Stories from Church History - S. Dilworth Young on Telling the Truth
Compiled by David Kenison, [email protected]

[S. Dilworth Young became a member of the First Council of the Seventy in
1945 and served faithfully until being made an emeritus General Authority
in 1978. He passed away in 1981. For many years, he cared tenderly for his
ailing wife, Gladys Pratt Young, who passed away in April 1964.]

I had another experience one time. My wife was very ill. I was here in
Provo to some Scout affair -- I don't recall what it was now -- and I had
promised her that I would come home by six o'clock that night. I had left
food at the side of her bed so that she could have something to eat because
she couldn't get off the bed -- she wasn't able -- and I had to leave her
alone.

Things took place here so that I didn't get away from Provo until eleven
o'clock that night, and I was worried as I headed for home. The roads in
those days weren't like they are today; one went through every town --
"Middlesex, village and town," as Longfellow says -- and gave the sound of
alarm as one went through. I passed through Salt Lake at midnight. Going
north on the highway -- the moon was full, the light was bright, I could
see as easily as in daylight and I was the only person on the road -- I
went quite rapidly until I got to Farmington Junction, where I was to turn
off to go up over the mountain road toward home. I turned off on that road
and I really hit it up. I had that car going 70 miles an hour, which was
good for those days on that road, and I whipped past the road going over to
Hill Field, and down into Weber Canyon. I got about half way down the hill
when through the rear view mirror I saw the flashing red light. The
patrolman had been hiding up Hill Field road. So I pulled to a stop and got
out.... It was now nearly one o'clock.

So I walked back a few yards and stood there and his headlights picked me
up and he came to a stop about thirty yards away. He got out of his car and
came up to me. He said, "May I see your driver's license and your car
registration." So I got the car registration and he took a look at it -- he
didn't bother to look at my license.

I said, "Well, give me the ticket. I've got to get home; my wife is ill and
helpless. That's why I was speeding."

He said, "Yes, you were going faster than sixty miles an hour."

And I said, "I was going faster than seventy miles an hour."

He said, "Well, I'm not going to give you a ticket. I'm going to give you a
_warning_ ticket so you won't do it again, but I'll just warn you. This
will make it so you will not have to go to court; but if you do it again,
of course, then they'll collect on both counts."

I couldn't imagine why he had given me just a warning ticket. He got the
ticket written out and handed it to me -- then he smiled, and he put his
hand out, which a cop seldom does, and he said to me, "My name is Bybee. I
used to be one of your scouts at Camp Kiesel."

All the rest of the way home, every time the wheels turned, I said to
myself, "What if I'd lied to him -- what if I'd lied to him -- what if I'd
lied to him."

I've learned by what little experience I've had with lies that anyone who
tells a lie -- I can guarantee that that lie will last him all his life and
he'll have it burn into his soul over and over again until he dies.

(BYU, May 7, 1968 - "Courage to Be Righteous")