Gospel Story Finder

“A parade up and down the blocks to see what was beneath each tree was an annual Christmas tradition for the children in our neighborhood. How parents permitted such a desecration of the day, such a trial-by-comparison trauma, I can’t understand. But year after year the parade persisted.
“The gifts beneath the trees in the homes of my friends were as different as the income and situation, as the taste and concern for the celebration would allow. And in the difference there was always pain for somebody.
“There was a friend in that pitiful parade whose father gave her a pair of shoes every year. Period. Shoes. Every year he would choose them himself without her counsel, and every year they’d be sturdy enough to last forever, ugly enough to ruin a girl’s chances at life. She hated them of course, and we hated him for what it did to her. Christmas after Christmas. Each year I told her they were okay, cute, neat, or great (whatever was the appropriate vernacular of that year), hoping against hope it would help.
“Then there was a girl who didn’t even get a gift as grand as shoes. Except for maybe an apron her aunt made, she seldom received anything at all. As we neared her house, she’d begin talking grandly about how she had all her gifts put away already. There was no point in even going to her house, she’d insist. But everybody else persisted just the same.
“‘Let’s go to your house last,’ I’d suggest, hoping we’d all have to go home by then. And sometimes it worked.
“I loved this friend with a protective passion and gave her the best gift on my list. And each year I told her that all I wanted was a bottle of her mom’s applesauce. And that’s what she gave me, ribbon tied.
“I think of that each canning season now, wondering why my own applesauce never tastes like the memory.”

The first example is of Dale Hansen of the San Dimas Ward in La Verne, California, who said, “I learned from experience that when you’re committed to what is right, you can even go up against big money and win.” Brother Hansen decided to get involved in the fight against card casinos in the city where he and his wife lived. But when he learned that gambling interests had been quietly trying to win approval for the casinos without alerting the public, he joined the Committee Against Card Club Casinos in Pomona (California). Organized by a local resident long active in community affairs, the committee included citizens of many faiths. Partly because of organizational and leadership skills learned through church service (he was ward elders quorum president), Brother Hansen was soon made co–chairman of the group. The consensus of city officials and community leaders was that plans for the casinos were too far along to be stopped. But the committee managed to arouse enough public opposition to force a referendum.

It came as a surprise to almost everyone when voters refused, by a very narrow margin, to approve the casinos. The wealthy interests backing the casinos did not let the matter rest. They managed to get the issue on the ballot again, and this time they openly poured their resources into the battle. They promoted the casinos as a way to boost the local economy. (Casinos located in some other small cities have not had that effect, Brother Hansen comments, but their money and their influence does seem to control local government.) There were lawsuits and other legal threats aimed at the committee by the opposition’s battery of lawyers. Brother Hansen was the victim of a smear attempt a few days before the election. But the casino proposal was defeated soundly, despite the fact that backers had poured some $2 million (U.S.) into their campaign, whereas the committee against the clubs had spent $14,000, plus fees for one hired attorney (paid largely by the group’s organizer).

It was a difficult 18 months for the Hansens. While he was deeply involved in the antigambling campaign, his wife went through a difficult first pregnancy and their baby’s first months. “Laurie made a tremendous sacrifice,” Bro. Hansen said. But defeat of the casinos helped preserve the quality of life in their city, as well as protecting property values, he commented. “This was like a fight for freedom. When you have an entity with that much money and power running your city, the citizens don’t matter anymore.”

Halfway through my senior year of high school, I received a huge surprise. My parents had been called to preside over the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, which meant they’d be moving to the other end of the world with my four younger siblings. I was already stressed about graduating high school, but now I’d be attending college all alone, with my family on a different continent. I was terrified.
My transition from high school to college was extremely hard for me. While I was surrounded by kind roommates and thousands of students, I had never felt more alone. The pressures of school were overwhelming. I didn’t know what I wanted to study and found the classes challenging. I was also struggling through an emotionally manipulative relationship, which took a huge toll on my mental health. My fear of the future overwhelmed me.
Soon my feelings of depression, fear, and loneliness made it hard to function. Even normal routines felt impossible. One morning, I was asking Heavenly Father to give me the strength to make it through the day. “I can’t keep doing this alone,” I prayed. In a rare moment of mental and emotional clarity, I had the words come to my mind “You don’t have to.” Peace flooded my mind. The storm in my mind was calmed.
The next few months (and years) weren’t easy. My feelings of depression and loneliness didn’t instantly go away. But for the first time, I understood on a personal level what it meant to have a Savior. I knew He understood my challenges and my pain. I knew He was the only one who could help me, and He did.
Years later, I’m a returned missionary, a college graduate, and happily married. And I know I wouldn’t have achieved any of those goals if I hadn’t trusted in the Lord.

Forty-seven years ago this general conference, I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. At the time, I had been serving on one of the general priesthood committees of the Church, and so before my name was presented, I sat with my fellow members of that priesthood committee, as was expected of me. My wife, however, had no idea where to go and no one with whom she could sit and, in fact, was unable to find a seat anywhere in the Tabernacle. A dear friend of ours, who was a member of one of the general auxiliary boards and who was sitting in the area designated for the board members, asked Sister Monson to sit with her. This woman knew nothing of my call—which would be announced shortly—but she spotted Sister Monson, recognized her consternation, and graciously offered her a seat. My dear wife was relieved and grateful for this kind gesture. Sitting down, however, she heard loud whispering behind her as one of the board members expressed her annoyance to those around her that one of her fellow board members would have the audacity to invite an “outsider” to sit in this area reserved only for them. There was no excuse for her unkind behavior, regardless of who might have been invited to sit there. However, I can only imagine how that woman felt when she learned that the “intruder” was the wife of the newest Apostle.

As Wilford Woodruff traveled west with the advance company, he often reflected on its sacred mission. “It should be understood,” he wrote in his journal, “that we are piloting a road for the house of Israel to travel in for many years to come.”17
One night, he dreamed that the company arrived at the new gathering place. As he gazed upon the land, a glorious temple appeared before him. It appeared to be built of white and blue stone. Turning to some men standing near him in the dream, he asked if they could see it. They said they did not, but that did not diminish the joy Wilford felt in beholding it.18

There are some things you need to understand.
The priesthood is something you cannot see nor hear nor touch, but it is a real authority and a real power.
When I was five years old, I became very ill. It turned out that I had polio, a disease that was completely unknown to the small-town doctor. I lay for several weeks on a World War I army cot in our front room beside a coal stove. Afterward, I could not walk. I remember very clearly sliding around on the linoleum floor and pulling myself up on chairs, learning to walk again. I was more fortunate than some. A friend walked with crutches and steel leg braces all of his life.
As I moved into school, I found that my muscles were weak. I was very self-conscious. I knew that I could never be an athlete.
It did not help a lot when I read about the man who went to a doctor to find a cure for his inferiority complex. After a careful examination, the doctor told him, “You don’t have a complex. You really are inferior!”
With that for encouragement, I set about through life and determined to compensate in other ways.
I found hope in my patriarchal blessing. The patriarch, whom I had never met before, confirmed to me that patriarchs do have prophetic insight. He said that I had a desire to come to earth life and was willing to meet the tests that would accompany life in a mortal body. He said that I had been given a body of such physical proportion and fitness to enable my spirit to function through it unhampered by physical impediment. That encouraged me.
I learned that you should always take care of your body. Take nothing into your body that will harm it, such as we are counseled in the Word of Wisdom: tea, coffee, liquor, tobacco, or anything else that is habit-forming, addictive, or harmful.
Read section 89 in the Doctrine and Covenants. You will find great promises:
“All saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones;
“And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures;
“And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.”
And then this promise: “And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angel shall pass by them, as the children of Israel, and not slay them.”10
You may see others who seem to have been given a more perfect body than yours. Do not fall into the trap of feeling poorly about your height or weight or your features or your skin color or race.
You are a son of God. You lived in a premortal existence as an individual spirit child of heavenly parents. At the time of your birth, you received a mortal body of flesh and blood and bone in which to experience earth life. You will be tested as you prepare yourself to return to our Heavenly Father.
I ask you the same question that Paul asked the Corinthians: “What? know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?”11
Your gender was determined in the premortal existence. You were born a male. You must treasure and protect the masculine part of your nature. You must have respectful, protective regard for all women and girls.
Do not abuse yourself. Never allow others to touch your body in a way that would be unworthy, and do not touch anyone else in any unworthy way.
Avoid the deadly poisons of pornography and narcotics. If these are in your life, beware! If allowed to continue, they can destroy you. Talk to your parents; talk to your bishop. They will know how to help you.
Do not decorate your body with tattoos or by piercing it to add jewels. Stay away from that.
Do not run with friends that worry your parents.
Everywhere present is the influence of Lucifer and his legion of angels. They tempt you to do those things and say those things and think those things that would destroy. Resist every impulse that will trouble your spirit.12
You are not to be fearful. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that “all beings who have bodies have power over those who have not.”13 And Lehi taught that all “men are instructed sufficiently that they know good from evil.”14 Remember, the prayerful power of your spirit will protect you.
I remember when I was “[baptized] by immersion for the remission of sins.”15 That was appealing. I assumed that all my past mistakes were now washed away, and if I never made any more mistakes in my life, I would be clean. This I resolved to do. Somehow it did not turn out that way. I found that I made mistakes, not intentionally, but I made them. I once foolishly thought maybe I was baptized too soon. I did not understand that the ordinance of the sacrament, administered by you of the Aaronic Priesthood, is in fact a renewing of the covenant of baptism and the reinstating of the blessings connected with it. I did not see, as the revelations tell us, that I could “retain a remission of [my] sins.”16

For Alvin Martinez, rising against the odds is just like turning swampland into skyscrapers. Despite having polio, which left his left arm and leg dislocated, the 17-year-old priest is an inspiration to his fellow youth.
Alvin was born healthy, and like other newborn Filipino babies he was given polio shots. But somehow, the vaccine attacked his nerves. His right leg and arm started turning immobile, while his left fingers curled up. The polio vaccine rendered his entire right side paralyzed.
Alvin often became the subject of jokes in school when classmates would see him limping his way to class.
“Hey, it’s Alvin,” somebody would shout.
“The way is straight,” another jeered, “but how come you walk crooked?”
“Alvin, Alvin pilay!”
Pilay means cripple; it was a jeer his straight-walking classmates loved to bestow on him.
The teasing wasn’t the only trial. His father suddenly died of a stroke. Struggling with his family’s loss and his classmates’ snide comments, Alvin drifted from school and church activity and found another barkada, or group of close friends.
In Manila, a barkada can consist of either buddies who can build you up or let you down. Alvin still tried to maintain his LDS standards even when friends coaxed him to smoke. “My older friends would invite me to smoke,” he remembers, “but I told them I was a Mormon.”
Alvin finally resolved to rise up despite his limitations and, like David of old, conquer his personal Goliaths. He made a firm resolve to continue schooling. His widowed mother, who now works as a seamstress, was delighted. She had patiently reminded him that his future was brighter if he had a good education.
At school, Alvin found a new barkada, classmates who treated him with respect. “All my classmates are so kind and friendly,” he beams.
But it was Alvin’s strong spirit within his rather frail frame that amazed many. After all, isn’t it the inside of a person that really counts?
A little bit shy at first but actually fun-loving and witty, Alvin also found the Church to be a home away from home. “I enjoy being in church,” Alvin says, “and I like being with my fellow young men.” And because of the influence of good Church friends and priesthood quorum members, Alvin’s testimony was strengthened and he found himself, with the help of his youth leaders, back in church. In visiting Alvin, they would often tell him not to be ashamed of his disability. “We wanted him to know that he was valued,” one youth leader recalls, “and he did feel appreciated eventually.” Alvin is grateful for the missionaries that taught his family, and he’s even more grateful for the youth leaders who helped him come back to church after going through some real struggles.
Today, Alvin is one of the most active Young Men in his ward. Being with his church friends is something he relishes. “They are not ashamed to be with me,” he brightens up, “and they don’t even joke about me.” Instead, it’s Alvin who cracks jokes with them.

At the beginning of 1999, we had a regional conference in southern Florida. After fulfilling an assignment to deliver earphones for the conference translation, I went into a hall where thousands of Church members were seated. I remained standing at the back of the hall, and I was able to observe one of my sons with his baby. I looked in another direction and saw another son with his wife and children.
A wonderful feeling of joy came over me at that moment, and I could not keep tears from my eyes. I remembered those terrible days when I was so worried about my children’s future. Now I was weeping for joy because I no longer had those worries.

The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.
Eighteen months later, my impression that I would one day enter the Oakland Temple came true, as I received my endowments one week before leaving on a mission. When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my heart and changed my life.

I remember another occasion when I was in Australia on a mission. I went up to visit the Jenolan Caves—very wonderful, spectacular caves. And as we walked through them, the guide said, “If some of you will get out and stand on that rock over there and sing a song, it will demonstrate the capacity of this cave.”
Well, the Spirit said to me, “Go over there and sing ‘O, My Father.’ I hesitated, and the crowd walked on. I lost the opportunity. I never felt good about that. The only thing that ever made me feel the Lord had forgiven me was when I heard President McKay say, “I was inspired one time to do a certain thing when I was in the mission field, and I didn’t do it.” He said, “I have always been sorry since.” He said, “Never fail to respond to the whisperings of the Spirit. Live so you can receive it, and then have the courage to do as it instructs.”

In 2008, as the Cougarettes were preparing for the national competition, the team decided that they would like to compete with a routine that was unique in nature from those of previous years. The girls wanted to communicate something more heartfelt, and they wanted to seek for missionary opportunities to share their light and the gospel. It was determined that besides creating a special routine, they would also take with them about fifty copies of the March 2008 Ensign to give away and share, hoping for situations to arise in which they could present the magazine to their fellow competitors and share their love of the Savior.

This particular issue of the Ensign had a beautiful image of the Savior by Carl Bloch on the cover and was described as a special issue devoted entirely to expressing the Church’s beliefs of our Savior Jesus Christ. It contained testimonies of our prophets and apostles. It testified of the life, mission, gospel, and Atonement of our Savior.

None of us could have imagined what would take place following the competition. Our final scores had us finishing in second place that year. Although obviously disappointed at the outcome, we huddled in a circle and said a prayer of gratitude before going to greet our families on the beach. What then ensued on the beach in Daytona was something unexpected and indeed humbling.

Many fellow competitors as well as members of the audience approached us to share their congratulations and well wishes and to tell us how our performance had touched them. Some expressed that they had experienced a feeling during our performance, and others said they had even been brought to tears. As these moments unfolded on the beach, members of that team of Cougarettes were able to offer those copies of the Ensign as gifts and also to share brief testimonies of their love for the Savior.

It was very clear and apparent to each member of that team that—we believe—we were not meant to win a title that year. Coming very close to winning and performing a routine that spoke to the heart opened many more doors and provided missionary opportunities that most likely would not have occurred otherwise. God allowed us to have the missionary moments this team had prayed for.

That particular year and that experience will be forever etched in my mind as one of the most memorable college dance team nationals I have been blessed to be a part of, and it was not a winning year in terms of a national title or trophy.

Before my eighth birthday I fasted and prayed to Heavenly Father to know if I should be baptized. The answer was yes! After I was baptized I felt a wonderful warm feeling of happiness. I was grateful to be confirmed and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. Since my baptism I have tried to keep the commandments, be kind to my family and friends, and always set a good example.Huia K., 8, Victoria, Australia

My ping-pong match with my friend Erfrey was interrupted by three knocks on his front door. I heard an unfamiliar voice with a strange accent of Hiligaynon, our native dialect.
Erfrey rushed toward the door, apparently expecting them. “Come on!” he said to me. “I want you to meet my friends!”
They were wearing white shirts and ties and had come to teach Erfrey’s younger brother to prepare him for baptism. I spoke to them in English, and they were impressed enough to ask if I would interpret during their discussion with Erfrey’s brother.
I thought my role would just be the passive interpreter. But I became an active participant as their words took root in my heart. I had an unexplainable feeling, a lingering happy feeling I had never experienced before.
After that experience, I asked the missionaries to teach my family. But when they came, my parents took a stand that a Mormon would never have a place in our family.
I wanted to be baptized, so I put my faith to work. I fasted and prayed. I strived to be an example to them.
Two years later, through my own simple faith and the loving support of Heavenly Father, my father’s heart was finally softened and he signed my baptismal consent. I am happy to say that my testimony of the restored gospel is my most prized possession.
Arnel M., Negros Occidental, Philippines

Now, with greater strength than my own, I finished my Masters Degree in educational administration. My focus became pursing a position as a public school administrator. One day, my husband said, "you know, Ricks College is changing to a 4-year university and they are in need of professors in the department of teacher education. Minimum requirements are a masters degree and teaching experience. You have both. You should apply."

I quickly rejected the idea and provided him with a series of reasons. First, I was not professor material and second who was I to think I could be hired at Brigham Young University- Idaho? I am a farm girl from Southeast Idaho. He replied, "Dana, you're better than you think you are. Just apply." To appease him, I applied and to my amazement was asked to interview. When I was offered the position as faculty, every doubt in my ability consumed me. My fear and lack of confidence overwhelmed me to the point I had decided I couldn't accept the job. Then the thought came to me: "You are right. You can't do this on your own. Especially if you don't ask for help." When would I learn to "lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help?" When would I realize that "my help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth?" With that reminder, and turning to the Lord, I accepted the position as faculty at Brigham Young University Idaho.

Several years ago, I was home one evening while my wife was fulfilling an assignment with the young women of our ward. Our children were young, and I was left at home to complete some of the normal, household chores and get the children to bed. While standing at the sink, washing dishes, I was listening to the radio, tuned to station KOA in Denver, Colorado. The narrator introduced a kindly gentleman to the radio audience as a prominent minister of one of the large Protestant churches in the United States, stating that he was second in authority in that church, and that he would be glad to respond to religious questions from the listening audience. I listened to several questions and his answers.

I was particularly interested in one caller who sounded like a college age young woman who asked a question about resurrection. She asked whether she would have a physical body when she was resurrected. She said that she had been studying one of the Eastern religions and had become curious about reincarnation, so was wondering how the Christian idea of resurrection compared. Would a resurrected person be able eat, drink, and experience physical activities--things which she understood reincarnation would provide?

The minister was kind, and it was evident that he really wanted to help her understand about the resurrection of the Savior. He answered, "My dear, you will have a beautiful resurrected spiritual body like Christ had." She responded, "Will I have a physical body and be able to eat food and drink water?" He said, "You will receive a beautiful, resurrected, spiritual body." She again asked, "Does that mean I won't have a physical body when I am resurrected?"

He replied kindly that her resurrected body would be a beautiful, immortal, spiritual body; the same as the resurrected body of Jesus. She sounded somewhat discouraged by his answer, and said, "Well, okay then." And she ended the call.

Well, I decided that I would phone the radio station, and make an attempt to answer her question. I dialed the number. After a few moments, someone on the other end answered and said, "Hold the line, please." I waited briefly and the minister answered, saying, "You are on the air, what is your question?"

I said, "Well, I don't really have a question, but would like to comment for the benefit of the young lady who called, asking about a physical body and resurrection. I think that she understood, from your answer, that Jesus did not have a body of flesh and bone, following his resurrection. I have been reading a most interesting book that gives added information about this event, which may be helpful to her."

"The book states clearly, that following his resurrection in Jerusalem, Jesus visited people in ancient America, saying to them that 'He was Jesus Christ whom the prophets testified should come into the world.'"[23]

"He then asked them to come forward and feel the wounds in his hands and his feet that they could know that he had been slain for the sins of the world and that he had overcome death. This would clarify for her, that resurrection is not to receive a new or different body, as in reincarnation, but resurrection means that Jesus had, after he was resurrected, the same physical body which he had while fulfilling his ministry in Jerusalem, a body of flesh and bone."

He asked, "What is the book?" I replied, "The Book of Mormon." Well, his friendly and warm tone of voice became a little colder and he said, "Oh, we can't believe anything in the Book of Mormon." I said, "Do you have a Bible there, with you?" "Of course!" He answered, "We believe everything that is written in the Bible." "Would you read a passage from the Bible about Jesus' resurrection and his resurrected body?" "Sure, I will read anything from the Bible." "Thank you. Would you please read Luke 24:36-43?" He answered that he would. Then, I could hear pages turning, and he began to read:

"And as they thus spake, Jesus himself stood in the midst of them, and saith unto them, Peace be unto you.

"But they were terrified and affrighted, and supposed that they had seen a spirit. And he said unto them, Why are ye troubled? And why do thoughts arise in your hearts?

"Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself: handle me, and see; for a spirit hath not flesh and bones, as ye see me have.

"And when he had thus spoken, he shewed them his hands and his feet.

"And while they yet believed not for joy, and wondered, he said unto them, Have ye here any meat?

"And they gave him a piece of a broiled fish, and of an honeycomb. And he took it, and did eat before them."[24]

After reading those verses, he was silent, so I said, "Doesn't that sound to you as if he had a body of flesh and bone following his resurrection? He answered, "You know, it really does!" almost as if that idea had not occurred to him before. I then responded, "Doesn't it seem possible, that his body, being a resurrected body of flesh and bone when he appeared to his apostles, would still be a resurrected body of flesh and bone now?" He replied, "No, he got rid of his body right after that, because he didn't need it any more."

I was then disconnected. The line was dead, but I hoped that what had been said was enough that the young woman who had asked the question would look up the missionaries to learn more about Jesus appearing to the people of the ancient Americas as the resurrected Savior of the world. I believe this good minister really wanted to answer truthfully. He simply had not had access to the true doctrine of resurrection.

During my high school years my name began to appear each spring in the Bay Area sports pages. A newspaper columnist wrote that I might be the best high school middle-distance prospect in the last ten years in northern California. Letters from college track coaches began arriving. It was exciting.
Late one Saturday afternoon near the end of my sophomore year, I found my father sitting in his chair upstairs, reading.
“I’m going to a party tonight,” I said nonchalantly.
“That’s nice. Some of your friends from church?”
“No. New friends. Guys from school.”
“I see.” He continued reading.
“They’re some very popular kids.”
“Oh.” He laid his book down. “How long have they been paying attention to you?”
“Since track season, I guess.”
“Maybe they saw you in math class handing in your homework and thought, He’s someone we need to get to know.”
“Maybe.”
“It wouldn’t be that they saw your name in the paper, I’m sure. What are Chuck and Ricky doing tonight? And the guys from church?”
“The church guys are going to a stake dance. Chuck and Ricky were talking about going to a Giants game. Ricky’s dad is going.”
“Oh. How long have you known Ricky and Chuck and the guys at church?”
“Chuck and Ricky, all my life. The guys at church, seven or eight years.”
“Before anyone knew you could run fast, right?”
“Right.”
“You have fun with your new friends tonight. Remember priesthood at nine tomorrow.” He picked up his book. He was leaving the decision to me.
I made two phone calls. One to my new friends who had invited me to the party, a gathering at which I could easily guess what would be going on. The second call was to a friend from church, to see if he would pick me up for the dance.
My senior year in high school came, and my life and the lives of my friends and family were again changing. I had less than a year left in our blue house. Chuck talked about joining the military after graduation, while Ricky hoped to play professional baseball.
Paula had married the year before, to a guy who reminded me of the tall missionary from Massachusetts a decade earlier. In November, she and her husband came from school to our home for Thanksgiving. Paula handed my mother a jar of peanut butter with pink and blue ribbons tied around it. Mother looked sharply at her, and Paula nodded. Then Mom burst into tears. It seemed that my mother had craved peanut butter when she was expecting me. Paula’s present was her way of announcing that a new arrival would be born to the family in the spring.
I took my college entrance exams, filled out applications, and sorted through the letters offering track scholarships. A mission was only two years away. I took a part-time job at a restaurant to help save money for it.
Mom was doing great and Dad landed a promotion at work, one that took him off the dock and into an office. He was almost 50, and I was happy to know that his days of heavy physical labor were over.
On the track, my times kept improving. I hadn’t lost a race in two years, but my streak was in jeopardy. At an invitational meet in Sacramento, I was going to race the top runners from California, including Michael Banks, a senior from Los Angeles.
I had never met him but knew his reputation. On Mondays at practice my coach kept me apprised of Michael Bank’s achievements. “You were good on Friday, Tom. But Banks was two seconds faster.”
“Tomorrow’s the big race?” my father asked innocently the night before the meet.
“It is. I’ve never been so nervous about a race in my life.”
“You run in a circle four times; then it’s over. What’s so tough about that?” he kidded. “You’ll do fine, Tom. I’ll leave work and drive up to see you.”
My father was a stake clerk and went to a meeting of the stake presidency that night. I was asleep when he got home, yet he had already left for work when I arose just after six.
“Couldn’t Dad sleep?” I asked my mother at breakfast.
“No. He met with the stake president last night. He has something to tell you, but I’ll let him do so in his own way.”
I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell me, and I didn’t think of it again. Michael Banks and his fearsome times were crowding out everything else.
“Good luck. We’ll be there to watch and we’ll be proud of you whether you win or not.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I left for a half-day of school before driving to Sacramento with my coach.
Almost 11 hours later I stood at the starting line in the fifth lane. A half-dozen other boys stretched and shook their arms, preparing for the race. Tension was thick, a very real presence. My stomach was wound tight and I felt a little sick. Michael Banks stood two lanes away, looking confident, hands on his hips, staring down the track. We had met in the tunnel on the way to the track. He nodded in my direction and I murmured hello. That was all.
My coach gave me a few last-minute instructions. “Take the lead early in the fourth lap. If you don’t, Banks will out kick you down the stretch. You have the better stamina, but you can’t match his kick. Good luck, Tom. You’ll give it your best, I know.”
We were called to our marks. I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see my parents. I tried to block the worry from my mind. Concentrate, I must concentrate, I repeated softly. Your parents are in the stands. Don’t worry. The starter raised his pistol, and it cracked into the air. Arms and legs rushed, and there was a jostling of elbows as we started around the first corner. I began talking to myself in my mind.
How do I feel? Legs are tight, relax. Who’s on my shoulder? Don’t get boxed in. Breathe, breathe, relax. Keep your arm motion smooth. Glide, not too fast. Where’s Banks?
Glide, glide. Move outside when you can. Was that Banks in the lead? No. Maybe neither of us will win. Wouldn’t that be something. Don’t make your move yet. Do I have enough left in me to even make a move? You’ll die by the fourth lap. Remember what the coach said.
The second lap was nearing an end. My head hurt and I could taste blood in my mouth. I guessed I was in fifth place. My legs were rubbery. I didn’t have much.
Maintain, just maintain. Let your mouth go slack. Glide a lap … Oh, what’s the use? You don’t have it today, Tom. Banks has this one.
My pace slowed a bit. I was on the inside lane. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar face, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on the infield. It was my father.
Quick strides brought me within hearing range. What was he shouting?
“Tommy … !”
Yes, Father.
“… Paula—you’re an uncle.”
What? An uncle? A boy or a girl? Get this race over, Rosa. You’re an uncle!
I forced my arms to pump faster. I moved to the outside and fought past two runners. Third place now and Banks clearly in the lead.
Paula, she isn’t due for two more weeks. But … But … a new baby in the family!
My pace quickened. I took over second place. Only Michael Banks loomed ahead. My lungs burned and my legs ached. Still, I managed to pull even with him. In unison, Michael Banks and I ran, leaving the others behind. We came around the bend again. There was my dad, shouting jubilantly.
“Tommy …”
The crowd was going berserk as Banks and I matched strides. Could I hear my father? I drew nearer and heard only two words: “You will!”
I will … I will … Now!
I moved inches ahead with a half-lap to go. Now! My fists rammed forward; my legs pounded the track. The lead grew to a foot, then a yard. I heard Michael Banks’ strained breathing behind me. Never had a race been so hard for me.
A baby!—Paula was a mom. My mom was a grandmother. And my father, a grandfather, who somehow made his way to the infield because he knew I needed to hear him.
I rounded the last corner, now in a dead sprint, my chest heaving.
Remember Banks’ kick. Don’t hold anything back. Pump your arms, run on your toes.
The tape loomed ahead. I frantically ran toward it. A few yards away, I stumbled, fought to keep my balance, and broke across the finish line. Michael Banks whisked in behind me. I turned and we threw our arms around each other. “Great race, man,” he gasped. “You ran inspired.”
“You’ll never know,” I panted.
I walked to the grassy infield. I knew that I should keep moving, but my legs refused. I sat down, then leaned back. I looked up into the clear, blue sky. A face filled it, the face of my father.
Some boys, they say things about their fathers. They say they aren’t friends, that there is too much of a difference for them to understand each other. They say they don’t know if their fathers love them. I feel an emptiness for those boys and their fathers. When thousands were shouting in a very tough race, it was my father’s voice that I listened for and heard.
On the way home, my parents told me why they were late. They got a phone call from Paula’s husband just as they were leaving. When they arrived at the stadium, the race had just started. One look told Father that I was struggling. Before he stopped to think about it, he was at the edge of the stands heading to the infield. He said he thought it was the only chance for me to know he was there.
“What a day,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I suppose that’s what happens when the stake president asks you to serve as the bishop.”
He said it so casually that the impact didn’t hit me for a few seconds. My dad was going to be the bishop of our ward!
I went off to school that fall. I was on the track team, and though I was not a star that year, I ran straight and hard. When I came home that summer, I had an interview with my bishop to begin the work of serving a mission. It didn’t take place in a bishop’s office, but in a blue, two-story home in south San Francisco. I sat on the edge of a bed, and the bishop pulled close his favorite old chair. He seemed a little hesitant. His eyes were wet.
“Tom, you are a Rosa,” he began. “And you are a Latter-day Saint.”
“Yes.”
“If you honor your family, you will honor your church. If you honor your church, you will honor your family.”
“I understand that.”
After asking me the normal missionary interview questions, he concluded, “You will do good. You will be a fine missionary.”
Then he told me to go help Mom in the kitchen. I looked back at him as I left. His hair was mostly gray now, and his arms were not as thickly muscled as before. He sat in his chair and stared out the window at ten thousand sparkling lights on the hillside across the bay from our home. I wondered if he knew how proud I was to be his son and how much it meant to me to share his good name. I walked downstairs realizing that all those years I had been running, my father had been growing, and I would never lack for someone to look up to.

Strong families and an active seminary program have produced enthusiastic and willing Latter-day Saint youth in Brooklyn. But according to Randy Dow, a native of Maine who has worked with the youth for years, “A few years ago, we started seminary with only a couple of students. One of the problems was that parents didn’t want their children out late at night.” Private cars are rare in Brooklyn, but rides were organized, and activities later followed the weekly classes. Now seminary is held on Friday nights—the unanimous choice of the youth.

I had a similar experience as a young boy on my grandparents’ farm. They taught me about tithing with examples of one egg or one bushel of peaches out of ten. Years later I used those same kinds of examples to try to teach the principles of tithing to our own children.

Parents are always looking for better ways to teach, and the results of their efforts are sometimes unexpected. Attempting to teach tithing to our young son, I explained the principle of a tenth and how it would apply to the eggs gathered in a chicken farm and the young calves or horses born in a breeding herd. When I finished what I was sure was a clear explanation, I wanted to test whether our seven-year-old had understood. I asked him to imagine that he was a farmer with a harvest of eggs and young animals. I supplied the figures and then asked our little boy what he would give to the bishop as tithing. He thought deeply for a moment and then said, “I would give him a very old horse.”

We obviously had some further conversations on the principle of tithing, and I am proud of the way he and his brother and sisters learned and practiced that principle. But I have often thought of that little boy’s words as I have observed how some adult Church members relate to the law of tithing. I think we still have some whose attitude and performance consist of giving the bishop something like “a very old horse.”

Elder Kay’s father died when Arthur was eleven years old. “My youngest sister was born just three weeks before Father passed away,” Elder Kay recounts. “So there were five children younger than I. Mother had been afflicted with a series of strokes that left her partially paralyzed. But the things that I remember most about her were her faith, her courage, her devotion, and her trust. Whatever our family circumstances, Mother’s faith never waned. And she never complained. She was the town clerk for a number of years, and even though her lower limbs were not very functional, she had an excellent hand and kept immaculate records. She earned a few dollars that way; the farm supplied the rest of our income.

“I have fond recollections of my aunts, uncles, and cousins too. We were a close family and met together often for fun and for family dinners. A special treat was the five-gallon freezer of ice cream that Grandmother often made.

“I can’t think of anything in my life that I would change, except, perhaps, my reactions to some things. As I look back now, every experience has been a blessing. I know absolutely that God lives and that the Savior is real and that He is our Redeemer. I have a strong testimony of the divine calling of the great men who preside over the Church.

“Several times my life has been preserved because of the warning of the still, small voice. I’ve learned to listen to that voice. I’ve also learned to trust the Lord with all my heart, might, mind, and strength. And I tell the children of the world that I know that He hears and answers prayers.”

After watching his newborn nephew, Austin, suffer so long before receiving a transplant, Eric McClellan, a 17-year-old priest from the San Jose California Stake, decided to do a good turn. Now this wasn’t your typical, daily good turn expected of all Scouts. Rather it was a three-month-long Eagle Scout project inspired by a woman who willingly gave her bone marrow to a five-month-old boy she didn’t even know. Eric used his Eagle Scout project as a way to return her good deed. He did this by organizing a bone marrow registry drive in conjunction with his stake’s blood drive.
To begin his project, Eric met with a Red Cross representative and discussed the immediate needs of his community. Eric and other Scouts under his direction then distributed the fliers and some sign-up sheets to the wards in his stake. Then, after weeks of reminders, Eric and his mom got on the phone the night before the drive to call and remind all 108 people on the sign-up sheets.
All this reminding paid off. The next evening 68 pints of blood were collected, and 34 people were tested for bone marrow and put on the national registry.
During the drive Eric, his dad, and one of his friends labeled the blood bags, another Scout escorted donors to the refreshment table, and some adults in the stake typed Red Cross forms. “I learned a lot about organization and organizing people to do the jobs that they are supposed to and getting everything to run smoothly,” Eric said.
Through his service, Eric hopes to spare others the suffering that his nephew and the rest of his family had to go through while waiting for a suitable bone marrow donor. Remembering the difficult five months before Austin had his transplant, Eric says, “It was hard for my sister [Austin’s mom], because she had to just keep hoping that there would be someone found that would match him. If they find someone from my drive to be a donor for someone else, I’ll feel good.”