow. Grandma fixed them a hot meal in the cafe while Grandpa drove the father to town and bought winter clothing for all of them. Then he paid for a mechanic to tow in the car and repair it. The next morning, as the family prepared to leave, Grandpa pressed a helpful amount of money into the father’s hand. The man cried and embraced Grandpa, asking God to bless him.
Heavenly Father truly did bless Grandpa. Losing both legs at a young age could have turned him into a self-pitying, embittered man. But he turned his feelings outward and lost himself in the service of others.

But getting the right perspective is not as simple as ordering pizza. If we persist in behaviors and choices that limit our view to portions of our own possibilities, then we will never see our divine potential as God intended for each of us. Instead, we must be willing to travel the journey that will take us to greater heights and afford a ,wider perspective that is deeper and more beautiful. I understood this much more clearly on a special trip I made with my brother to the Philippines. The trip was a surprise to pick up our youngest sister who served in the Baccolod Philippines mission. The mission president was a gracious host who not only introduced us to the delicacies of Filipino dining, but allowed us opportunities to see the many wonders of the country. One such sight was the Mambukal Resort in Negros Occidental.

Mambukal Resort is considered first class with its natural feeding place for thousands of fruit bats, natural hot springs and abundant waterfalls. President walked us towards the 5-layered waterfall and instructed us to go and see from the top. Obediently we started up the trail with full intent to return quickly so that the President could return to his work. However, by the third waterfall, my breathing began to get heavy, my legs were sore, and the areas of extra pounds started to feel itchy.

"You go ahead," I said to my brother. "When you get to the next one, call down and tell me if it's very far."

My brother refused and insisted on waiting for me to make the hike together. Not wanting to disappoint him, I took a deep breath and started up again to the next water fall. With each step up the windy trail I could feel my legs tremble and my muscles starting to pull tightly. I took deep breaths to try to calm the pain, and focused on the weeds that crossed over the trail path.

Upon reaching the fourth water fall, a sudden feeling of relief and joy overcame me. For just a moment, I forgot my itchy joints, my shaking legs, and the tightness in my muscles. The water was amazing, and the view was grand. Was there only one more? "No, you go ahead," I said again to my brother.

"Please just go so we can get back to President. Don't wait for me. I am too slow and out of shape." My brother would not go.

"Please," I pleaded. "Just go. And tell me what it's like when you get back."

But my brother just stood there and shook his head. Thinking of the President waiting at the bottom of the falls, I started again reluctantly up the last trail to the fifth water fall. Each sight truly had been beautiful and refreshing ”but with the physical discomforts that increased with each step, I was not as desirous about seeing the last water fall as I had been in the beginning.

The last trail was longer than the first, and again every step was such a struggle I could not afford to enjoy the natural beauty surrounding us. I don't know how long we were gone, but when we finally reached the top, the greatest feeling overcame us both. Not only were we enjoying the beauty of God's nature in this vineyard, but we had shared the experience together. For a moment, we stood in silence admiring the beauty that surrounded us.

I saw many parallels with the types of "hikers" who attempt the trek to higher grounds to see a grander view of the land, but often come up short for one reason or another. Some of us start the trek for a worthwhile goal, and then decide once we have reached our "comfort zone" that we don't need or want to extend ourselves anymore. We agree that the top of the waterfall must be beautiful, but because we are tired, out of shape, unprepared or weak, we convince ourselves that we do not want to go the extra mile and ask others to go on our behalf so we don't feel too guilty about coming short on the challenge.

If you can relate to my style of hiking at Mambukal Resort, I invite you to consider changing your perspective so you can be an optimistic hiker that makes more of his/her travels than I did. Had my brother not insisted on me continuing with him up the trail, there are several views and sights I would have missed due to my own personal limitations and challenges. I want to note that having the right attitude is part of the journey ”having the right support is the other. And so it is useful to note that in order to help another person achieve and move forward, it is important to stand on higher ground and to be firm footed in the places we stand.

Apparently Dusti thinks a big part of her plan includes service, as it is often the basis of what she does. For another Value Project, Dusti made arrangements for her ward’s Young Women group to volunteer at an elementary school for severely disabled children. Dusti had already spent countless hours there as a volunteer, and she wanted her friends to have the experience as well. Dusti feels a special connection with the children she works with, and is sensitive and understanding of their needs.
“I know the children are smart, and they’re thinking of stuff. They just can’t tell people,” Dusti explains.
Dusti’s first thought is to serve, but when she’s not organizing clothing drives or working with disabled preschoolers, she likes playing with her dog, Puck, and her bird, Kiwi. She also has two horses, two cats, a hamster, and a goat. She enjoys acting and playing bass clarinet, and she places high priority on getting things done.
Yet in the background, the surgeries, operations, and medication are a very real part of Dusti’s life. She tries hard to maintain a positive attitude.
Dusti remembers a time when she was 13 and came to terms with her condition. “I thought, Why am I in so much pain? Why does this have to happen to me? I just thought that it was part of the plan for me, and that I am going to know why some day.”
Dusti may not know now why she has to attend therapy sessions every week, or why she can’t go to the mall without her wheelchair. But she does know God has a plan for her life, and she knows that serving others is what brings her true happiness. She lives a life full of faith, determination, and service. And that’s anything but average.
If you want to help provide clothing for those in need, you are encouraged to contribute to Deseret Industries where available or to other established relief agencies in your community. Much of the clothing donated to Deseret Industries is sent by Church Humanitarian Service to needy people worldwide.

Things had not gone smoothly that morning. Getting my fifteen-month-old and my new baby ready to go anywhere was still an adjustment for me. I was relieved to see a parking space right across the street from the medical clinic. With a little luck I would still be on time for the baby’s first check-up.
It wasn’t easy to climb out of our small car and cross the street with a diaper bag, a baby in an infant seat, and a toddler who was just taking her first steps alone. As we prepared to cross the street I noticed our car was very close to the driveway of the house we had parked in front of. I saw a curtain move and a face peering out, but I quickly turned away. “It’s not fair,” I reasoned; “I’ve had to rush around all morning and all she’s had to do is look out the window daring someone to park too close to her driveway.”
The long wait in the waiting room, my fussy baby, and my restless toddler all made me feel even more frustrated when I emerged from the clinic an hour later. Just as I was about to cross the street, the woman, about seventy years old, came rushing out of her house. All my morning’s frustration came to the surface; expecting harsh words from her, I felt I would either burst into tears or explode in anger.
Then it happened. Her words astonished me. “You poor little dear,” she said. “I’ve been watching for you. I was mad at myself for not coming out to help you when you drove up. Let me help you to your car. You’ve really got your hands full.”
Tears filled my eyes as I realized how quickly and how wrongly I had judged her. I had let my unhappy attitude determine the way I viewed her.
Since then, when tempted to judge someone’s motives, I remember that woman’s actions and try to expect the best.

Consider this letter from one lovely young woman:
“I’m writing this,” she said, “from the depths of a broken heart, in the hope that it may be a warning to other girls never to partake of the bitterness that has come to me. I would give all that I have or ever hope to have if I could go back to those happy, carefree days before the first little taint of sin came upon my heart. I scarcely realized I was slipping into something that could bring such sorrow and ruin into a person’s life.
“I wish I could reveal to you the anguish and regret that fill my heart today, the loss of self-respect and the realization that life’s most priceless gift has slipped away from me. I reached out too eagerly for the excitements and thrills of life, and they have turned to ashes in my hands.”
This young woman, unfortunately, discovered that the heaviest burden one may have to bear in this life is “the burden of sin.” (Harold B. Lee, “Stand Ye in Holy Places,” Ensign, July 1973, p. 122.)

Stirling raced his big brother, Parker, up and down the narrow trail, thrilled to be hiking to an actual waterfall.
The bushes and grass grew so close to the trail that they sometimes scratched his legs when he walked past. He didn’t mind. This hike was going to be great!
“Can I swim in it, Dad?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Dad said.
“It will be too cold,” Mom explained. “And you don’t want to be wet for the hike back.”
Stirling shrugged his shoulders. It would still be fun to splash his older sister, Emma. He’d wait until she wasn’t watching, then wham!
As the morning went on, though, it started getting hot. His legs got tired, and he could feel blisters on his feet.
Stirling frowned. This was longer than he’d ever hiked before. And they still had the whole hike back. Was he going to make it?
But his worries disappeared when he finally heard the waterfall around the corner. He and Parker raced the rest of the way.
When the waterfall came into sight, Stirling skidded to a stop. It was awesome. He couldn’t believe how tall the waterfall was and how much water came crashing down. He forgot all about his tired legs.
After eating lunch, Stirling kicked off his shoes and splashed around the edge of the pool. The water was cold, but it felt great. Emma poured some water on his head, but he got her back with a giant splash of his own.
Before Stirling knew it, it was time to head back. The fun and excitement from the waterfall quickly faded as they started the long hike home. Every step hurt.
“How much longer is it?” Stirling asked. “I’m sooo tired.”
“You can do it,” Mom said. “Just keep moving. You’ll be okay.”
Stirling wasn’t so sure. If his feet hurt this much already, how would he ever make it to the end of the trail?
Soon even Parker and Emma started to complain, until Dad made a suggestion.
“Why don’t we say a prayer?” he asked.
Stirling was happy for any excuse to stop hiking. He folded his arms and bowed his head while Dad prayed. Dad asked Heavenly Father to keep them safe and to help them find the strength to finish their hike.
After the prayer, Stirling had an idea of his own. “Why don’t we sing some Primary songs?” He loved singing. Maybe that would help.
“Great idea,” said Mom.
They sang song after song. Stirling soon forgot about his aching feet and tired legs. He smiled. They just might make it after all.
Suddenly he bumped into Dad, who had stopped right in front of him. Stirling peeked around Dad. His eyes widened. A giant moose was walking across the trail only a few feet away.
Stirling froze. He knew how important it was not to startle wild animals. They could be dangerous.
But the moose only disappeared into the bushes. Stirling sighed in relief. That was a close one.
Down the trail a little way, his family stopped for a drink. “I think that moose knew we were coming because we were singing,” Parker said. “And so we didn’t surprise it.”
“That could have been bad,” added Emma. “Great idea to have us sing, Stirling.”
Stirling paused for a second. Had their singing actually helped them stay safe? After thinking about it for a bit, he realized Heavenly Father had answered their prayer. Not only did singing give them strength to finish the hike, but it kept them safe from danger.
He smiled again. Singing Primary songs was always a good idea.

Illustration by Katie Payne
This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. I’d been willing enough to help treat my great-grandma’s fence with linseed oil to help protect it. But as the day wore on, sweat trickled down my face and my willingness turned to fatigue in the heat.
My mom suggested a break and a drink before going back to work, but I pouted, determined to be miserable.
“Dallin, there’s no real reward for having a good attitude when everything in life is going great,” she said. “The real test of character and the true reward comes when you can have a good attitude even when everything seems miserable.”
A week later, my grandpa asked if I could treat his fence with linseed oil. His fence was longer, and we’d have to treat both sides.
This time, I determined to work on my attitude even if the job got tough. We started early, but sure enough, we were soon baking in the sun. The work seemed endless as we carried those heavy buckets of sticky, stinky oil. Thorny bushes along the fence pricked our legs. As I remembered what my mom had said, though, I didn’t complain. I didn’t quit. I worked carefully and tried to keep up a good attitude.
When we finished, I looked at the newly treated fence and felt proud of what we’d done. I was tired and sticky, but I knew I’d also passed an important test of character. I learned that I could have a good attitude even when everything seems miserable.
Dallin H., Oklahoma, USA

Prior to my introduction to the restored gospel, I spent much of my time playing soccer, including games on the Sabbath day. Even though I had been brought up to have respect for the Lord’s day, it was through applying the principle after I came in contact with the Church that I gained an understanding of the doctrine and its blessings. Withdrawing from the Sunday league team was one of the significant sacrifices that led to my conversion. It helped me appreciate the value of the gospel in my life.
Three years later, when work commenced on building the Norwich chapel, I also withdrew from the Saturday league team so that I could make my contribution to the building project. The mist of self-interest that had previously restricted my vision was beginning to disperse, and a new panoramic view was emerging, bringing with it a deeper appreciation for and an increasing love of life.

I will open very slightly the door to my modest closet of remembered personal experiences of this kind and tell you about a time when I was a missionary standing on a street corner in a major city in the United States with my companion, without a cent in our pockets. We had laughed about that; our money hadn’t come. It was scarce anyway; we had little, but we had always had sufficient for our needs. This day we only had car fare to go to and come back from an area where we were teaching some people—we had transfers for the streetcar in our pockets. We were quite a way from our apartment.

I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw a man standing by a light pole. He seemed to start toward me hesitantly, and I quickly turned away. I just had an intuition he was going to ask me for help. My first thought was that I could not help him and I panicked a bit at that. I looked back and he had quickly retreated. He had caught that I had turned away. I felt sick as I saw his embarrassment. I went to him and said, “I sense that you would like to talk to me and I have to tell you that we are missionaries. I am sorry that there isn’t anything we can do for you tonight.”

He was immediately apologetic, backing away and saying, “I didn’t know that. I wouldn’t ask missionaries for anything. Please forgive me.”

I said, “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“I’m from Hamilton,” he said, “a town fifty miles away. I lost my job recently. I came here this morning trying to find a job but didn’t get here in time. I have no way to get home. I have not eaten, I haven’t money to telephone my family, and I know my wife and children will be worrying and afraid.”

I said, “We’re not far from where we live. I have a transfer for the streetcar. Please use it and get on with my companion. I won’t be much longer than you getting there, though I will likely be delayed a little.”

He said, “Oh no, no.”

I said, “Yes, yes, please. I have already had a heartbreak in turning away because I sensed your need and had no money to give you. We cannot leave you here.”

It wasn’t a big expostulation. It was a young man’s guileless expression of what I had learned all my life in a widow’s home. He finally agreed. He was discouraged and afraid. And so I ran, all the way. I ran fast and hard and got there a little ahead of them. We had good food in the apartment and I prepared some. The landlady was a gentle person who had a room where he could stay. We called Hamilton, Ohio, and he talked to his family.

I said, “Please tell them you will stay here tonight. Maybe tomorrow there is something we can do to help.”

The next morning I called the branch president, a wonderful, gracious, Christ-like man who built and rebuilt and refurbished and brought homes up-to-date. I told him the story. He said, “He can have a job starting this morning.” President Gilliam provided a place for him to stay and, soon, a place for his family, and he was on his way up. And I have nurtured in my heart for more than forty-five years a blessing I would have missed had I not helped this man.

When I was assigned to home teach a sister whom I shall call Ruth Elliott, she was new in the ward. I wanted to learn a little about her before I first called at her home, so I talked with her former bishop, with her daughter who lived in another ward, and with others who knew her.
Sister Elliott lived alone in a small apartment that was furnished with a broken-down upholstered chair. She spent most of her time in that chair—or in bed. She seldom left the apartment and had no outside interests.
Sister Elliott smoked and depended heavily on medications. Through the years her doctors had prescribed a number of medicines, and she continued to take many of them. Her appearance, manner, and conversation reflected a bitter attitude toward her life and circumstances. She harbored deep resentment toward her father and others, and an unfortunate incident with a Church member had wounded her deeply. I prayed fervently to know how best to serve this troubled woman.
Shortly after I had been called as her home teacher, an opportunity came. Her landlady was having the apartment painted, and she had asked Sister Elliott to move her furniture outside before the work could be done. Our ward’s high priest group leader and I moved the furniture out and then back in after the paint had dried.
Once, when Sister Elliott was out of town, my wife, Virginia, and I decided to repair the broken-down chair. It had a good frame but needed new padding and fabric. Virginia did an excellent upholstering job on the chair, and we had it back in the apartment before Sister Elliott returned from her trip.
My junior companion and I visited sister Elliott regularly, and Virginia and I also went often to visit, talk about the gospel, and offer a prayer. Gradually, she began to accept and return our friendship, and we became closely involved in each other’s lives.
One spring, when Sister Elliott had to undergo surgery, Virginia and I spent many hours with her. We kept in touch daily, taking her to church, to the doctor’s office, and to the store, and she would telephone us each night before going to bed. She was lonely and needed someone to listen to her.
We were out of town when Sister Elliott had the surgery, but we telephoned her at the hospital and offered words of encouragement. She had received a priesthood blessing and felt that the Lord would watch over her. After her operation, she determined to stop smoking. Before her grandson had left for his mission, he had asked her to give up this habit—and she was able to accomplish the task through the Lord’s help and through her own strong desire to please her grandson.
As the months passed, Sister Elliott made new friends and found outside interests. Her church attendance improved, and she began to pay tithing. At first she did not want to go to tithing settlement, but I asked her to be ready when I stopped to give her a ride to the meetinghouse. Afterward, she radiated happiness. She had paid a full tithing for the first time in her life.
By now, her attitude toward life had changed dramatically. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a humble and contrite spirit. She forgave those who had offended her. And as she increased her tolerance and love for her children, they gradually changed their attitude and behavior toward her.
Sister Elliott eventually moved to a new apartment, furnished it attractively, and made more friends. A new physician helped her overcome her dependency on medication. She learned to rely on the Lord and on her own strength to cope with problems.
The blessings that have come to the “new” Sister Elliott have been many, including participation in the sacred temple ceremonies with her family and friends. I am deeply grateful for my opportunity to serve as her home teacher. Indeed, I loved the “old” Sister Elliott as much as the “new” Sister Elliott—but now I don’t need to feel sad because of her dreary life. Today her life is full and pleasant, enriched by the blessings of gospel living.