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How does a group of individuals, all with different backgrounds and different perspectives on life, become a united community? Well-known author and newspaper columnist David Brooks believes that the answer lies in how we see each other. “That’s what a community is,” he says, “a bunch of people looking after each other. A bunch of people seeing each other, and seeing each other deeply. Taking the time to really enter into relationships with each other and to depend upon one another. … That’s the glue that’s holding us together.”1
Many decades ago, author and clergyman Henry van Dyke wrote a classic tale about a wise man named Artaban from the mountains of Persia. He said of Artaban, “All through his life he was trying to do the best that he could. It was not perfect. But there are some kinds of failure that are better than success.”1
In a film based on H. G. Wells’s classic novel The Time Machine, one of the main characters comments: “We all have our time machines, don’t we? Those that take us back are memories, and those that carry us forward are dreams.”1
“Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year,” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson.1 At first, that may seem like an overstatement. But while some days are clearly better than others, every day deserves at least the chance to be the best day of the year. That’s good to remember as we look forward to another year of “best days”—every day is worth living, and every day holds promise and possibility.
I’m standing at Wenceslas Square, in the heart of Prague, near a statue of the Duke of Bohemia, affectionately known as good King Wenceslas. A caring Christian ruler and patron saint of the Czech Republic, Wenceslas has come to represent kindhearted generosity and selfless giving. And because these attributes are at the heart of Christmas, […]
AND it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of […]
Sometime after the birth of the Christ child on that first Christmas Day, the baby and His parents were visited by Wise Men from the East. They came to honor the sacred occasion with loving gifts of frankincense, gold, and myrrh. Their kind offering gave rise to a tradition that now seems inseparable from the Christmas season: giving gifts to those we love.
People watch for the first signs of Christmas with great anticipation. Favorite holiday carols fill the air. Colorful, glistening lights illuminate the night sky. And wreaths of holly and ivy appear on doors and storefronts. To many people, traditional symbols like these signal the advent of the Christmas season. But how did these traditions begin?
When we express thanks, we are giving a gift: a gift to ourselves, to others, and to our Maker, the Giver of the blessings of life. And those blessings are all around us if we look for them.
A drop of water may seem rather ordinary and unimpressive. And yet when very small amounts of water are dropped steadily, over extended periods of time, the results can be quite spectacular. Think, for example, of Carlsbad Caverns in New Mexico, Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, or the Reed Flute Cave in China, to name only a few. It’s amazing how often water does its remarkable work one drop at a time—giving life to a plant, turning a field green, invigorating parched soil, filling a river or lake, and yes, carving into solid rock. Over time, small drops of water can make a big difference.
At this solemn site, the Normandy American Cemetery in France, more than 9,300 American soldiers are laid to rest. The architecture here, the exhibits, and the peaceful surroundings are all designed to pay tribute to their sacrifice. Most of the soldiers buried here died during the invasion of Normandy that began on June 6, 1944—better known as D-Day.
Most sports fans love to follow the scores and stats, the wins and losses. But if sports were only about numbers and rankings, they probably wouldn’t fascinate us the way they do. No, behind the scores and jerseys are people we come to care about and inspirational stories that teach us important life lessons.
As children, we are told, “Don’t talk to strangers.” That’s an important safety tip during childhood. But as adults, interacting with people we don’t know is a regular part of life. In fact, depending on the circumstances, there can be some valuable benefits to talking to strangers.
The number of good causes in the world, the diversity of needs to meet, far exceed our abilities to give, even for the most generous among us. And there’s wisdom in the warning against taking on too many obligations. We can’t say yes to everyone in need.
It’s natural to be concerned about our own needs, our own well-being. Virtually every living thing has self-defense and self-preservation instincts. But then, we aren’t meant to be like other living things, and we are guided by something much higher than instincts.
When we look at an acorn, we see more than an acorn. We know its potential to become a mighty oak tree and start producing acorns itself. It doesn’t bother us that this process can take decades or that growth is slow, almost imperceptible. We know that an acorn is not meant to remain an acorn.
We all have gifts and talents that can make a positive difference in the world. Everyone excels at something, though it’s easier to notice excellence in others than in ourselves. But there’s one thing we can all be good at: kindness. When the world spreads ugliness, we can spread a little beauty. In the face of anger and hatred, we can offer gentleness and love.
Despite the difficulties that come with getting older, we all hope we live long enough to experience them. But we also hope, of course, to find plenty of peace and comfort as well. According to one expert who has written about happiness in the retirement years, two key attributes are essential—in old age or any season of life: a good sense of humor and a willingness to forgive.1
We all know the law of the harvest: the fact that we tend to reap what we sow. And yet even when we sow carefully, we don’t always reap what we expected to.
Every once in a while, a series of choices, experiences, and circumstances combine to create a person who seems to stand out, someone we naturally look to as a role model. Russell M. Nelson is one of those uncommon men.
Have you ever wondered how to measure your life? With a ruler or tape measure, we can determine how tall or wide something is, but how can we measure the depth and breadth of a life? What are the markers of significance, of success, of fulfillment along the road of life?
In the spring of 1945, with the world still staggering from the most devastating war in human history, leaders from 50 nations gathered in San Francisco with admittedly high aspirations: to create an international organization that would “save succeeding generations from the scourge of war.”1 Thus the United Nations was born, with a charter that also included the aim to promote human rights, international law, and a higher standard of living around the world.
Recently, a group of university students were discussing their spiritual beliefs. They talked about what they believed in, what they felt the purpose of life might be. One young man stated, “I believe in nothing except myself. I believe only in me.” A lively—but respectful—discussion followed, as many of his classmates questioned his view of life.
It takes only a glance at the news to know about disasters and tragedies all around the world. And it takes only a glance into our own lives to know that they happen close to home as well. Everyone’s difficulties are unique, but everyone has some. And perhaps that’s the first step toward coping and hoping: to realize that we’re not alone as we experience life’s hardships. We are all, to one degree or another, going through it together. While we might prefer to turn away from others and struggle privately, hearts heal best when they’re open. That’s when love can enter, when the bonds of friendship can bind up a broken heart. Writer James Thurber once shared this definition of love he heard from a friend: “Love is what you’ve been through with somebody.”1
We live in a world that seems obsessed with power—political power, military power, earning power. Popular movies even imagine superhuman powers. Few of us, if any, experience much of those powers. But there is a power that we can all have, and it’s the most important and most lasting power in the world. It is the power to influence others for good.
Some people face so many obstacles and seem to struggle and barely get by as they journey through life. On the other hand, others seem to travel an easy, scenic road with beautiful vistas all around. In reality, it’s likely that neither assumption is entirely true. We usually don’t discover the truth until we look a little deeper than outward appearances.
In 1846, thousands of people in the midwestern United States were persecuted for their beliefs and forced from their homes in the dead of winter. They didn’t consider themselves pioneers, but suddenly they were—walking across the western wilderness in search of refuge, a place where they could worship their God and practice their faith. Some traveled by wagon, others by handcart, but they all had to walk and walk and walk many hundreds of miles. There were no roads or restaurants, no inns or waystations to enter and rest along the way. But the fire of their faith kept them warm, and their convictions kept them moving.
We opened today’s broadcast the same way we opened The Tabernacle Choir’s first-ever broadcast 90 years ago: with a stirring hymn titled “The Morning Breaks, the Shadows Flee.” It was composed by George Careless, former conductor of the Choir, and looking back, it was the perfect way to begin the weekly tradition of Music and the Spoken Word—with a song about “the dawning of a brighter day” majestically rising “on the world.” Mornings, after all, bring hope. The dawn is a signal of promise and possibility and encouragement. And this is what Music and the Spoken Word has brought to the world for nine decades now. No one knew it at the time, but July 15, 1929, marked the dawning of the longest continuously broadcast network program in history.
There are many things in life that can be done alone. You can play a piano alone—or a violin or guitar or any other musical instrument. You can sing a solo, give a speech, or recite a poem alone. But then there are other things—some of the most beautiful—that simply can’t be done alone. For example, you can’t sing barbershop alone. Barbershop singing, by definition, involves joining with others in vocal harmony. It’s about music, but it’s also about community, about working together to create a thing of beauty.
Nathan Hale was a schoolteacher, fresh out of college, teaching in a one-room school in New London, Connecticut, when the American Colonies went to war against the British in 1775. Inspired by the cause of independence, he joined the fight and quickly rose to the rank of captain. But the colonists faced a series of defeats in the early months of the revolution, and victory did not seem likely. It was in these circumstances that General George Washington asked for volunteers to spy on the British forces. It was a dangerous mission, and being captured would mean certain death. At first no one volunteered. Then 21-year-old Nathan Hale—alone—stepped forward.