Gospel Story Finder

We later had four children, and I remember the joy in knowing that each of them was sealed to us because they were born in the covenant. Our children were the first grandchildren, and although my parents and siblings never joined the Church, they grew very close to each of my children. For many years we lived near each other, and my parents were able to see our children participate in school and youth sports events. They attended each of our children’s baptisms.
By the time our children reached their teens, however, my work assignments had moved our family to another state. But even during those years, my parents stayed close to our children through visits and frequent letters.
As my parents reached middle age, my mother encountered early-onset Alzheimer’s. My father was determined to faithfully serve as her caretaker, even when her condition required full-time care. Even through these latter years, my father reached out to me through weekly, and, in some periods, daily, phone calls and letters. I had always had a close relationship with both my parents, but during the last 10 years of my father’s life, we became particularly close. I realized then too that he was equally successful in drawing near to my three siblings in the same way—even given the differences in interests and faiths we chose as we all grew older.
Photograph by Del Benson
My parents and my family lived on opposite coasts of the United States during those last years, and they made two cross-country visits, even though my mother’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point where assisting her on a long-distance flight was very difficult for Dad.
At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.
In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.
I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.
I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

I cannot even claim one by marriage—Kevin’s pioneer heritage includes his father’s 1960 journey across the plains of America in a car whose tires were so bald they should have traveled only one block, not three thousand miles from the Bronx, New York. That young 1960 pioneer came of Puerto Rican heritage, raised on a diet of New York Yankees, Broadway shows, and playing hooky at Coney Island. That pioneer who made his solitary journey is now the gentle grandfather of my two very wild children. In marrying Kevin, I assumed his pioneer journey as part of my individual heritage—no Young, Smith, Call, or Snow in our combined family journals.

“Hey, Aaron,” Ty called from the other end of the church gym. “Come shoot some hoops with us!”
Aaron shifted the box of paper cups and napkins in his arms and shook his head. “I can’t,” he called back. “I’m helping my mom set up for Relief Society.”
Aaron heard Ty and some of his other friends laugh as they dribbled and passed the basketball. All of the boys were in his Primary class except Todd, a new boy who didn’t go to church. Aaron heard Todd ask, “What’s Relief Society?”
“It’s a meeting for moms and old ladies … and Aaron!” Ty laughed again.
Aaron ducked into the kitchen and dropped the box on the counter. He knew that Relief Society wasn’t just for moms and old ladies, and it wasn’t just a meeting either. When his mother was in the hospital, Relief Society sisters brought delicious meals to his family. They also served his family a luncheon after his grandfather’s funeral. Mom had explained that the Relief Society also helps the bishop care for the sick and poor in the ward. Aaron enjoyed helping Mom with Relief Society activities because he always had a good feeling afterward, and he often got to sample the leftover treats.
But he didn’t have a good feeling right now. He didn’t like being laughed at. “Mom, can I go play with Ty and the other guys?” he asked.
“I’m counting on you, Aaron,” Mom said. “I really need you to put chairs around the tables.”
Grumbling to himself, Aaron shuffled over to the rack of chairs against the wall. He lifted one off the top, and the one below it clattered to the hardwood floor. Some of the boys laughed, but Todd said, “Why don’t we go help him?”
Ty shot the basketball and missed. “No way,” he said, chasing down the ball. “We only have the gym for five more minutes. I’m not going to waste my time on Relief Society.”
Aaron unfolded more chairs and arranged them around the tables. Brother Brown arrived to help, and soon the two of them had completed the job. But Aaron knew that he wasn’t finished. Mom handed him a stack of tablecloths and paper napkins. He turned away from the boys at the other end of the gym and concentrated on getting the tablecloths straight. Brother Brown and several Relief Society sisters worked around him, setting the tables and making everything look nice. Aaron took a pitcher of water and started to fill the paper cups at each place, when suddenly a basketball crashed into the table, spilling water everywhere.
Ty ran over to retrieve the ball just as Aaron’s mother came out of the kitchen. “It’s time for you to go so we can have our meeting,” she told Ty.
Ty picked up the ball and dribbled it at his side. “Ah, come on, Sister Dean, we won’t bother you. We’ll just play at that end while you have your meeting over here.”
“Sorry, Ty,” she said. “It’s our turn now. You boys will have to leave.” She turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Aaron mopped up the spilled water with a wad of napkins. Ty was still standing there looking stubborn, bouncing the ball up and down. Aaron didn’t want to argue with his friend, but he didn’t want to let Mom down either. He offered a quick and silent prayer.
“Listen, Ty,” he said with a smile. “Why don’t you guys help me finish, and then we can go outside and play basketball before it gets too dark. The Relief Society is having brownies and ice cream afterward, and my mom might give us some if we help out.”
Ty looked around and the other boys waited to see what he would do. Aaron took the pitcher of water and pointed at the empty cups. “If we all take a table, we’ll get done fast.”
Later, Aaron’s mom brought brownies and ice cream outside for the boys. “I want to thank you guys for helping out tonight,” she said. “It sure made my job a lot easier.”
Todd took a spoonful of ice cream and grinned. “This is your job?” he asked. “Where do I sign up?”

Completing the picture. My husband and I and our three children decided that we would each read the Book of Mormon individually. We cut a print of an ancient prophet holding golden plates into five pieces. Each family member was responsible to complete the picture by completing our reading. Our youngest son does not read yet, so I read an illustrated Book of Mormon with him.One by one we finished our reading and began to pray for those still working on the challenge. We all finished by the end of the year, and we showed by following the living prophet that we value the words of our ancient prophets. Cinara Lilian Leão Machado, São Carlos, Brazil

Last summer, our youngest son returned home from his mission to Warsaw, Poland. We missed him so much, but he learned things Sister Hobbs and I could not teach him at home. On the day he reported his mission, I could see how much he had matured. I was so glad he was home. I felt a little like our Heavenly Father must feel about us. He wants us to come home. Our salvation is His work and His glory. And Brothers and Sisters, we can trust Him for He knows how to do His work. (2 Nephi 27:21)

May I illustrate: As long as I can remember I wanted to go on a mission and I knew where I wanted to go. I wanted to go to Denmark. My mother is Danish; my grandparents were born and raised in Denmark; I idolized my grandfather—I wanted to go to Denmark on a mission. Everybody in our family went to Denmark. My grandfather went to Denmark, my uncles went to Denmark, my cousins went to Denmark. If you’re in my family, you go to Denmark. So I, as my mission call approached, began to pray to the Lord that He would send me to Denmark.

The problem was back in southern California, where I grew up, they didn’t teach Danish in high school. They taught French, and I had four years of French. So as my mission call approached, I began to have a feeling of impending doom that I was going to go to France instead of to Denmark.

France would have been okay, except that I had a French teacher from Paris who was so proud of her French language; if you mispronounced something, she would throw chalk or erasers at you. She would walk up and down the aisles throwing a piece of chalk, and then she would turn on you and fire a French question at you. Just the look in her eyes would drive every French word right out of my brain, and I would try and answer, and she would get mad, and she would throw the chalk at me, and I thought, if this is what the French are like, I don’t want to go to France; two years of that would be bad. I want to go to Denmark.

But I had a feeling of impending doom that I would go to France. As my mission call approached, I finally realized that it was probably not appropriate to tell the Lord where you wanted to go on your mission, so I changed my prayers. I did not feel that it was inappropriate to eliminate one country from all the countries God could send you to. And so I began to pray, “I’ll go anywhere Lord, please don’t send me to France. They speak French in Tahiti.”

On the day my mission call came, I was at work.
I was driving home from work, and I knew my mission call was there, and I knew it said France, and I didn’t want to go home. I lingered at work; I drove slowly, hoping for red lights. And finally I was so discouraged that just before I turned the corner to my home, I pulled off to the side, turned the car off, parked it, and gave one final prayer. You’re going to think I’m making this up, but I actually prayed this; I said, “Father in Heaven, I know my mission call is at home, and I know it says France. Thou art all powerful; thou art merciful and loving. Please—thou canst do all things—please change it in the envelope.”

With a certain amount of hope, I drove home and opened my mission call. What did it say?—France. Of course it said France. Actually, I think it originally said Denmark, and the Lord said, “We need to teach this boy something, so let’s send him to France.” Now, could I have ruined my mission?—yes. I could have spent two years wanting to be in Denmark, but I learned to love the French people, love their language—beautiful language.

God listens to prayers in all languages, but He answers them in French. They are beautiful, wonderful people. I had a great mission. I found out when I got home that I had French ancestors, and, that I served in some of the cities where they had lived. God did not give me a stone. A stone, when you want bread, is something useless. God does not give useless things. He did not give me a serpent; a serpent, when you want a fish, is something harmful. He does not give harmful things; He only gives bread, and fish, and eggs.

When I found the address I had scrawled in my notebook, I thought the place looked creepy. It was a big, old, gray house that had been converted into apartments, but it looked more like a haunted house in a black-and-white movie. Still, I wanted to meet Rachael, so I marched up the rickety steps.
Earlier, when I stared at the housing ads tacked to a board in the institute building, the ads had blurred together like a patchwork quilt made of paper and pushpins. But one ad stood out. It showed a stick figure saying, “This is me, Rachael. I like running, jazz music, and chocolate.” I laughed. It didn’t say much about the apartment, but the roommate seemed fun.
After talking to Rachael for a while, I decided that the feeling inside her apartment seemed welcoming. I dismissed my first impression and moved in a few weeks later.
The next morning Rachael left on a two-week family vacation. An eerie feeling sank in the minute she was gone, but I brushed it off and busied myself unpacking. “I’m nervous because I’m not used to being here,” I reasoned. “I need time to adjust.”
It was almost midnight when I came down with an itchy sore throat. “I must be allergic to something,” I thought. I hunted around until I found Rachael’s scented candles. I decided to put them outside.
I had discovered earlier that the entryway light didn’t work, so I left the front door open a crack, letting a sliver of light spill out. Barefoot, I hurried through the darkness onto the porch.
Suddenly I froze.
The night air was still. I couldn’t hear a thing. But I felt someone approaching.
“Get back into your apartment before someone else does.” The Spirit’s instructions were unmistakable and urgent.
Still grasping the candles, I raced through the darkness into my living room and slammed the door. As soon as I locked it, the doorknob turned. My jaw dropped. I watched the doorknob slowly twist back and forth without a sound.
Someone had been hiding in my entryway! He had tried to follow me inside, only a moment too late. Now nothing but a flimsy wooden door stood between us. Instinctively, I hit the door with my fist as hard as I could.
I don’t know how long I stood there silently praying, waiting for something to happen. Finally a peaceful feeling assured me that the threat had passed and I would be safe for the night.
The next morning my mom called. She and Dad were gone on vacation, or I might have called them sooner. Before I could tell Mom what had happened, she said, “I’ve been worried about you! I keep getting the impression that your entryway is a danger zone. Is it well lit? It would be so easy for someone to hide there.”
I shivered to realize how close I had come to being attacked—so close that my mom had sensed the danger from 200 miles (320 km) away.
Then she told me she had been trying to call me the day before to warn me of her impression. “I couldn’t catch you on the phone, so I prayed. I knew I couldn’t protect you, but Heavenly Father could.”
Mom was right. A stranger had hidden in my entryway, watching me. Higher powers had also been watching and had told me what to do.
I know that the Lord won’t always protect me from tragedy, but as I follow Him, He won’t let His plan for my life be thwarted. It was His will for me to be protected that night, and I am grateful He was watching over me.

When I returned home from my mission, my grandmother was dying of cancer. She wanted to know what would happen after this life, so I taught her the gospel. She didn’t join the Church, but I had faith that the testimony I shared with her about Heavenly Father’s love for her and about life after death would have an impact on her in the next life.
After she passed away, my family went to the temple for her. I know that because of the work we did for her in the temple, she and my grandfather can be together forever—and I can be with them! The differences that we had can be resolved by knowing the truth and having the gospel be a part of our lives.

Ten years ago as my wife, Kathy, and I were living in São Paulo, Brazil, President David Marriott was presiding over the Brazil São Paulo Interlagos Mission. He and his wife, Neill, and their sons Will, Wesley, and Trace lived near us. They had left their home, their business, and many in their family to respond to a call from the prophet to serve a mission.
President Marriott called me one afternoon. Their precious, righteous 21-year-old daughter, Georgia, a senior in violin performance at Indiana University, had been hit by a truck while riding her bicycle home after a Church meeting. On first report, Georgia was doing well. Hours later her condition dramatically worsened.
Family and friends began fasting and praying for a miracle for Georgia. Her mother flew through the night from Brazil. Arriving in Indiana the next day, she was met by her older children, who tearfully explained that they had been with Georgia as she passed away.
I watched the Marriott family at the time of this experience and in the months and years that followed. They wept, they prayed, they spoke of Georgia, they felt immense pain and sadness, but their faith did not falter. In this morning’s session, we heard of similar faith in the beautiful lives of the Bowen and Wilberger families.1
I began with the story of the Marriott family. Last week Kathy and I joined them at Georgia’s grave. Ten years have passed. Family and friends spoke of the love and memories they have of Georgia. There were white helium balloons to celebrate her life. Amid tears, Georgia’s mother tenderly spoke of the increased faith and understanding she has received, and Georgia’s father quietly told me of the promised witness that has come to him.

Silvia H. Allred, first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, has told of her mother, Hilda Alvarenga, who was called to serve as Relief Society president in a branch in El Salvador when she was a convert in her 30s. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. But the branch president called her anyway. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts, such as teaching, public speaking, and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She helped others in the branch become builders of the kingdom.2 Today, as in our past, Heavenly Father expects His daughters to have a leadership role in every ward or branch. Sisters such as Hilda Alvarenga are becoming pioneers and role models for future generations.

“After a good show you just feel like getting out and hugging the whole audience,” said one of the Brigham Young University Sounds, and that’s exactly what they did after each performance.
It was all part of a six-week tour in which the 36 BYU students sang and danced their way across the United States, Canada, Romania, and Bulgaria. “Shower the people you love with love” was the theme of their variety show that ended consistently with a standing ovation. And wherever they went they were deluged with hugs, kisses, tears, flowers, and requests for autographs.
The tour was a hodgepodge of rushing in and out of television studios and concert halls, sleeping through long bus rides, meeting Church members throughout the USA and Canada, and making friends with the Romanians and Bulgarians. It was also filled with people reaching out to others, like the group of Romanian high school students singing “Oh, Suzanna” in broken English to make the Sounds feel welcome, or the nonmember in Massachusetts giving a large gift of money to the group to show her appreciation for the “uplifting, clean entertainment” she’d seen.
But most important, it was an opportunity to spread the joy of the gospel through song, dance, and music. In fact, the Sounds unofficially call themselves the “performing missionaries.” They even held missionary training sessions before they left on tour to discuss how they could best answer the questions they might be asked.
They carried an excitement about the gospel with them wherever they went, an unbounded enthusiasm for sharing what was precious to them. It was a new experience for some, an experience well-practiced for the returned missionaries. It was also the driving force that kept them determined to please audiences throughout the tour.
“I’ve lived in Provo all my life, so it was really exciting to share my enthusiasm for the gospel and watch nonmembers catch the light,” said Kathy Kocherhans, a singer with the group.
“After the show, people would come up to talk to us, touched by its message. It was a common thing that happened every night. In the mission field I was lucky to teach in a month as many people as I taught in a week on tour,” said Steve Shaw, a dancer with the Sounds.
“I talked to a 17-year-old nonmember about the Church, gave her a Book of Mormon, and bore my testimony. It was the most exciting experience of my life,” said Tim Andersen, a trumpet player with the group.
“I was a bit nervous at first to approach people, but once I found a comfortable way to lead the conversation around to the Church by discussing family home evening or BYU, I found it to be one of the most rewarding things I’d ever done. It’s fulfilling to know that I might be a small link that could introduce someone to a new and better life,” said Michelle Milne, a singer and BYU’s homecoming queen for 1976–77.
“Even after two years experience in the mission field, this tour has been the most unique missionary experience I’ve ever had,” said Rob Hightower, business manager for the group.
“Talking to people about the gospel is sometimes a hard thing to do. But as it says in Moroni, ‘Perfect love casteth out all fear’ (Moro. 8:16), and once you surpass the line of holding back, giving of yourself and talking about the gospel go hand in hand. The key for me is to forget myself and be more interested in the other person than I am in myself,” said Jerry Hatch, a dancer with the Sounds.
“I placed five copies of the Book of Mormon one night with young men at the naval base who had been moved by our show to the point that they wanted the joy we felt. I loved to talk with people after the show and explain why we generate that warm glow during the show,” said Mike Farnes, a singer.
Then there were the fruits of their labors, not only in sharing the gospel and seeing people decide to be baptized, but also just in touching people’s lives.
A misty-eyed official in Turnavo, Bulgaria, asked the Sounds to assemble after their show. He told them, “You have brought the sun to us. We have seen America through your music and smiles. There is no distance between our countries today.”
One young girl pressed a card into the hand of one of the singers. It read, “You are remembered—we love you.” An older man drew another aside and told him, “I feel impressed to tell you that I know you’re my brother, and I love you.”
And there was the 23-year-old truck driver in Bulgaria who transported the sound equipment across the country wherever the Sounds went. Even though he spoke no English, at the end of his ten-day tour with the Sounds, he wept to see his friends leave. They wept too.
One of the highlights of the tour was at the Great Lakes Naval Base in Illinois where two officer trainees had seen the Sounds perform, talked with the missionaries, and announced at the preshow warm-up two nights later that they were to be baptized that week.
“You taste a little bit of the truth and want more and more,” said Bill Harvey, one of the officer trainees. “I have to join the Church to satisfy that thirst. I just hope that the Lord will be able to use my life so I can be a missionary and teach other people. That’s what I really want to do now.”
At a fireside given by the Sounds in Hamburg, New York, two investigators decided to join the Church. After a show in Ontario, Canada, another investigator decided to be baptized. And one family in New York hunted down Jerry Allman, who had toured there the year before, to tell him that a family had been baptized as the result of his placing a Book of Mormon with them the year before when they’d come to the performance.
The tour did have its disasters—an epidemic of sore throats, a spill down the Hill Cumorah by the pianist, the flu, a broken hand, and a run-in with a bus requiring stitches for one of the singers. But through it all, the Sounds maintained their determination to perform well and open their hearts to people.
“After a performance it’s hard to explain your feelings,” said singer and band member Denise Hatch. “It’s almost something you have to experience. You feel completely warm inside and happy, and you can’t stop smiling because you feel like you’ve really given something worthwhile, because you’ve given of yourself. It makes all the hours and hours of practice and frustration and tears that go along with the performing worth every second of it.”
Editor’s Note: The BYU Sounds are now known as one of two BYU Young Ambassadors groups.

When Patrick was 19, he lost his father and brother-in-law in a tragic car accident in Saudi Arabia. “My world turned upside down with their loss,” he says. His father’s guiding hand, loving encouragement, and joyful view of the world were gone. Lost in grief and emptiness for a time, Patrick went home to England with his mother but eventually returned to work in Saudi Arabia.
“I had all sorts of valuable opportunities to learn and grow and see how businesses worked,” he says. He was especially grateful for “a wonderful boss who coached and guided me and became a dear friend. He was one of several father-type figures I’ve been blessed with since my father’s death.”

My mom was sick. If she was sick, she couldn’t lead the choir. I fasted for her to help her feel better. Fasting means not eating food during the day. This was the first day I ever fasted in my life. I didn’t know what it would feel like. I was hungry. It was really hard to fast, but I didn’t ask for food. I prayed for my mom, too. I wanted her to get better because I love her. After I fasted, my mom felt better. She was able to lead the choir. I think Heavenly Father hears my prayers, even when I whisper.

It was my last Christmas in the Brazil Rio de Janeiro North Mission. I would soon be returning to my home elsewhere in Brazil, and I was happy about the Christmas season. My companion, Elder Barney, was an American who had been in Brazil for only a short time. He was fighting homesickness.
We had been working hard, but we still weren’t sure how to celebrate Christmas. We hoped a family would invite us to spend Christmas with them, and eventually one family did. However, I wondered about some of the other missionaries in our area. On our next trip to Vitória, my companion and I learned that Elder Jones and Elder Junot didn’t have any Christmas plans. I thought within myself, These elders are my family while I’m on my mission. We can’t leave them alone on Christmas. The four of us decided we would spend Christmas together in Vitória.
We made plans for a special dinner on Christmas Eve. Although we didn’t have much money, we knew the Lord would bless us.
On Christmas Eve I recorded my feelings in my journal: “Today is 24 December. It has rained a lot, and I see that my companion is sadder. He says he misses the symbols of Christmas he is used to seeing in his country—snow, music, trees, and decorations. I can imagine how hard his Christmas will be since he is so far away from his family, his people, and his customs. The rain continues to fall, but it is lighter now.”
I looked at my companion and sensed his homesickness. I wanted him to be happy.
On the bus trip to Vitória, we could see people hurrying to make their Christmas purchases. We went by a house illuminated with colored lights. Children played in the gardens. Tears filled my eyes, and I could not speak to my companion because I knew I would cry. He seemed to be crying silently. For Elder Junot, Elder Jones, and me, this Christmas was our last on the mission. But it was Elder Barney’s first, and I didn’t know how to console him. During the trip, I cried several times but concealed it. And my companion concealed his tears from me.
We got off the bus and went to the other missionaries’ apartment. We put our money together, and Elder Junot and Elder Jones went out to make the purchases. After they returned with the food, we set the table with a white tablecloth and napkins and placed Christmas cards on it for decoration. But even this didn’t seem to lift our spirits.
Seeing this, Elder Jones suggested we get out our hymnbooks and sing hymns to the Lord. We sang one, then one more, and then another. And we sang louder each time. I wanted the neighborhood to hear our singing and know that we were worshiping the Lord. We started to feel the Spirit of the Lord.
After the singing, Elder Jones shared a scripture about the birth of Christ. Then everyone read from the scriptures. We bore our testimonies about our Redeemer.
When Elder Barney shared his testimony, he explained, “I was missing the things that are familiar to me—the snow, the Christmas tree, the turkey, the Christmas music of my country. I forgot to be concerned about the Son of God born in a manger.” We had tears in our eyes, for the Spirit testified in our hearts that we had worshiped the Creator of the day. We thanked the Lord for all He had given us.
It was my last Christmas in the mission, but it was the first true Christmas I ever spent.

My friend and I were playing at the park. I climbed a tree, but my friend couldn’t climb up. When I tried to get down, I couldn’t, and it was too far to jump. My friend said that we should say a prayer so that someone would come help us. First I prayed, and then my friend prayed. A few minutes later my dad showed up at the park and helped me down from the tree. I told my mom and dad what happened, and each of them told me that they had a feeling they should check on me to see if I was OK. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers.Nicholas M., age 7, Utah

During the fervor of the early years of World War II, one of our teachers quorum members, Fritz, wanted to defend our country but didn’t want to wait until he reached the minimum age required to serve. He falsified his age and enlisted in the United States Navy. Soon he found himself far away in the Pacific sea battles. The vessel on which he served was sent to the bottom, with many hands lost. Fritz survived and later appeared in our quorum meeting in full uniform, with battle ribbons affixed. I remember asking Fritz, “Fritz, do you have any advice for us?” We were all on the very doorstep of mandatory military service.
Fritz thought for a moment and then said, “Never lie about your age or about anything else!” That one-sentence declaration is remembered yet.

Julio looked at the new black and white soccer ball. He turned it carefully in his hands and ran his fingers along the seams.
“Do you like it?” Tia (aunt) Maria asked.
“Sim (yes),” Julio answered, still not believing the ball was his. “But why are you giving it to me?”
Tia Maria laughed. “Because you help me so much,” she replied. “You run errands for me and help me clean my yard. You have earned more than a ball, but this is all I can give you. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
Julio looked at his tia. He knew she didn’t have much money, and he wondered if he should accept such a big gift from her. But her eyes told him that she would be hurt if he did not take the ball.
“Obrigado (thank you),” he said softly.
“All I ask is that you always remember why it is yours,” Tia Maria told Julio. “Now go play.”
Julio thanked his tia again as he rushed out into the spring air. He rolled the ball over and over in his hands, wondering what Tia Maria had meant by, “Remember why it is yours.”
But the thought soon left when Julio noticed the budding trees. Spring meant soccer with his friends, and this spring he had his very own soccer ball!
Julio dropped the ball to the ground and skillfully kicked it down the cobblestone sidewalk as he ran.
“Hey, where did you get the new soccer ball?” Antonio asked as he came out of his house.
“Tia Maria gave it to me.” Julio replied proudly.
“That’s great! Can I play with you?”
“Sure!” Julio answered.
Antonio and Julio kicked and rolled the ball back and forth. Before long others joined them, and soon there were enough boys to start a soccer game.
Tia Maria watched from her apartment window, and Julio could see her out of the corner of his eye as he played.
Julio loved to play soccer and he was good. Someday he hoped to play on the national team of Brazil. Tia Maria knows that, he thought. Maybe that’s why she gave me the ball.
But the thought vanished as the ball came his way. Skillfully he maneuvered it with his feet toward the imaginary goal, never touching it with his hands. As he neared the goal, he kicked the ball and sent it sailing through the air and into the goal to score.
“Good work!” Antonio shouted. “We’re ahead now!”
For a while a younger boy watched shyly from the sidewalk. Then he slowly walked over to where the group of boys was playing.
“Oh, no,” Antonio whispered to Julio. “Paulo is coming! Don’t let him play! He always messes up the game. We’ll lose if he plays!”
It was true that Paulo was not a good player. He often lost the ball to the other team, and on several occasions he had even run for the wrong goal. But Julio knew how much Paulo liked to play.
“Can I play?” Paulo asked hopefully.
Julio looked at the other boys and started to say no. Then he glanced at the window where Tia Maria was standing. Her face was drawn tight in a concerned expression as she too waited for Julio to answer.
“Remember why it is yours.” Her words came to Julio’s mind. Once more he looked at Tia Maria. He had shared his time and efforts to help her, and he wondered if she were trying to tell him to keep sharing.
Julio looked away from the window and then turned to Paulo. “Sure, you can play,” he said. Before anyone could say anything, he added, “As a matter of fact, Antonio is a good player, and he’ll help you learn more about the game.”
Paulo’s face lit up with a smile. “You will?” he asked eagerly.
Antonio looked at Julio and then he too smiled. “Sure, I’d be happy to! We’ll all teach you to be a great soccer player!”
As they began to play again, Julio glanced up at the window. Tia Maria was smiling as she nodded her head. Julio waved at her before he continued playing the game.
Suddenly he knew why Tia Maria had given him the new soccer ball.

I remember a dance on the last night of youth conference. A younger boy was sitting by himself. “This next dance is girls’ choice,” a voice announced. One of the sharpest girls in the stake walked up to this boy and asked him to dance. It wasn’t a setup. It wasn’t a service project. No leaders said that every girl had to dance with at least one shy boy before the night was over. This young woman simply noticed someone who needed a hand. She did what she could to make someone else feel cool—cool-aid.

It was just a few years later, in the summer of 1982, when I felt the Lord’s hand in my life again. It was pushing me in the right direction. I had graduated from high school and was wondering when would be the appropriate time to go on a mission. My mother, for some reason, was urging me to go to a year of university first. So being an obedient child, I listened to my mother and enrolled in summer classes at the University of Utah.

I was taking calculus, a 200 level history class, and biology 101. These classes seemed a lot harder than my high school classes. I had no idea what the teacher was talking about in calculus. And it was supposed to be a review of what I should have learned in previous math classes. History was just hard. And biology wasn’t much easier.

Amidst my studies, the 4th of July came, and my rock band was scheduled to play at Lagoon, an amusement park just north of Salt Lake City, Utah. We played several shows throughout the day. Between each of our performances, I sat to the side of the stage and attempted to study while the other band members were off having fun. I was stressed and felt my life wasn’t going well. All was not right. Something needed to change. What could it be?

Why was I getting nudged to change the direction my life was headed? Why? Why? What was the answer? It was clear. I needed to go on a mission and the time was now. After all, just a few months earlier the First Presidency had announce that “Single young men accepting mission calls [would] now serve eighteen months instead of two years.” The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

The next day, I dropped out of the University of Utah. I completely dropped out. And I started working on my mission papers. I also started working to earn money for my mission.

Finally on a cold October day, my mission call arrived. My parents were out of town and I was alone at home. I held the envelope in my hands. I questioned if I was strong enough to accept this call. I needed some assurance. So I put on a jacket and put the letter in my pocket. I hiked up a canyon near my home in Utah. It was starting to snow. About a mile into my hike, I knew I was alone. I knelt and prayed aloud. I felt like Joseph Smith.

Every sound startled me and I kept opening my eyes to see what it was. But I kept on praying. As I prayed I said, “Lord, help me learn the language.” Why did I just say that? “Help me learn the language?” At the end of my prayer I opened the letter to read:

“You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to labor in the Oregon Portland mission, [then in parentheses] (Russian program) for a period of 18 months.”

What is this “Russian program?” I had heard of missionaries being called to California and other areas to teach the gospel in Spanish, but I had never heard of anyone being called to the “Russian program”. Back then my spelling and reading skills weren’t too great. I wondered, with the shortened missions, if they were also going to shorten the MTC experience and ‘rush’ me through. Is this what the “Rushing program” meant?

I learned soon enough that my MTC companion and I, along with the other two elders in our MTC district were the first four missionaries in the Church called to learn Russian in the MTC. It was quite an experience.

Since we were the initial Russian missionaries, we didn’t really have seasoned MTC teachers. One of our teachers was Sister Victoria, a native Russian and teacher from next door BYU-Provo. She was a convert to the Church and I don’t believe she had severed a mission. For the first week she gave us homework and even graded it. I earned an “A-“ on one of my MTC assignments.

At the end of our prolonged 11 weeks in the MTC, we were sent to the field. As we boarded the bus to the airport, one of our teachers ran up and handed each one of us a freshly translated copy of the baptismal challenge and said, “Good luck learning this on your own.” The only other Church materials we had in Russian were The Book of Mormon, the Joseph Smith Pamphlet, and the missionary discussions. This was before Preach my Gospel.

One day as my companion and I were laboring in the field, I felt we needed a Russian Bible to which we could refer. I didn’t know where to get one. So I prayed. Wouldn’t you believe it, the very next day as we were walking in the Oregon rain along the side of a busy highway, I saw a little blue book laying in the tall wet weeds. I knew it was the answer to my prayers. Sure enough it was a copy of the New Testament in Russian. I took it home and carefully dried out its pages.

I don’t know why the Lord answered that prayer. We didn’t really need a Russian Bible. Although we did a lot of tracting, we didn’t teach any lessons in Russian, except for half of a discussion once. I guess finding this Russian New Testament in the rain was the Lord’s way of letting me know that He was still there and answering my prayers.

I’m thankful that the Lord grabbed me and redirected my path towards a mission. Sometimes I feel that He made the 18 month mission just for me. Because a few months after I returned, missionary service for young elders changed back to 2 years. It was as if the Lord was saying, “Hey, I shortened the mission just for you, so you had better go before I change it back.”

I was a senior in high school the day I ran into Sam Stone,* a boy I hadn’t seen since junior high. I was going to run an errand as I started down the hall of my high school. With the sun coming through the double doors in front of me, I could only make out the silhouette of a boy coming towards me. As we got closer, he spoke, calling me by name, “I remember you. You kicked me in the stomach and were always mean to me.”
Sammy had moved into our small community sometime in the third or fourth grade. He was placed in a foster family and lived there until about the seventh or eighth grade, when he was sent to a new foster family. Sammy had been teased constantly, and I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit that I participated in his ridicule. I don’t remember ever kicking him, but I have a definite memory of being on the merry-go-round when he was trying to get on. We wouldn’t let him and began a cruel chant about him as we pumped the merry-go-round faster and faster. I still remember the look on his face.
Throughout the remainder of my senior year, I tried to be kind to Sam. I made it a point to speak to him whenever I saw him. Then graduation came, and we went our separate ways.
Now I am 33 years old, and I serve as the Primary president in my ward. The theme for sharing time one month was “Friends.” That Sunday we would be having stake visitors, and as I began to prepare for sharing time, I searched for something to involve the children and keep them interested so that we could maintain reverence.
My mind kept going to the memory of Sammy, how I was not a friend to him and how I could have made a difference in the way he was treated and didn’t. I thought about talking to the senior Primary on being a good friend and telling my story as a poor example. I prepared my talk but began to have second thoughts. I did not know if I could keep the interest of the children without a game or something to involve them and did not particularly want to try it for the first time when the stake visitors were there. Then there was the fact that I was ashamed and embarrassed of what I had done when I was the same age as these children and wondered if I should share this story with them.
By Thursday, I had decided not to tell the story and was looking through all my materials for another idea of something to present. By Friday, I had not found anything that felt right to me. I prayed for help and decided that when I went to dinner with my sister that evening, I would find out what she was doing for sharing time in her ward. My sister, who also served in a Primary presidency, is very creative, and I often get ideas from her. That night as we waited for our dinner to arrive, she excitedly told me her plans for sharing time in her ward. The idea was good, but it just didn’t feel right for me. Now I was really concerned. I slowly began to eat my dinner, my thoughts centered on what I could possibly do.
As I was eating, I thought I heard my name being called. It was very faint, and it was my maiden name. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, and no one at my table seemed to have heard it. I figured it was my imagination and went back to my meal and the conversation when I heard my name again, this time louder. This time my dinner companions heard it too. As I looked up, I saw a man step out from behind a divider. The man was Sammy Stone. “I wasn’t sure if that was you,” he said, “so I said your name softly first to make sure it was.”
I was dazed. Standing before me was Sam Stone. I had not seen him since high school some 15 years before, but the past week I had thought about him constantly. And now here he was. We chatted a minute as I introduced him to my husband and my other family members there with me. He invited me to meet his family in another part of the restaurant before we left. I felt strongly that Heavenly Father wanted me to tell this story in sharing time on Sunday.
At the conclusion of our meal, my husband and I went over to meet Sam’s family. Sam had overcome some great odds in his life. I was impressed with him and his family. Sadly for me, Sam introduced me to his family as someone he went to high school with. I would have been elated if he would have introduced me as “a friend from high school,” but at least he had spoken to me.
On Sunday I spoke about Sammy in Primary. The room was packed with the children, the stake visitors, and members of our bishopric. There was no problem with reverence. You could have heard a pin drop during any part of sharing time. I know that Heavenly Father loves each of His children, and I believe He wanted me to share this story to remind them to be kind to everyone. So, to those of you who are reading this story, I ask you the same question I asked that group of children, “What kind of friend will you be remembered as?”