Gospel Story Finder

I love listening to the prophets. When I was a young boy, general conference was also on Fridays. I took a portable radio to school and listened to the talks during class break. But there were still a lot of things that I didn’t understand.
One night, I lay in bed thinking. I worried about all the things I didn’t understand about God. But I knew that I could learn more about God by praying to Him and by reading the scriptures. So I said a prayer and started reading from the scriptures. I read Doctrine and Covenants 88:49. It says, “The day shall come when you shall comprehend even God.”
As I read that, I felt peace and comfort from the Holy Ghost. I started to realize that someday I would be able to understand the things that made me feel worried. And that it was OK if I didn’t understand everything right now. I also learned that I could get to know God better by reading the scriptures and listening to prophets. I have a testimony that you can too!

Last Christmas, my mom’s whole family came to our house. We all wrote down things that we were going to give Christ for the next year. Then we went around and said what we had decided to give.
My grandma said she was going to read the Book of Mormon in four months. My grandma has not gone to church since she was nine and has only read parts of the Bible. We were all surprised. She said she wanted to read it because all of her kids and most of her grandkids had read it. She wanted to know why it was so important to us.
All of my aunts, uncles, and most of my cousins decided to read the Book of Mormon with her. I wasn’t sure if she was going to do it, but she is now starting the book of Alma. She really likes it. I feel happy when I read the Book of Mormon and know that my grandma is reading it as well.

A cooling breeze was starting up, and I could feel it lapping at the edges of something smoldering inside me.
“What’s the matter, Missy?” Leatrice asked. “You seem mad at somebody.”
We were kneeling on the damp lake bank beside the dock watching black fish, small shiny ones, darting among the green seaweed. Our knees were wet and cool, and the sun was shining warm on our backs.
Lee was dropping pebbles, trying to bomb the fish. “I wish we could stay here all summer,” she said. “Don’t you?” I didn’t answer, and she kept plopping little rocks into the water. Soon she stood up and came over to where I was.
I still didn’t answer, and Lee went over to the lawn by the cabin. She was good about minding her own business. She knew my problem wasn’t with her.
A little breeze was coming from the west. I walked into it, out to the end of the dock, and stood. The water was deep there. If I fell in, what would happen? A dumb question. Of course I’d just dog-paddle to shore. But what if I didn’t know how to swim? What then?
Behind me there was a new noise. I turned and Lee was coming, rowing the old tin boat. She pulled to the dock, and I stepped in over the side, staying low. She turned us with the oars and started rowing across the lake, north toward the Canada shore. She fastened her life jacket. It was a faded orange. I picked up the other one, a little wet from the boat’s bottom.
She rowed a long time without saying anything. We were facing backward, so the sun was in our faces.
“Did you tell Mom and Dad where we were going?” I asked.
“Yes,”
“What were they doing?”
“Mom is asleep with the baby. Dad is still reading those Columbus books for his talk.”
“Of course he is. He’s always reading, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, like you.”
It was true. Dad and I were a lot alike. In some things anyway. But I didn’t want to say that. Instead I said, “He probably is reading, unless he’s too busy yelling at somebody.”
Leatrice looked at me. “What do you mean, Missy? Dad doesn’t do that.”
“He sure used to. And John told me he remembers when Dad would really throw his weight around. Back when John was little. I sort of remember it too.”
“That doesn’t sound like the dad I know,” Lee said. She looked right at me, like she was trying to see inside. “I asked Dad to come out here with us, but he told me, ‘Not now.’”
“I could’ve saved you the trouble.”
We were getting out quite far. There were small waves now. Faint voices came from somewhere on the west shore. We carefully switched places, and I took the oars. I rowed hard until I began to sweat, even in the breeze. I was overdoing it and getting tired and less steady. Suddenly, I missed the water with the right oar. The left one caught and unbalanced me. I fell off the seat into the bottom of the boat. The fall hurt my elbow and scared me a little, but then I started laughing.
I was near Lee’s feet. She pulled the oars in, and then sat in the bottom of the boat with me. We stretched our legs up over the bow seat. The boat rocked gently in the water, like a cradle.
“What do they remind you of?” Lee pointed up at clouds high overhead, fluffy masses drifting east, each looking different from the others.
“That one looks like an old man with a beard. Do you see him?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, it does. He looks faraway, thinking his own thoughts.”
“Who is it?”
“Maybe Heavenly Father. That’s how he is. Faraway.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” I said.
“I don’t think it’s like that.”
“Well, I do. It’s like nothing is any use. I can’t manage to feel any other way.” I shifted positions, and it made the boat rock a little.
We lay for a long time, drifting, not talking. Finally Leatrice rowed home. As we were beaching the boat, it came to me that I should tell her something else that had been bothering me. “You know, Lee, in my Young Women class, Sister Norland asked me a question. We were pretending to be New Testament people. She said it would help us learn prayer language. She said, ‘Missy, doth thy father love thee?’ I was going to say ‘Yes, Sister Norland,’ but what came out was ‘Maybe, sometimes.’”
Lee took my hands in hers. Her eyes were a little wet. “Missy, it bothers me what you said before about Dad. Even if that was all true once, I don’t think you need to feel hard toward him. He was young, too. It’s got to be hard at first to learn to be a dad. You and I will probably need some forgiveness too for the mistakes we’ll make while we’re learning to be moms.”
Coming from her, it sounded right, like the truth.
That night we went to bed early, the little kids first, then Mom and Dad. Today had been the first day of vacation without rain. Leatrice said her prayers. I decided I better try. I didn’t kneel, but I tried to pray on the bed. “Help me get over this alone feeling … ,” but I didn’t feel any different after.
I lay and watched the trees’ shadows on the screen and the wall and thought about the world and the moon, floating in space alone, making their slow endless circuits, maybe running forever on automatic. Some of the Founding Fathers, I’d read, called it Deism—that God had set it all going and gone away. About there I faded off to sleep.
When I woke up, I couldn’t tell how much time had passed. The shadows and the moonlight were still there outside. Our bedroom door was ajar, and a faint shifting light was coming into the room. A mosquito was whining near my ear. I didn’t know if it was that or the feeble light that had disturbed me. I got up and looked into the living room where the little kids were asleep on the couches and on blankets on the floor.
Dad was kneeling by the cone fireplace in the center of the room. He was reaching inside it, doing something. I went over to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Hold the flashlight for me, Missy, will you? Mosquitoes are coming down the stovepipe.”
“So that’s how they’re sneaking in! We checked all the screens. Boy, aren’t they tricky?”
“It’s the first night with no fire. That must be why they’re bothering us now but not before.”
I wadded up papers and handed them to Dad. He pushed the last one into place and stood up. “That should keep the little devils out. I found them on the baby’s face.”
“Were they biting you, Dad?”
“No, I heard somebody crying out in their sleep. That’s how I knew. I heard it from the other room.”
That hit me. Sometimes I’d thought he didn’t hear much of anything from us.
“Pretty smart, Dad, your figuring out how they were getting in.”
“Thanks, Missy.” He put his arm around me and squeezed. It startled me. It had been a long time since he’d done that. It did feel good though.
“Good night. Remember to say your prayers.”
I went back into the bedroom and stood by the window. The moon was up there, floating and still. And there were night sounds, an insect orchestra pulsating. I could hear it through the closed window. I hadn’t heard it while I was asleep, and I hadn’t wakened when the little children cried out. Dad had. Why had he heard, and I hadn’t? Somehow that struck me as a necessary question. I stood and thought about it, but why it could be important wasn’t clear in my sleepiness.
I thought about my father and other fathers, and as I stood at the window the words came, those that my teacher Miss Carroll had us memorize:
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
In class Hamlet’s words had bothered me. Now I said them over several times. It seemed presuming and even arrogant to claim to be that faithful. Such lovely words, but could they be true for any man?
I went over and got back into bed. From there I could still see the moon, just right to show through my window. Oddly, it no longer seemed so distant and impersonal, but warmer and nearer. The moon sailed, and I drifted off to sleep.
Some indefinite time later, I again found myself awake. I was still hanging to a dream. There had been a powerful song in it, already undefined and indistinct, but the force of the music remained with me. And suddenly I had a comforting, understanding feeling. It was surprisingly strong, and it came to me like a revelation—that really there is a being who is as reliable, as fully reliable, in His love as Hamlet had claimed to be.
I lay still awhile and savored that amazing thought. Perhaps half an hour went by. The moon was past my window. I slipped from under the covers and knelt by the bed. I prayed, still cherishing the warmth of the new feeling. And with it I recognized another extraordinary impression, that I was being heard. The perception was almost tangible.
Leatrice said something in her sleep before I got into the bed, but she didn’t wake up. I thought I’d lay there in the moonlight and listen to the outside sounds and watch the shadows. And think about fathers.
But I didn’t. I went right to sleep.

Frequently the need of the widow is not one of food or shelter but of feeling a part of ongoing events. President Bryan Richards of Salt Lake City, now serving as a mission president, brought to my office a sweet widow whose husband had passed away during a full-time mission they were serving. President Richards explained that her financial resources were adequate and that she desired to contribute to the Church’s General Missionary Fund the proceeds of two insurance policies on the life of her departed husband. I could not restrain my tears when she meekly advised me, “This is what I wish to do. It is what my missionary-minded husband would like.”
The gift was received and entered as a most substantial donation to missionary service. I saw the receipt made in her name, but I believe in my heart it was also recorded in heaven. I invited her and President Richards to follow me to the unoccupied First Presidency Council room in the Church Administration Building. The room is beautiful and peaceful. I asked this sweet widow to sit in the chair usually occupied by our church President. I felt he would not mind, for I knew his heart. As she sat ever so humbly in the large leather chair, she gripped each armrest with a hand and declared, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” It was also such for President Richards and for me.

I was sixteen when my six-year-old sister, Marcia, contracted polio during the epidemic of the early 1950s. Our family was devastated—she had an acute case, and it was feared that she would be severely paralyzed. When people came down with polio, they had a very high temperature. Until the temperature went down, the degree of paralysis increased. Doctors, family members, and the patient watched and waited by the hour for that temperature to drop.
When she became ill, Marcia was sent from Preston to Pocatello, Idaho, a larger city with better medical facilities. The rest of us decided to have a family fast, and we started it immediately. I was a junior in high school. That particular day, my school was playing a very important football game. I thought fasting might make me too weak to play well, but I chose to fast anyway. I played the best game I had ever played.
Marcia’s temperature went down that day, and the paralysis stopped progressing. She spent a lot of time at a rehabilitation center in Boise, Idaho, and was away from the family for several months. She received many priesthood administrations for her health, and a lot of prayers were offered in her behalf throughout her ordeal. She recovered from the polio and the paralysis. Medical authorities said that she would never have children, but she has three children and has lived a very normal life. We know that she has been blessed by the Lord.

The summer before my senior year of high school, my family moved from northern Virginia, USA, near Washington, D.C., to a small town in California. This was not an easy transition. I was looking forward to finishing high school with my friends. At 17 years old, I felt like my life was over!
My senior year wasn’t easy. I felt lonely a lot. But during that time, I learned the importance of finding good friends who support me and respect my beliefs. That has been helpful to me ever since.

Jesus said, “Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.” [18] I watched our missionaries as they arrived in the mission field. They were nervous and perhaps anxious because of the unknown. For many of them, this was their first time away from home. Some were just a few months out of high school. A day earlier, we were saying goodbye to those who had completed their missions. They were full of faith and with strong testimonies of the gospel. They had come to know Jesus Christ.

What made the difference between the arriving missionaries and the departing missionaries with knowing Christ? They followed a simple pattern. The Lord said, “I will give you a pattern in all things.” [19] Each morning, they had personal study and then companionship study. This was a sacred time of the day - never to be replaced by any other activity. By the time the Elders completed their mission, they would have had 730 hours of personal study; and for the Sisters, 545 hours. I watched them as they became powerful instruments in the hands of God in teaching the gospel to those searching for the truth. The prophet Joseph Smith taught, “The things of God are of deep import; and time, and experience, and careful and ponderous and solemn thoughts can only find them out.” [20] I recommend that you schedule a daily appointment on your smart phone to spend time in the scriptures and learn of Him. Can I give you one more suggestion? Accept the invitation from President Nelson to get a clean paperback copy of the Book of Mormon and highlight each reference to Jesus Christ, His words, and His attributes. As you follow the prophets simple but spiritually uplifting exercise, you will come to learn of the Savior and gain a great testimony of the Book of Mormon.

Dave Kelly is a remarkable young man. He works as a receptionist for the Salt Lake County Inspections Division and, in his spare time, performs as a clown. What makes him different from the other clowns in and around Salt Lake City, Utah? Dave is a victim of spina bifida, a disease of the spinal cord in which one or more vertebrae fail to close properly. As a result of this disease, Dave Kelly is permanently confined to a wheelchair.
Apart from performing as “Wheeler, the Clown,” Dave is active in a number of other areas. He’s a member of the Rose Park Eighth Ward, Salt Lake Rose Park North Stake, and is president of the elders quorum at the Salt Lake Veterans Administration Hospital. He is taking classes in business and is working toward a degree in data processing. Yet, despite all these other activities, his first love is clowning.
“I spent a lot of time in the hospital when I was a child,” Dave recalls, “and I remember some of the best times I ever had were when clowns would come to visit us. I guess I decided then and there to pay back some of the happiness and kindness I had received.”
And pay back he has. Dave has a special fondness for working with handicapped children. Dave is reluctant to set himself up as an example for other handicapped people, but it is difficult not to imagine him as an inspiration to those who look on their wheelchairs as a type of prison. He has the ability to get out on stage and show others that clowning is something that is not the exclusive domain of the unimpaired. His magic tricks are just as amazing, his balloon animals are just as creative, and his jokes are just as corny as any clown on two good legs.
“I believe a clown can communicate to others through his hands, his eyes, and most importantly, through his personality. My wheelchair is something I cannot deny; it is a part of me and I accept that. But it does not have to keep me from enjoying being around others, especially children, and I know that the magical bond between me and my audience is there no matter what.”
With that attitude, all we can do is step out of his way and watch a pro in action.

Jason Johnson had a peculiar talent. In fact, it was so peculiar that many people, including Jason’s mother, weren’t at all sure it really was a talent. Jason could hop-leap exactly like a frog. He practiced in the hall, up and down the stairs, and he spent hours dreaming of becoming the greatest frog-hop-leaper in the world.
“Jason, the magnificent frog-hop-leaper!” he’d shout as he flew across the room.
“Do you have to do that?” Mrs. Johnson sighed.
“When a person has a talent, he should use it,” Jason answered. “It isn’t everyone who can hop-leap like a frog. Someday someone will need my special talent.”
Mrs. Johnson shook her head and went back to folding the clothes. “But you also have a musical talent. There are more people who like to listen to music than there are who like to see a human frog.”
Jason went on hop-leaping and dreaming.
The very next week an amazing thing happened. Jason ran home from school, threw open the door, and shouted, “Mother, Mother! I’m going to be in our school play!” He panted hard to catch his breath.
“That’s very good,” Mrs. Johnson replied. “And now you can do something besides hop-leap around the house.”
“But you don’t understand,” Jason answered. “They need that special talent. Miss Kimper said I was exactly what they needed for the star of the play.”
Mrs. Johnson smiled. “What part is it?”
“I’m going to be the frog that turns into a prince. I’m going to hop-leap all over the stage so I must keep in practice,” and Jason hop-leaped into the next room to put his books away.
For three weeks Jason hop-leaped everywhere! His friends laughed at him when he practiced; his brothers and sisters were embarrassed to be seen with him, and strangers stared as they tried to figure out what he was doing. It made Jason sad, but he kept on practicing. I hope they’ll change their minds when they see the play. And maybe they will not think it is so silly when people all over the world are asking for me to perform, he thought as he went on practicing.
The night arrived for the play. Jason walked onto the stage and crouched down behind a cardboard tree. His green costume was tight, and he could barely see through the tiny holes in the mask, but he knew his part perfectly. All he had to do was hop-leap around the cardboard scenery until it was time for him to turn into a prince.
Slowly the curtains opened and the play began. The narrator began to talk and Jason began to hop-leap. But with every leap his costume seemed tighter and his mask fell down a little more. Hop-leap, hop-leap! He went around the huge paper flowers and over the tiny bridge. Hop-leap, hop-leap, gracefully and perfectly he performed. Twice around the tree. Hop-leap, hop-leap! Once more he circled the flowers and then he jumped onto the bridge for his one final hop-leap. By now the mask had slipped down so far he could not see at all and his costume felt like a giant elastic that was squeezing him.
This is a special talent, he thought. I’ve practiced and practiced. I can jump even with my eyes closed!
He crouched down and with all his strength he pushed off from the bridge and flew skillfully through the air. But he flew too far! Thump, thump, THUMP! He bounced down the few stairs at the front of the stage and into the audience.
Jason still could not see, but he could tell his tight frog costume had ripped all the way up the back.
“Are you all right?” he heard his mother whisper.
“Sure.” Jason tried to smile as he pulled his mask off, but he hurt.
Miss Kimper announced an intermission and the room grew noisy as Jason’s mother tried to pin the frog costume back together.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jason said as he rubbed his sore legs. “Maybe my jumping isn’t important enough to have my friends laugh at me. Besides, there really isn’t much of a future for a talented frog-hop-leaper. I think I’d like to take piano lessons and start to practice music.”
Jason’s mother only smiled as she fastened the last safety pin in his frog costume. “There,” she said, “that will do for the rest of the play.”
Jason walked back onto the stage and finished the play, but all the while he was dreaming of what it would be like to be a great piano player. After all, it isn’t everyone who can play the piano, he thought.

I walked briskly toward the shore, swinging my pail. Molly had trouble keeping up with me. We were twins, but I was tall for eleven, and my steps were longer than hers, especially when I wanted to get somewhere in a hurry.
“Wait up, Paddy. You not be going to a fire!”
We were on our way to collect periwinkles that hid among the stones at the water’s edge. These we sold to Mr. Moylan. He, in turn, made a profit on them from customers in England and France who enjoyed eating the marine snails. In this way Molly and I earned our pocket money. I was saving for a bicycle; Molly, a fiddle.
“The carrageen moss,” she reminded me. “Let’s be getting that out of the way first.”
Our whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage on the west coast of Ireland was but a hundred yards from the sea. The red carrageen moss drifted in on the water, and all we had to do was scoop it up and stuff it into a sack. Mother cooked it with milk to make a sweet jelly pudding.
As we reached the shore, Molly said, “I’ve worrisome news to tell you, Paddy!” She pushed back her red hair and looked anxiously at me. “Timmy’s brother let it slip yesterday that Tim already had four pounds fourteen shillings saved for that bike of Gerald’s you both be wanting.”
It was bad news. I had just a little over three pounds put away. I couldn’t afford a new bicycle, and Gerald’s was the only secondhand one in the area at the bargain price of five pounds. In good condition, it was up for sale only because Gerald’s rich uncle, who owned a cannery in Dublin, had sent him a fine new bicycle for his birthday.
“I must get that bike, Molly,” I muttered. “I hope I find lots of periwinkles today for Mr. Moylan to buy.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
I really needed Gerald’s bicycle. Molly and I and out two younger brothers had only one bike between the four of us. This fall Mike and Dan would be going to school with us, and we’d be having to take turns riding it to school—two riding double and two walking. It was a forty-minute walk each way. If I got the bicycle, we could all ride to school.
“I guess you want a bicycle as much as I be wanting a violin,” Molly said as we stuffed the moss into a sack. “I’ve but three pounds twelve shillings saved, and it’s grateful I am that Mr. Healy is willing to let me have his fiddle for only six pounds. ’Twill take me a while yet to save it all, but there’s no hurry, since I can practice on it in the meantime.”
Molly took music lessons—her one luxury—and practiced faithfully on the borrowed instrument she hoped to buy. It was her dream to play in concerts—she loved it that much—and she seemed to have plenty of talent for it. If ever a girl enjoyed practicing her music, it was Molly O’Sullivan. I hoped her dream would come true.
We were very close, Molly and I. I loved my brothers, but Molly was special—not just because she was my twin, but because she seemed to understand me better than anyone else; and she had a sweet, loving nature. I never heard her fight with anybody. She was the peacemaker in our family.
Our sack full of moss, we fell silent as we concentrated on finding periwinkles.
Suddenly I glimpsed a claw and shouted, “Hey, a lobster!”
Lobsters were a rare find on our shore. With a stick I poked around under the rock until it scuttled out. I pounced on it triumphantly and dropped it into my pail.
“Good for you!” Molly cried. “Do you suppose there be one for me under that rock?”
I poked under the rock again, but with no luck. Then, glancing up at the sky, I said, “There’s a storm brewing, Molly. We’d best be leaving.”
“But I haven’t found enough periwinkles yet.”
“There’s no time now. We have to hurry.”
We scooped up some salt water into our pails to keep the periwinkles alive longer, then hastened to Mr. Moylan’s cottage. He gave us a few shillings apiece for our catch and a few extra for the lobster. Molly and I got home just as the storm broke.
That night, after a good supper of beef boiled with cabbage and potatoes—and carrageen pudding for dessert—I lay brooding in the big bed I shared with my two brothers. I was still one pound short of the money I needed. I knew I could make sure of getting Gerald’s bicycle by borrowing the money from my father. But Timmy and I were friends, and we had made a bargain. Since we both wanted the same bicycle, we were to save only money we earned ourselves. The first one able to pay the five pounds would get the bike. Gerald had promised not to sell it to anybody else. And now Tim needed only six more shillings!
Borrowing from my father would be cheating, but I needed that bicycle—not just to ride to school but also so I could earn more money for the things my father couldn’t afford to buy for me. I needed it more than Timmy did; he had only one brother to share their one bike. I wished I hadn’t made that bargain with him.
When I awoke in the morning, the bicycle was still on my mind. It was all I could think about as I harnessed the family donkey to a cart holding our water barrel. It was my job to get the day’s supply of water each morning from our well, which was some distance from the house. I had to pump the water into a bucket and then pour it into the barrel. It took many bucketfuls to fill the barrel.
If only I had a couple of hours all to myself each day for collecting periwinkles, I thought wistfully as I pumped and poured. But I knew there was too much work to be done on our forty acres of farmland. We all had our chores—chickens and pigs to feed, the cow to milk, potatoes to dig out of the fields, corn to cut, barley to bind into sheaves, turf to cut out of the earth for the fire, and more.
As soon as I could manage a break in my chores, I hurried out to where my father was reaping barley. Dad’s a big man and a hard worker, but he had hurt his back, and it had slowed him down some.
“Dad, might you be doing me a favor, I wonder? Like lending me a pound?”
“For that bicycle, Padraic?” My father always called me by my proper Irish name.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got to buy it before Timmy does, and he be needing but six shillings more for it, the last I heard.”
My father did not know about the agreement between Timmy and me. He would not have given me the pound had he known. “A bike of your own means a lot to you, eh, laddie? Wish I could get it for you, but I be trying to put money aside for some sheep. ’Tis hard enough to pay for your sister’s music lessons.”
“I know. But she’s deserving of them. Could you just lend me the money? I’ll pay you back from the periwinkles.”
“Very well, Padraic. Run along and tell your mother to take it out of the sheep money.”
“Thanks, Dad!”
I gulped down my lunch in a hurry that day so that I’d have time to go to Gerald’s with the five pounds.
I strode along whistling merrily, thinking of all the good the bike was going to do me. By getting home fast from school each day and having extra time for periwinkle hunting, I’d soon earn enough to buy the pocketknife I’d always wanted, the one with a nail file, a can opener, a tiny pair of scissors, and other useful gadgets. It even had a wee saw. A survival knife, it was called. It made my heart swell just to think about owning such a pocketknife.
But then a still, small voice spoke inside my head. Or was it inside my heart? “You made an agreement,” it whispered, “and now you’re going back on your word. You’re a cheat, Paddy.”
The cheery whistling died on my lips.
“How would you like it if Timmy had got the money from his dad and had already bought the bike?” the voice continued.
Not wanting to think about it, I shrugged and pursed my lips once more. But nothing came out. I no longer felt like whistling, but I pushed on determinedly.
“Listen, Paddy—”
“You hush up!” I yelled at the voice. “I be needing that bike more than Timmy.”
“More than your self-respect?” the voice inside me persisted.
“Hush up! Didn’t I tell you to hush up?”
“Just one thing more, Padraic O’Sullivan. Do you recall a certain scripture you heard in church last month? You even looked it up, remember? Hebrews 13:18.”
It came to me then, those words from the Bible: “… we trust we have a good conscience, in all things willing to live honestly.”
I caught my breath. It was almost as if God were speaking to me! Wasn’t the Bible His holy word, one way He communicated with people? I stood motionless, torn two ways. Finally I murmured, “Good-bye, bicycle.” Then I turned and started for home. At first I dragged a little. But with every step, my heart grew lighter. I returned the borrowed pound, mumbling something about waiting and taking my chances on getting Gerald’s bike. My father gave me a searching glance but asked no questions, for which I was thankful.
A little later I came across a tearful Molly in the barn. “What’s ailing you, girl?” Molly almost never cried. “Sure and it be not bad enough to cry over?”
“Yes it be,” she sobbed. “Mr. Healy sent word he’s moving to Dublin next week to live with his married daughter. ’Tis all so sudden! If I be buying his violin, it must be now. He’s willing to lower the price by half a pound, but ’tis still more than two pounds short I am. And if I don’t buy it, how will I practice?”
Molly tried to stem her tears, but I knew how she must feel. The price of Mr. Healy’s fine instrument was a bargain. With all the hard work and love Molly had put into practicing on it, she deserved to have it for her own. When you come right down to it, Paddy O’Sullivan, I told myself, she’s more deserving of that fiddle than you are of that bicycle.
“If it were just a few shillings, I’d ask Dad,” she went on through quivering lips, “but—”
“I’ll tell you what, Molly girl,” I said, interrupting her. “Let’s really rush and finish the chores today. If we get done early, we can ride double into the village to see Mr. Healy. And bring your money. Maybe something good will happen.”
At Mr. Healy’s, the amount my sister lacked I contributed out of my own savings. What radiance shone out of Molly’s face! Her joy filled my own heart. Surely this made up for the wrong thing I had almost done today.
“Oh, Paddy!” The happy tears in Molly’s eyes were replaced by a look of anguish. “B-But now you’ll be having no chance at all to buy Gerald’s bike.”
“Bike?” said Mr. Healy. “Be ye seeking a bicycle, Paddie? Well now, and don’t I just happen to have an old one sitting out back. You can have it for whatever it be worth to you. Come, I’ll show you.”
The bike was somewhat rusted and missing a couple of spokes, but a coat of paint would do wonders for it. It even had a basket! I handed over the rest of my money quickly, for fear the old man might change his mind.
“Thank you kindly, sir. Come on, Molly. Now each of us will be riding a bike home.”
Molly kissed the old man on the cheek. “I’m sorry to see you leave, Mr. Healy. I hope you’ll be happy in Dublin.” She planted a kiss on my cheek too. “I’m so glad for you about the bike, Paddy. And for myself to be having such a brother!”
I grinned self-consciously. “Turns out ’tis myself I did a favor for. When I came here to help you out, I had no idea ’twould mean a bike for me too. ’Tis almost like … like a gift from heaven!”

In October 2008, as I was listening to the broadcast of the priesthood session of general conference, President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, began speaking about serving in the Church. He related a story about how he and some other brethren had tried to move a heavy piano. When all efforts failed, one man urged them to simply stand close together and “lift where you stand.”1
President Uchtdorf went on to talk about serving in the Church wherever you are called to serve. Some people feel they could serve better if only they were called to do something befitting their considerable talents. He said, “No calling is beneath us. Every calling provides an opportunity to serve and to grow.”2
As President Uchtdorf spoke, my mind drifted to a time I met an unassuming member of the Church who was willing to lift wherever he was standing.
In 1985, I was stationed as a U.S. Army officer in a small town in Germany. I had served a mission in Germany 10 years previously. Upon arriving in 1983 as a soldier with my wife, Debra, and two young daughters, we began attending a serviceman’s branch of about 100 members strong. After two years, we decided to immerse ourselves fully into the German culture and began attending the small Bad Kreuznach Branch, which had about 12 members.
About the second week after we began attending, we noticed a new man there. He was in his mid-40s, and we learned that he was the high councilor assigned to our branch. He wasn’t there to conduct stake business, just to visit. We spoke for some time after church, and when we said goodbye, I figured we would next see him again in perhaps six months.
The next week, the high councilor was there again. I learned he lived about an hour away from our small town. During the remainder of his calling as a high councilor, he came to our branch two or three times a month. He was friendly, low-keyed, and encouraging. He always spoke with each member of the branch. And, with a branch that small, he was often asked to speak from the pulpit. Impressed with his dedication, in my mind I nicknamed him “the Faithful High Councilor.”
One Sunday he came to the branch services in the morning and then returned at 6:00 p.m. to attend a baptism. In between, he had gone to another branch. I have to admit that the thought actually crossed my mind, “What did he do to upset the stake president? Why else would he have been assigned to the smallest and most remote branch in the stake?” Maybe he wasn’t really the intelligent, humble, and likeable man I thought him to be. Maybe he didn’t like his home ward and used this assignment to get away. I couldn’t figure it out, so I just accepted it.
Several weeks after this baptism, I returned home after midnight on a Sunday morning. I had been training near the border between East and West Germany, and it had taken me three and a half hours to get home. I was exhausted when I walked in the door. My wife, Debra, was still up. She told me that “the Faithful High Councilor” had called. He wanted to meet with me. I asked, “Before or after church?” Church started at 10:00 a.m. I was hoping it was after church so I could sleep until 8:30.
“Before,” she said.
“9:30?”
“No. He has to go somewhere else on stake business. He wants you to meet him at his office in Frankfurt. He said to go to Gate 5.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Six,” she responded.
Now I was upset. It was already 12:30 a.m. In order to make the appointment at 6:00, I would have to get up at 4:30. That meant less than four hours of sleep. What was I going to do? I didn’t even have a phone number to call him the next morning to tell him I wouldn’t be meeting him. I dropped my clothes next to the bed and lay down without setting the alarm clock. As I lay there, these thoughts went through my mind:
If I didn’t meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” what would happen? If I didn’t show up at his office, I was sure he would make productive use of his time. The next time I spoke to him and explained why I hadn’t met him, he would respond, “Of course you made the right decision. I would never have asked you to come if I had known you were getting home so late. We can take care of that business now.” And besides, I wasn’t really a member of the branch. Sure, our records were there and we attended every week, but we were foreigners, spoke some pretty atrocious German, and would be moving in five or six months.
My conscience was almost clear. A few more minutes and I could drift off to sleep. Then I remembered the nickname I had given him and all the times “the Faithful High Councilor” had come to the branch since we had been attending. He came to that baptism late on a Sunday night. He came to a branch activity in the middle of the week. He always spoke to all the members and encouraged and inspired them. He never seemed judgmental or indifferent. He was respectful of the branch president and of his efforts. If he was disappointed in being assigned to this little branch, he certainly never showed it.
I got up and walked over to the dresser where my alarm clock sat. I set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. In deciding to meet “the Faithful High Councilor,” I was not concerned about what he would say or think if I did not. After all, I would probably never see or hear of him again after we moved. I decided to get up in less than four hours and drive 50 miles (80 km) to his office because I truly respected him for what he was, “the Faithful High Councilor.” I decided to follow his example.
I pulled my car up to Gate 5 at 6:00 a.m. that Sunday morning to be greeted by a security guard with a machine gun. He eyed my American Armed Forces license plate. He may have wondered if I was lost. Had “the Faithful High Councilor” decided not to show up? Not more than two minutes later, though, his car pulled up next to mine. He said, “Good morning, Don. Let’s go into my office.” The guard opened the gate and let us pass.
After some small talk and showing me around his office building, he came to the point of the meeting. He said he was calling me to serve as the councilor to the branch president. Not the first or second counselor—the only counselor. Before my arrival, there had been only two priesthood holders in the branch, and they had traded off every few years between being branch president and elders quorum president.
I accepted the call and served until I left three months later to attend a two-month training in the United States.
During my absence, my wife and young son both became ill. His medical issues took him to a hospital about 60 miles (97 km) from our base. Being a strong army wife, Debra never complained or asked me to return to Germany. In fact, I didn’t learn of the true nature of her illness until after I got home. After one visit to the local clinic, the doctor had driven her home because he didn’t think she was well enough to drive herself. The branch president and Relief Society president both offered to help, but she politely refused. In addition to language and cultural difficulties, Debra didn’t want to put anyone out.
One day “the Faithful High Councilor” called her. He had recently been called to be the stake president. He gently inquired about her health and refused to take “I’m doing all right” for an answer. Every assurance from Debra was met with a gentle but effective inquiry into the actual condition of the family. Finally he explained, “Debra, you need to let the branch help you. They really want to help, and it will bring the branch closer together to be able to assist you.” She gratefully accepted their assistance.
Upon my return from the United States, we stayed in the branch for another two months before finally moving to a larger city.
My memories of that time in my life faded as I leaned forward in my seat and refocused my attention on President Uchtdorf’s voice coming over the speaker system. I was truly impressed by the implications of his message. Unlike other times when I’ve wondered about the correlation between a speaker’s words and the speaker’s personal actions (in business, in the military, and, yes, even some talks I have heard in church), I had no doubt about President Uchtdorf‘s message. It wasn’t just the fact that President Uchtdorf’s accent reminded me of Germany and my experience with “the Faithful High Councilor.” It was the fact that President Uchtdorf was “the Faithful High Councilor.” The industrial complex we met at that early Sunday morning was the Frankfurt International Airport, where he was Chief Pilot for Lufthansa German Airlines.
I can honestly say I have never known a man more humble and more faithful in practicing what he preached. I was grateful to have learned a valuable lesson of what it means to “lift where you stand.”

Many years ago when I served as a bishop, I presided over a large ward with over 1,000 members, including 87 widows. On one occasion, I was visiting, along with one of my counselors, a widow and her mature handicapped daughter. As we left their apartment, a lady from the apartment across the hall was standing outside her door and stopped us. She spoke with a foreign accent and asked if I were a bishop; I replied that I was. She told me that she noticed I often visited with others. Then she said, “No one visits me or my bedfast husband. Do you have time to come in and visit with us, even though we are not members of your church?”
As we entered her apartment, we noticed that she and her husband were listening to the Tabernacle Choir on the radio. We talked with the couple for a while, then provided a blessing to the husband.
Following that initial visit, I stopped by as often as I could. The couple eventually met with the missionaries, and the wife, Angela Anastor, was baptized. Sometime later, her husband passed away, and I had the privilege of conducting and speaking at his funeral services. Sister Anastor, with her knowledge of the Greek language, later was to translate the widely used pamphlet Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story into the Greek language.

I highlight repentance because we are not perfect. While growing up, my mom always made sure my hair was neatly cut and combed. I didn’t think much about it because she would always just let me know when it was time for her to cut my hair. At the beginning of my senior year of high school my mom cut my hair to look nice for senior pictures. After senior pictures, I decided to let my hair kind of grow out a little. I know it’s a little hard to imagine, but it was awesome. I didn’t realize how curly my hair was because I had always kept it nicely trimmed. Throughout the course of my senior year, I started loving letting it grow out. I had a lot of comments about it looking so good. When I applied to college and agreed to obey the honor code, my hair wasn’t too long yet and I got my endorsement.

During my freshman year, I just kind of kept letting it grow. I thought it was probably getting close to being out of standards, but I was waiting for someone to tell me I needed it cut and my mom wasn’t there to tell me. There were also a couple of other guys who had long hair and I was kind of justifying my hair length because of theirs. It had been well over a year since I had a haircut. Although my hair was long, it was also curly, so unless it was hanging down wet, you may not have noticed its true length. To try and keep the standards, I had my roommate buzz some of my hair in the back to keep it off my collar. It didn’t really work. I pretended that it did though. I thought no one would notice and that I could big brain the dress and grooming standards.

A couple of more months passed…then one day I was in the temple, doing proxy baptisms in behalf of those who have passed away. After one particular baptism, I remember coming up out of the water. My hair was wet and laid straight, revealing its true length, as I came up. I distinctly remember hearing and feeling the spirit speak to me. He said, “Joel, it’s time to shape up. You can do better.” That was it. Someone finally told me…I wish someone else would have told me first though.

I actually knew that I had been flirting with being out of standards. Now I knew that God knew that I was out of standards. He actually always knew, but I was ignoring Him. Finally, He spoke quite directly to me and I knew that I needed to change immediately. The next day I found a ride home so my mom could give me a haircut. I got my hair back in standards and focused on preparing more diligently for a mission.

I had to be chastened by the Lord to shape up and get a haircut. Maybe that’s why it never grew back.

Why did God chasten me about my hair? Was it really that big of a deal? I don’t know, but I had made a commitment with Him and He didn’t want me on the edge of the Honor Code with any of my behaviors. I think my willingness to comply with the dress and grooming standards in the Honor Code was an outward expression of my inner commitment to follow Him and His Son. I made a choice that did not match my inner commitment of my love for the Savior. I hadn’t lost my commitment to follow the Savior. My testimony wasn’t wavering. Remember, I had a temple recommend and was even attending the temple. But I was still chastened by the Lord. Why? Because he loved me and knew I could be a better disciple of Him. I also loved Him and wanted to demonstrate my willingness to do His will.

One of my earliest memories is of waking up one morning when I was about four years old and seeing my mother lying on her bed in terrible pain. She couldn’t get up. She told me to get my Uncle Mike, who lived about three hundred yards (270 m) down our country lane.
I climbed up on a stool and cranked the telephone, trying to call my uncle. When that didn’t work, I hurried outside, calling his name.
Somehow Uncle Mike heard and came. As soon as he saw Mother, he knew something was wrong. He bundled her up, carried her out to his car, and drove her to Salt Lake City.
The doctors never did know exactly what was wrong with Mother, but she was very ill. While she spent months in Salt Lake City being treated, I lived with relatives. We were happy when she came home, even for brief periods, and my older brother and sister and I did what we could to help her until she left for another long period of treatment.
Our family prayed to Heavenly Father often. We always asked Him to help my mother feel better and be strong. Mother also received priesthood blessings. I saw Heavenly Father strengthen my mother and bring her peace. I know that He hears and answers our prayers.

One day my mom and brother and I were running errands. In a shoe store, I noticed that a lady had left her keys on a chair when she went to the checkout counter. I had two choices: one, leave the keys and someone might take them, or two, take them to the lady so she could drive home. I thought that Jesus would choose the second one. So I picked up the keys and gave them to the lady, and she thanked me. I felt good inside for doing the right thing.
Lacy T., age 10, Nevada

“How did I get stuck with such a duck!” San Fai muttered in frustration.
As usual, the duck was upside down in the rice pond. Wiggling above the water’s surface was the duck’s red-feathered rump. Underneath the water, his long neck and beak searched eagerly for a better minnow to swallow than the last one.
San Fai’s seventeen plain brown ducks had swum obediently to the edge of the rice paddies the moment he’d held up his pole topped with a few bits of colored cloth. Each afternoon hundreds of brown ducks had waddled out of the rice fields as farmers waved homemade flagpoles. Every duck knew its own flag.
Now the sun was sinking low over the green rice fields, and there was only one duck left in the middle of the paddies—the duck with the red rump was still bottom up in the muddy water! San Fai lowered his head in embarrassment as farmers carrying their poles filed down the dirt lane. Their ducks marched like little armies behind them. The boy looked at his own seventeen quacking ducks. San Fai’s family was poor; his “army” was small, indeed.
“It looks like Red Wiggle is still out there, as usual,” guffawed one farmer as he passed by. “I’ve never seen such a duck. You’d think he’d drown, with his head underwater all the time.”
“I guess I’d better go round him up,” mumbled San Fai.
“If I were you, I’d just leave him there,” the farmer twitted the boy. “He isn’t worth the bother. That bird doesn’t have a bit of sense.”
“I wouldn’t leave Red Wiggle even if I had as many ducks as he does,” San Fai murmured to himself as the farmer strode on, followed by nearly a hundred ducks.
San Fai shrunk down as another farmer, Chan Sou, marched toward him with a legion of ducks. Chan Sou was the richest of all the rice farmers. He was also a bully, and all the other farmers avoided him. As he came near, Chan Sou poked San Fai and chortled, “Why don’t you give up rice farming. All you do is chase that funny duck of yours. He doesn’t know which way is up and which way is down.” Chan Sou cackled with laughter, and he and his ducks strutted on down the lane.
San Fai sloshed down the muddy row of rice toward Red Wiggle. Sometimes he was tempted to let the duck stay in the rice field. Yet whenever he left his other, obedient, brown ducks in the lane to go after his unruly duck, San Fai felt like the shepherd in Jesus’ parable that his mother read to him from the book of Luke.* If that shepherd could leave ninety-nine sheep to search for one sheep, San Fai could not abandon one duck in the rice paddy.
The next day was the hottest in many weeks. Sweat poured down San Fai’s face as he leaned on a stick and weeded expertly between the rice stocks with his limber toes. Even the mud and water crawling up his legs didn’t alleviate the heat. And the ducks, which usually paddled tirelessly through the rice paddies, seemed listless today. Some farmers had umbrellas to shield themselves from the hot sun, but San Fai always let his mother use their family’s only umbrella.
San Fai was relieved when the sun began setting over the vast fields of rice. He waded to the edge of the rice paddy and pulled his homemade flag out of the ground to signal his ducks. Soon he was surrounded by quacking ducks. He counted them routinely under his breath. “… seventeen, eighteen—they’re all here!” Then he looked again. There was no red duck among all the brown ones. There were eighteen ducks, but Red Wiggle was not one of them. He wondered where the extra duck had come from.
As the boy squinted across the rice paddies into the orange sun, trying to spot his duck, he heard a gruff voice behind him. It was Chan Sou. “There’s no use looking for your red bird. You’re not going to find him. While I was plowing in the far field today, your duck was tail up, as usual, and my water buffalo kicked him. Now you’re rid of him for good.”
San Fai’s eyes bulged with anger. He gritted his teeth and wanted to hit Chan Sou. He tried to tell himself that it was just an accident, but he knew that Chan Sou could have done something to avoid it. He knew, too, that Chan Sou didn’t care if Red Wiggle was dead.
All the way home, with his flock of ducks parading behind him, San Fai wished that he could still see Red Wiggle upside down in the rice paddies. He would never complain again if only he could wade out to get the unruly duck each evening. …
When San Fai reached his family’s dusty yard, the mud-washed pig grunted in disgust as the noisy ducks waddled past him. One duck paused in confusion. San Fai looked down at it. He winced as he recognized whom this stray duck belonged to. Now he remembered counting eighteen all-brown ducks.
San Fai fiddled with the bowl of rice his mother set before him at dinner. She said, “I know that you’re sad about Red Wiggle, but you need your rice to keep healthy.”
San Fai gulped down a few mouthfuls of rice, then stood up. “I have to go to Chan Sou’s tonight. One of his ducks strayed home with ours, and I must take it back.” He hoped that his mother would say that he shouldn’t bother, that Chan Sou would never miss one duck. But his mother didn’t say a word.
When San Fai knocked on Chan Sou’s door, he nervously removed the wiggling duck from a bag. Chan Sou opened the door a few inches and peered out. “What do you want?” He growled.
San Fai stammered, “One—one of your ducks strayed home with mine. I brought it back.”
“Umpf,” grunted Chan Sou. “I thought that I didn’t have all my ducks when I came home tonight. Are you sure that you didn’t lure this duck home with you to replace that worthless duck of yours?”
“No, sir!” San Fai replied indignantly.
“Well, set him down. He’ll wander back in with the rest of my ducks. Just don’t let it happen again!” Chan Sou slammed the door.
San Fai walked dejectedly home in the moonlight. His mother was waiting at the door for him. San Fai cast his eyes down and neither said anything for a few minutes. They listened to the pig grunting and the chickens clucking in their sleep.
San Fai shuffled uneasily. “You know, Mother, as I was walking over there, I was secretly hoping that he would say that I might keep the duck, that he had more ducks than he knew what to do with. I thought that since I was doing the right thing, Heavenly Father would bless me for it that way.”
His mother smiled and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad that you did the right thing and took the duck back. Eventually we are always blessed for everything that we do right. But we should never look for a reward. Think about Jesus’ parable of the lost sheep. Sometimes they don’t come back. But at least we know that we’ve done our best and that we’ve done what is right.”
She took his arm and pushed him toward the little pond by the shed. “Now, I want to show you something. You know that duck, Lily, that we’ve been wishing would lay eggs for so long. Well, she’s finally done it. Maybe some of them will hatch. And who knows,” she said with a wink,” maybe one of the ducklings will have red tail feathers.”

As a nurse in the newborn intensive care unit, I care for sick, sometimes very small, babies. One night I was assigned to a little boy born 17 weeks early and weighing just over one pound (0.5 kg). His hands were tiny, his little legs about as big around as my finger, and his feet about the size of my thumb. Because of his severe respiratory problems, doctors didn’t expect him to live through the night.
A quiet hush falls over the entire unit when a newborn is fighting for life. There is increased stress on everyone, especially the baby’s nurse, and tonight that was me. His parents had been with him most of the day, but they were exhausted. His mother had returned to her room for some much-needed rest.
The baby’s private room contained an isolette (incubator), monitors, ventilator, and IV pumps, which were keeping him alive. Because he was so ill and needed such intensive care, I wasn’t assigned any other patients that night. I would be at his side all night, busy with medications, monitoring, treatments, and tests.
As the night wore on, I tried to imagine how I would feel if I were his mother. The heartache would have been unbearable.
I gently washed his face, touched his little hands and feet, gingerly changed and positioned him in a soft new blanket. I wondered what else I could do for my little patient. What would his mother do? What would Heavenly Father want me to do?
This precious, innocent little spirit would soon be returning to his Father in Heaven. I wondered if he was afraid. I thought of my own children. When they were young and scared, I had sung to them. “I Am a Child of God” was their favorite. Choking back tears, I sang to the baby.
As a nurse I saw the tubes and the blood, counted the rise and fall of the baby’s chest, listened to the beating of his heart, and watched the numbers on the monitors. As a Latter-day Saint I saw a celestial spirit and marveled at the plan of salvation.
As the night progressed, his health deteriorated. He eventually developed a condition that caused him to bleed into his lungs.
In the morning my little patient slipped silently through the veil. He left his mother’s arms and was “taken home to that God who gave [him] life” (Alma 40:11).
I grew closer to the Savior and Heavenly Father that night. I developed a greater understanding of the Lord’s love for mankind—and His love for me. I was reminded, even surprised, by the depth of love I felt for Him. And I felt a desire to be more kind, more gentle, more forgiving, more compassionate—more like Him—one day and one heartbeat at a time.

I’d like to give a view of what the Church is like over here in Vietnam. The base I’m at is a composite base with Air Force, Army, Navy, Seabee, and Vietnamese armed forces stationed here. There are Mormon members in each group. There is one Vietnamese member-family and they have several children, two of whom attended church this morning. They are certainly cute, and as are all Oriental children, they are well-mannered; but they are full of zest and giggle and wiggle as do all children. I haven’t learned all their names yet, but one of them is called Nga. Their father is an enlisted man in the Vietnamese Air Force.
You never know about this Church! While driving my jeep this morning, I picked up an Air Force sergeant who was walking toward the west side of the base where we have our meetings. I asked him where he was going and he said rather vaguely, “Over by the fire station.” I knew right away he meant where the Mormons were meeting because no American goes over to that side of the base on Sunday—everything is closed down. So I prodded him a bit to see how far I had to force him before he’d tell me he was a Latter-day Saint. I asked, “Where near the fire station?” “Oh, anywhere will be fine.” “Do you mean where the Mormons are meeting?” I asked. “Yes, I do,” he said in surprise. I held out my hand and introduced myself. We drove along and came upon another man walking. This time he was a young soldier in combat fatigues. He was carrying a zippered book that looked suspiciously like a three-in-one. As we pulled up, I called out, “Going to priesthood?” “Hey, yeah!” was the startled reply. He climbed aboard. After introductions he asked, “Where have you been stationed?” I said in Ohio. Then I said I had also been stationed in Puerto Rico, and his face lit up. “‘Hey, do you know President Burke Adams?” “Sure do,” I said, adding that I was his counselor for awhile. “That’s it,” he said. “I was in the Florida Mission and I met you in Puerto Rico. We even ate dinner together once.” So two and a half years later and 10,000 miles away, our paths crossed again. When we got to the meeting place, there were ten Mormon servicemen present. We had priesthood, Sunday School, and fast and testimony meetings. During it all I couldn’t help but wonder if Joseph Smith and those who were with him in New York on April 6, 1830, really knew what they were starting. Over a hundred years later and thousands of miles away, a small group of American servicemen, a couple of Vietnamese, and a Chinese were to meet in humble circumstances to enjoy the gospel’s message. Our meeting was no doubt being duplicated thousands of times in other parts of the globe. We sat on crudely fashioned benches worn smooth by the seats of combat uniforms. Here priesthood bearers sincerely confessed their weaknesses and their gratitude and in reverent silence partook of the sacrament while jet and prop-driven planes from the air base nearby roared overhead.
Virgil KovalenkoVietnam

Let me share a personal story with a principle that, if you allow it, will bless your life.

Before coming to Rexburg in 2006, Sister Riggins and I lived in San Diego, California. That had been our home for most of our lives. Our families lived there, we served in our ward and stake, I had a great job as the institute director at San Diego State University, we had great friends, it didn’t snow, it was rarely cold, and we were 12 minutes from the beach. We had no reason to come to BYU-Idaho except for the fact that the Spirit led us here.

When we were invited to join the religion faculty, we had to use our agency to say “yes” or “no.” Once we decided to accept the position, we again had to choose to use our agency. We sat down and said something like this: “No one is forcing us to move to Rexburg. We are doing it of our own free will. If we are moving there, we must decide once and for all that we will love everything about it. We will love the city, the people, their customs, the university, the students, our colleagues, and yes, even the weather!”

That decision paved the way for the joy, peace, happiness, friendships, service opportunities, and community connections of the last 18 years. We love this place! We love you! I invite you to consider how such a decision would mark your experience as disciples, students, roommates, ward members, and members of the community, and then make it. I promise you that making such a decision will bless not only your life here at BYU-Idaho but your entire life.

Soccer may be Raphael’s sport of choice, but volleyball is most definitely his game. And he is really good at it. He is so good, in fact, that he played in the final game of the high school volleyball nationals. “That,” Raphael says, “was one of the three happiest days of my life.”
It was a friend who introduced Raphael to volleyball. In 2001 a teammate on his soccer team in Recife pointed out that some private high schools offer volleyball scholarships. At the time, Raphael was trying for a soccer scholarship but found his physical skills kept him from playing at the level the coaches wanted. But he seemed to have an unexplored talent for volleyball. “So I played volleyball until I got good at it,” he says. He became so good that he was able to secure a full scholarship to a private high school.
At school, he played in the Recife city championships, then in the regionals in northeast Brazil, one of the most important tournaments in the country. But his success didn’t end there. Not long afterward, he was asked to join the Pernambuco State team to prepare for the national high school tournament. His team won almost all of its games, losing only in the final match. He has the medals to show for it.
“As a volleyball player,” he says, “I’ve learned to play as a member of a team. One person can’t win alone. You have to look out for one another and help one another.”
In the same way, the Church has taught him to play as a member of the Lord’s team. “The Church has taught me to teach and care for others, to always watch for when people need help. There’s no better place to learn to live the gospel than in the Church. The Lord wants all of us to practice the gospel. That’s why I’m going on a mission.”
Raphael will be giving up a college athletic scholarship to do so. Recruited by several schools, he was tempted to accept a scholarship from one of them. But at this point in his life, he would rather serve on a mission than serve on a volleyball court. He knows he is making the right choice.
“As much success as I have had in sports,” he says, “I want to do better as a missionary. I feel that no matter where I go, I can do well—if I let the Lord coach me.”