Gospel Story Finder

On February 4 of 1990, our third son and sixth child was born. We named him Tyson. He was a beautiful little boy, and the family greeted him with open hearts and open arms. His brothers and sisters were so proud of him. We all thought he was the most perfect little boy who had ever been born.
When Tyson was eight months old, he aspirated a piece of chalk that he had found on the carpet. The chalk lodged in Tyson’s throat, and he quit breathing. His older brother brought Tyson upstairs, frantically calling, “The baby won’t breathe. The baby won’t breathe.” We began to administer CPR and called 911.
The paramedics arrived and rushed Tyson to the hospital. In the waiting room we continued in fervent prayer as we pled to God for a miracle. After what seemed a lifetime, the doctor came into the room and said, “I am so sorry. There is nothing more we can do. Take all the time you need.” She then left.
As we entered the room where Tyson lay, we saw our lifeless little bundle of joy. It seemed as though he had a celestial glow around his little body. He was so radiant and pure.
At that moment it felt as if our world had come to an end. How could we return to the other children and somehow try to explain that Tyson wasn’t coming home?
I will speak in the singular as I relate the rest of this experience. My angel wife and I experienced this trial together, but I am inadequate in expressing the feelings of a mother and would not even try to do so.
It is impossible to describe the mixture of feelings that I had at that point in my life. Most of the time I felt as if I were in a bad dream and that I would soon wake up and this terrible nightmare would be over. For many nights I didn’t sleep. I often wandered in the night from one room to the other, making sure that our other children were all safe.
Feelings of guilt racked my soul. I felt so guilty. I felt dirty. I was his father; I should have done more to protect him. If only I would have done this or that. Sometimes even today, 22 years later, those feelings begin to creep into my heart, and I need to get rid of them quickly because they can be destructive.
About a month after Tyson died, I had an interview with Elder Dean L. Larsen. He took the time to listen to me, and I will always be grateful for his counsel and love. He said, “I don’t think the Lord would want you to punish yourself for the death of your little boy.” I felt the love of my Heavenly Father through one of his chosen vessels.
However, tormenting thoughts continued to plague me, and I soon began to feel anger. “This isn’t fair! How could God do this to me? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?” I even felt myself get angry with people who were just trying to comfort us. I remember friends saying, “I know how you feel.” I would think to myself, “You have no idea how I feel. Just leave me alone.” I soon found that self-pity can also be very debilitating. I was ashamed of myself for having unkind thoughts about dear friends who were only trying to help.
As I felt the guilt, anger, and self-pity trying to consume me, I prayed that my heart could change. Through very personal sacred experiences, the Lord gave me a new heart, and even though it was still lonely and painful, my whole outlook changed. I was given to know that I had not been robbed but rather that there was a great blessing awaiting me if I would prove faithful.
My life started to change, and I was able to look forward with hope, rather than look backward with despair. I testify that this life is not the end. The spirit world is real. The teachings of the prophets regarding life after death are true. This life is but a transitory step forward on our journey back to our Heavenly Father.
Tyson has remained a very integral part of our family. Through the years it has been wonderful to see the mercy and kindness of a loving Father in Heaven, who has allowed our family to feel in very tangible ways the influence of Tyson. I testify that the veil is thin. The same feelings of loyalty, love, and family unity don’t end as our loved ones pass to the other side; instead, those feelings are intensified.

In 1898, Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall were the first two single women called as sister missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Shortly after arriving on their missions to England, the two women went to preach in Oldham, a small manufacturing town near Liverpool.
Inez Knight and Jennie Brimhall prayed for help in their missionary service in England.
Right: photograph courtesy of Jennifer Whatcott Hooton
The two sisters, their mission president, and other missionaries gathered one evening. “They formed a circle on a busy street corner, offered a prayer, and sang hymns until a large crowd formed around them.” Their efforts were so successful that the mission president “announced that a special meeting would be held the following day, and he invited everyone to come and hear preaching from ‘real live Mormon women.’”

In August 1830, as a lay preacher, Parley Parker Pratt (1807–57) was traveling from Ohio to eastern New York. At Newark, along the Erie Canal, he left the boat and walked 10 miles into the country, where he met a Baptist deacon by the name of Hamlin, who told him “of a book, a strange book, a very strange book! … This book, he said, purported to have been originally written on plates either of gold or brass, by a branch of the tribes of Israel; and to have been discovered and translated by a young man near Palmyra, in the State of New York, by the aid of visions, or the ministry of angels. I inquired of him how or where the book was to be obtained. He promised me the perusal of it, at his house the next day. … Next morning I called at his house, where, for the first time, my eyes beheld the ‘Book of Mormon’—that book of books … which was the principal means, in the hands of God, of directing the entire course of my future life.
“I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page. I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep.
“As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true, as plainly and manifestly as a man comprehends and knows that he exists” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, 1938, 36–37).
Parley Pratt was then 23 years of age. Reading the Book of Mormon affected him so profoundly that he was soon baptized into the Church and became one of its most effective and powerful advocates. …
Parley Pratt’s experience with the Book of Mormon was not unique. As the volumes of the first edition were circulated and read, strong men and women by the hundreds were so deeply touched that they gave up everything they owned, and in the years that followed, not a few gave their lives for the witness they carried in their hearts of the truth of this remarkable volume (from Ensign, June 1988, 2).
Each time we encourage others to read the Book of Mormon, we do them a favor. If they read it prayerfully and with a sincere desire to know the truth, they will know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the book is true. …
Without reservation I promise you that if you will prayerfully read the Book of Mormon, regardless of how many times you previously have read it, there will come into your hearts an added measure of the Spirit of the Lord. There will come a strengthened resolution to walk in obedience to His commandments, and there will come a stronger testimony of the living reality of the Son of God (from Ensign, June 1988, 2).
Read the Book of Mormon itself. Read it again and again. Ponder its beauty. Reflect upon its many magnificent passages. Think of the complexity of the detail of its historical accounts. Pray about it, and the Holy Ghost will bear record to you, as He has to me and to millions of others, that it is the word of God, a voice crying from the dust to this generation in declaration of the divinity and the reality of the Lord Jesus Christ as the living Son of the living God.
The Lord Himself has spoken concerning our study of this great latter-day work. He has said: “Search these commandments, for they are true and faithful, and the prophecies and promises which are in them shall all be fulfilled.
“What I the Lord have spoken, I have spoken, and I excuse not myself; and though the heavens and the earth pass away, my word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1:37–38) (from Ensign, Sept. 1985, 6).

Those of us who are a little more mature can have a tremendous influence on the younger generations. When my mother was just a little girl, neither of her parents was active in the Church. Even at the young age of five, she would walk by herself to church and attend her meetings—Primary, Sunday School, and sacrament meeting—all at different times.
I recently asked my mother why in the world she did that week after week when she had no support or encouragement at home. Her answer was: “I had Primary teachers who loved me.” These teachers cared about her and taught her the gospel. They taught her that she had a Father in Heaven, who loved her, and it was their concern for her that kept her coming week after week. My mother said to me, “That was one of the most important influences in my early life.” I hope I can thank those wonderful sisters someday! There is no age barrier when it comes to Christlike service.

After a lot of effort and a lot of reading the scriptures, praying, and choosing the right, we wanted to get sealed as an eternal family. We talked to our bishop, and even though it took some time, the day finally arrived. We were so anxious to go inside the temple.
I got to do baptisms for the dead while I waited for my parents to complete temple work for themselves. I felt like I was getting baptized again. I was really happy I could help people beyond the veil. Now, my family and I go to the temple every week. I regularly do baptisms for the dead, because I love helping there. I am so glad I got to be sealed in the temple with my parents for eternity and have the opportunity to live forever with them.

These records had special meaning to me—my grandfather Andres Sanchez had saved them from destruction during the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s. I grew up knowing his story, but my connection with it became evident only as I began my search for the records. Although I never knew my grandfather, I felt his spirit as I read these names and dates. Together we had become a team that made it possible to provide temple ordinances for more than 10,000 of our ancestors.
Andres had been a good man and a leader in his village. He was the father of five. Though not a wealthy man, he had a good trucking business and was considered a man of means.
But his was a turbulent time in the history of Spain. The Spanish Civil War brought starvation and destruction to much of the nation. Politics became the most common topic of discussion among the people. In all other periods in the history of Europe, this quiet village had been spared from the ravages of war, even during World War I. But now the enemy was coming. Andres named his new baby Libertia as an outward expression of his convictions.
Everywhere the invaders burned the churches and killed the church leaders in an effort to stifle opposition. In defiance, Andres and a few of his good neighbors secreted away the sacred artifacts and records from the little village church. He did this knowing that the consequences could be devastating for himself and his family. He made a choice and stood by that choice with conviction.
Eventually the enemy came to his village. The name of Andres Sanchez was discovered, and he was dragged into custody. As a result of his actions at the little village church, he met a fate of torture and deprivation. Andres’s business and property were confiscated and his family left destitute as beggars. Andres’s health weakened under the deplorable prison conditions, and after a short while he contracted tuberculosis. He was released to his family two weeks prior to his death.
The Lord did not forget the efforts of one man and a handful of brave friends who loved Him and sacrificed their very lives for these records. Years later the records were microfilmed by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

For most of his early life, the only sports Stanley Moleni played were rugby and basketball. But before his junior year of high school, after his family had moved from New Zealand to Hawaii, Stanley discovered American football. “I fell in love with it,” he says. It didn’t hurt that he was naturally good at it, too.
Coaches were impressed with his size. Stanley is 1.88 meters tall, and at the time he was a relatively lean 91 kilograms.
“I was still learning, but by my senior year I started catching on. I was still only 93 kilograms, and I was missing a lot of plays. I really didn’t know how to play the game that well,” he says.
That didn’t stop college coaches from showing interest in him—especially after he bulked up to 113 kilograms. After a lot of thought, he signed a letter of intent to play football for Brigham Young University. But instead of enrolling in school immediately after high school graduation in 1994, Stanley moved to Utah and worked to save money for a mission.
“My whole life I was planning on a mission,” says Stanley, now known as Elder Moleni as he serves in the California Ventura Mission. “Nothing was going to stop me from coming on a mission.”
And that included the glamour of playing college football.
Says Elder Moleni: “One of our investigators said that he really admired us because he knew we really believed in what we were teaching. When he said he admired me for coming on a mission and leaving my scholarship behind, it felt really good.”
Now Elder Moleni is concentrating on the work at hand. Soon enough, he’ll be a college student and football player.
“I’ll be behind physically. I know that,” he says about football. “But I see a parallel between my not knowing how to play football and missionary work. Through hard work and sacrifice I became better at football. And through hard work and faith in the Lord, I’m having a successful mission.”

Then I met the missionaries. They gave me a Book of Mormon, and I started to read it. When I read 3 Nephi 17, I was truly impressed by the way Jesus took the little children and prayed for them. I knew that this was the right way to pray.
I decided to read all the scriptures about Jesus Christ praying. In Luke 3:21, after John baptized Him, Jesus prayed to Heavenly Father and the heavens were opened. When I read that, I knew that I also wanted to pray in a way that would open the heavens.
Sometimes I feel tired and don’t feel like praying. But then I remember how Jesus prayed. I try to be honest and sincere in my prayer so that the heavens will be opened for me too.
Sometimes my prayers are short because I can’t find the words to express myself well. I just have a bunch of feelings inside, and I say, “Thou knowest what I’m trying to say. Please just help me.”
Sometimes when I pray to ask a blessing on the food, I remember that even in that small prayer, the heavens can be opened. I try to forget about the world and connect with Heavenly Father. And in a very humble way, I say things that come from my heart.
When I feel peace and comfort, I know that the heavens are open to me.
After the missionaries taught my family about the gospel, my mother, sister, and I were baptized. But my father, my brother, and my other sister didn’t join the Church. I really wanted my father to be a member of the Church. I fasted, and every day I prayed for my father to accept the gospel and be baptized.
I knew that I needed to pray for my father, but I also knew I needed to wait for God’s answer. Sometimes He says, “No, not yet.” Eventually my father did listen and understand, and he was baptized.
If your mother or father isn’t a member of the Church yet, talk to your Friend—your Father in Heaven. Ask for Him to touch your mother or father’s heart. Talk to Him humbly and honestly, in a sincere way. But then relax. He is in command. He knows how to do things. He knows your father and mother better than you do. He knows how to reach them.
Don’t worry. You have a friend. Pray with your heart, and Heavenly Father will listen to you. The heavens will be opened. He knows you, and He will bless you.

One athlete I worked with using this method was a U.S. Olympic mogul skier who, seven months prior to the Vancouver Olympics, was on the C team and was not ranked very high. Her coach approached me and asked me to work with her with the hope that she might be ready to compete at the Sochi Olympics four and a half years down the road. I remember the conversation. The coach wanted to test the effectiveness of mental strength training. He said to me that this particular athlete would do what I asked and that she was my guinea pig.

The athlete worked hard on training her thoughts to be positive and proactive and on using relevant cues to purify her thought patterns. She did everything I asked. On November 19 she called me in tears. She had just made the last discretionary position on the World Cup tour. This was a subjective coaches’ decision to bring someone onto the World Cup team who had minimal professional experience.

As the season progressed through the early winter months, this athlete continued to develop her skills rapidly to the point that, by the time the World Cup at Deer Valley came around at the end of January, she was sitting in tenth place on the tour. She had achieved several fourth-place finishes to get to tenth in the world, but she had never finished on the podium.

One of the tools I like the athletes I work with to have is a power statement. A power statement is a tool to use when doubt comes at critical moments. It floods the mind with positive, strong thoughts and instantly squeezes out any negative thoughts and emotions.

After the prequalifying races, this athlete was in fourth place. She attended to all of the media obligations, family commitments, and so forth and then came over to talk to me. This is the conversation that transpired:
Athlete: “I don’t think today is my day.”
Me: “Really?”
Athlete: “There is a ton of media here and a lot friends and family. I don’t think today is my day.”
Me: “Yeah, you just stink, don’t you!”
Athlete: “What?”
Me: “Well, is that the right mindset?”
Athlete: “Oh, right. I need to remember my power statement.”

She told me after the event that when she had gotten on the chairlift to go up for her finals run, the doubt had gotten in again. She began telling herself, “It’s okay. No one expected me to do this well. My family will still love me.”

She then caught herself and said, “No! Today is my day! I am making it happen today!”

She told me she was feeling good mentally while being processed for her run. And then, while standing in line only two athletes away from her turn, the doubt came in again: “It is okay. No one expects me to—”

This time she was mad. She got out of her skis, walked out of the starter’s box, and yelled up into the mountain, “Today is my day! I am making it happen today!”

I could see her determination as she came back into the starter’s gate. She put on her skis and grabbed her poles with purpose.

This athlete ended up skiing faster than she had ever skied before. She was farther on the front of her boots, she got bigger air, and she finished tied for first place. Two days later she backed up her performance with a second-place win.

This athlete, who only six months earlier was called a guinea pig, went to the Vancouver Olympics as the number-two mogul skier in the world and as our top U.S. mogul skier. All of this happened because she applied the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Hosea Stout, after his own journey to the Salt Lake Valley in 1848, commented in his diary:

Thus ends this long and tedious journey from the land of our enemies and I feel free and happy that I have escaped from their midst. But there is many a desolate and sandy plain to cross. Many a rugged sage bed to breakthrough. Many a hill and hollow to tug over and many a mountain and canyon to pass, and many frosty nights to endure in mid-summer.29

Stout seems to understand that his pioneering journeys were not over. He surely saw more than just physical travels ahead as he and the people sought to create a community of Saints in the western wilderness.

About halfway through my third year at college, I realized that the money I had saved to pay for rent and utilities would not be sufficient to get me through the summer. It was that time of year when I could work to pay for the next semester. I found a part-time job as a shop assistant.
All went well until my work schedule changed to include Sundays. During the job interview, I hadn’t said anything about not working on Sundays because at the time the store was closed that day. Nevertheless, the job was important to me, and I liked what I was doing. I worked with a friend, and between us we could be free on two Sundays and work the other two. This let me attend some Church meetings and attend to my calling.
However, soon I found that I could not keep up with this schedule. I actually had a feeling that I wasn’t able to fulfill my Sunday responsibilities even if I didn’t work every Sunday. I started asking myself what I could do to change this situation. After I had prayed to ask for a way to soften the heart of my supervisors, I read 1 Nephi 7. I remembered reading verse 19, where, after Nephi had prayed, the hearts of his brethren were softened. Finally, I was able to speak to my employers about not working on Sundays.
I told my superiors that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and they asked me about what Latter-day Saints believed. When I asked them if I could have Sundays off, the response was no. They pointed out that during my first interview, I had said I was available to work any day of the week and had never mentioned any religious needs.
The months passed without any change until one Sunday I rushed out of Church meetings to hurry to work. I asked myself, “What is most important to you?” The response was immediate and impossible to miss: the Church, the gospel, service in my calling, participation with all my heart in Sunday meetings, and discipleship in word and deed.
I decided that I would ask again not to work on Sundays, but this time I would do it with a letter of resignation in my hands, in case they told me no a second time.
I had prayed, fasted, and received supportive text messages from friends.
At the moment of my interview, even though my heart was fluttering, I was calm because I knew I was doing the right thing. This time my supervisor said yes. My prayer had been answered. I tore up my resignation letter as soon as I got home.
I received many blessings from this experience, but the most immediate and tangible blessing was that I was able to keep my job and still keep the Sabbath day holy. For that I am truly grateful to the Lord.

It’s Saturday! You’ve been looking forward to today all week long. You and some friends have big plans to go mountain biking. However, despite the sunny forecast that had been predicted, it’s raining buckets outside. What do you do?

Contact your friends and see if they’d be up for something different. They now want to go roller-skating, but you’ve never tried that before. It sounds kind of boring. What do you do?

You head to the roller rink, and skating is actually kind of fun. You’re about to go home when your cell phone buzzes. Your ward needs help with a last-minute service project to help a family moving to the area. Can you come?

You’d rather not. Normally you like service projects, but your plans were already thrown out of whack today. You turn down the offer and head home.

“I got started in eighth grade in Tucson, Arizona,” Richard said. “I was in a math class with four friends. One day one of them brought a maze he had made and started a contest to see who could make the best maze. After a while the other four stopped making them, but I haven’t yet.
“I would make mazes at home and take them to school. Some of my friends got excited about them and started copying them, and that kept me excited about them. One of my favorites is a maze that’s a map of the United States. It begins in Maine and ends in Washington State.” He said he also likes a maze designed to look like wood grain and another modeled after Uncle Sam.
“When I feel like doing a maze, I sit down and think of movies I’ve seen, books I’ve read, anything that might bring me an idea. I’ve taken art all through school, but I don’t have any particular tricks I use in drawing mazes, though I do like to take a particular path a long way and then turn it into a dead end before I finally create the one good path. Usually, I just sit down and start drawing, and the idea works itself out as I go along.”
Richard, 19, attended Magee Junior High and Sahuaro High schools in Tucson and Jordan High in Sandy, Utah. He is from the 15th Ward, Sandy Utah Crescent West Stake, and has held leadke, and has held leadership positions in deacons, teachers, and priests quorums. An Eagle Scout, he also enjoys hiking, art, drama, and sports.
It was Richard’s father who first thought of using the maze book as a financial resource for a mission. “I promised the Lord that all the money would go into my mission fund,” Richard said. “The books weren’t selling too well to begin with, but last Christmas we had more orders than books and had to have some more printed.” They have now published more than 1,000 copies and hope to have more printed by this Christmas.
Richard has also made mazes for friends (“Usually they want me to make their name into a maze”), for the high school paper, and for teachers. He keeps a copy of every maze he’s ever made on file at home.
For the moment, however, mazes have faded into the background. “In the mission field,” he says, “I don’t have time to draw one, because it takes about two or three hours. Besides, there are more important things to do.” When he returns home, though, he’ll probably hit the drawing board again.
Here are some samples of his work.

Since April general conference, my family and I have been seeking to strengthen our faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement to help us “turn [our] challenges into unparalleled growth and opportunity.”
Our granddaughter Ruby has been blessed with a strong, take-charge will. When she was born, her esophagus was not attached to her stomach. Even as an infant, Ruby, with her parents’ help, met this trial with unusual determination. Ruby is now five years old. Though she is still very young, she is a powerful example of not letting her circumstances determine her happiness. She is always happy.
Last May, Ruby faced an additional hurricane in her life with faith. She was also born with less than a fully developed hand that needed reconstructive surgery. Prior to this rather complex operation, we visited with her and gave her a drawing that beautifully depicts a child’s hand warmly holding the hand of the Savior. When we asked her if she was nervous, she replied, “No, I am happy!”
Then we asked her, “Ruby, how is that so?”
Ruby confidently asserted, “Because I know that Jesus will hold my hand.”
Ruby’s recovery has been miraculous, and she continues to be happy. How the purity of a child’s faith contrasts with the foolishness of doubt that can frequently tempt us as we get older! But we can all become as little children and choose to put aside our unbelief. It is a simple choice.

One thing Bill positively was not going to do was lose his cool when he talked to Dad. He was sensing a new power in their discussions when he could smother back his flaring irritations and cover them with a quiet, logical tolerance of Dad’s opinions. Not that he was giving in, mind you, or changing his stand; after all, he was 15 and capable of making his own decisions, but it was important to convince Dad he was right.
Ridiculous, all this hassle about just wanting a Saturday off for the beach. Doug Anders and Tommy Martin went every Saturday without feeling the least bit guilty—and most Sundays, too, for that matter. Why was it always different for him? Bill knew well why it was different. The Church—that was why. Doug didn’t even go to church, and Tommy only went on Easter and Christmas. Their Saturdays weren’t full of building-fund paper drives, work projects for the widows, or setting up chairs for meetings. Not that Bill would trade places with them. No, the church was important in his life, and he valued it, but this Saturday was something else.
“Hope you’re getting right at the lawn, Bill.” Mother’s voice floated down from the upstairs window. “Dad said it was a must as soon as you got home from school. It will only take a minute if you get going.”
A minute, ha! Little did she know about pushing that mower through the thick, tough grass in the heat! Probably more like an hour. Bill kicked a mud clod into the flower bed with his ragged tennis shoe, dropped his books, and slumped on the cool grass to rest. He sank deep—kinda high all right—should have been cut last week, and it was a cinch Dad had been too busy to do it. He plucked a long blade of grass and twisted it slowly between his thumb and finger. Why did Dad have to be so dedicated to the max—always heading a Church project, going to a meeting, or worrying about someone’s problems when he had a little spare time. And expecting Bill’s help with it! Being the oldest wasn’t always what it was cracked up to be.
“I don’t hear much action down there, dear. Would you like a sandwich or something before you start?” Mom’s voice dripped with sweetness and Bill sensed her effort at nonirritation. He sighed, struggled to his feet, and went for the lawn mower.
It wasn’t so bad once he got started, and as the blades whipped around he started rehearsing ways of convincing Dad about Saturday.
“You see, Dad, it’s like this. There’s a problem about my helping Saturday. Now, it isn’t that I don’t understand—I know you’re on the welfare committee and that your kid should be there helping with the clothing drive. And I realize, too, that I’ve promised the bishop he could count on me. But all that was before Tommy told me about the beach and the surfboard.”
Not quite strong enough, Bill thought, and started again.
“Look, Dad. I know it’s going to be a pain for you, but I won’t be there to help Saturday. It’s time I start doing more with my friends. They’re beginning to think I’m always working on a project. Friendship is important, too, and I’m going to the beach with them.”
That should be convincing, he thought, and smothered a twinge of conscience. Using the friendship angle was taking advantage. Dad was a sucker for friendship. But it was true. Lately there was a definite gap in his closeness with his best friends, Doug and Tommy. They had been so alike all through school, and now it was uncomfortable being the different one, the one making excuses for not trying new, experimental things, the one going to church instead of the drags—the one still in the Scout program that they had given up long ago. Well, he didn’t have to be the one giving up his Saturday for a clothing drive!
The mower hit a rock and froze. Furiously Bill spun it loose and calmed his frustrations with giant shoves into the green mat of grass. Not that he hadn’t tried to share the Church with his friends, Bill reminded himself. But Tommy’s parents objected, and although Doug had showed interest for a while, weekends at the beach had won. And the gap between them was getting bigger. Only yesterday at school Doug had made the situation clear. They were leaning against the old elm tree by the cafeteria, trying to figure a way out of dressing for gym when he brought it up.
“Guess there’s no use asking what you’re doing Saturday.”
“What do you mean—no use asking?” Bill questioned.
“Oh, come off it. You know you’re always tied up with some weird thing or another. My cousin is taking me to the beach for some surfing pointers on his new board. Not any of this wimpy stuff like we do. He really knows how. I can bring you and Tommy, he said, but I knew most likely you’d have something to do for your Dad.”
“Who says I have to do anything? I can go if I want.”
“Well, all right, do you want?”
Tommy joined them just then.
“Well, how about it? Are you on for Saturday?”
“I’ll think about it. After all, I’m picky about who I spend my time with.”
“You said a mouthful,” Tommy added, “and it sure doesn’t seem to be us anymore. You’re getting to be a real drag.”
Bill finished the last swatch of grass, pushed the mower into the garage, and picked up the rake. It hadn’t taken as long as he thought. Mom was right after all. Exposing the clipped green carpet as he heaped the grass into piles brought a warm satisfaction that made him uncomfortable. Why should there be any pleasure in such an obnoxious job? Mom appeared at the back door with two frosty glasses of lemonade, and the warm feeling heightened as she sat next to him on the step, sipping and exclaiming about the beauty of the freshly cut lawn. He fought back the satisfaction and revived his misery.
“Mom, don’t you think a guy deserves Saturday off when he goes to school and works all week?”
“Well, I most certainly do,” she agreed. “Every boy needs some time for himself. You know I always let you off if your chores are done.”
“And don’t you think it’s important to keep in with the guys—you know, be one of them—not an outcast?”
“Of course, it’s important, dear. I’ve always encouraged you to have a lot of friends. Do you have a problem?”
He wished she wouldn’t be so confounded agreeable. It wasn’t giving him any practice for Dad. And, yes, he did have a problem. It would be the same old issue with Dad about what should come first. Church responsibility and dependability would end on top with Dad, and Bill would be dangling at the other end about Saturday. He knew the decision would be his own. Dad was fair that way, but it was uncomfortable when they didn’t see eye-to-eye, and past experience had taught him well what Dad’s way would be. He remembered the years through Scouting when football games at school were scheduled on the same Saturday as a merit badge hike. Dad always managed to help him find a way to make them both—even if it meant long drives to catch up with the Scouts. And it had been the same with the talent show and school play. When rehearsals interfered with Church meetings, they always found away to cover them both with a few short cuts and Dad being there with the transportation. Yes, Dad’s way was definitely on the side of participation and dedication to Church responsibility!
“Better get the rest of the grass picked up,” Mom called through the open window above the grinding garbage disposal. Bill was hardly aware she had gone inside. Always that gentle nudge to get going. Didn’t a guy even have thinking time these days? Well, he would hit Dad with Saturday as soon as he came home and get it over with. Still, his sister was always saying it paid to save the gripes until after dinner, and she did seem to have a way with Dad. He heard the car in the driveway and decided in favor of the waiting. It was a mistake. After dinner Jamie grabbed Dad for help with a math problem, then two telephone calls brought home teaching problems, and he was off to a Scout council meeting. Bill was asleep long before he returned.
“So, what’s the score? Are you, or aren’t you?” Doug mumbled between chomps on his hamburger at lunch the next day. “Not that I really care, just curious.”
“Yeah, what are you trying to do—play hard to get?” Tommy added. “Anyone would think you’re something special.”
Bill squirmed. “Give me a break, you guys. I’ve gotta think. Just because you wimps have nothing more to do than lay in the sun getting burned to a crisp, doesn’t mean everyone can. Someone’s gotta run the country, you know.”
“Well, that does it!” Doug smashed his milk carton and sent potato chips flying, “Let us know when you make up your mind!”
There were no two ways about it though. Tonight he would have to talk to Dad first thing. But Dad was late for dinner, and Bill had to leave for a basketball practice, so it still wasn’t settled. Walking home alone in the moonlight after the practice, he churned the situation in his mind and rehearsed again what he would say to Dad when he got home. It was convincing, he decided, but Dad would have a hard time understanding; since his kicks came from heading projects and doing for people. He didn’t have conflicts and things pulling him in a lot of different directions.
As he neared home and approached the driveway, he could see the garage light burning and Dad inside. At last, an opportunity to get him alone! He hurried up the driveway, but slowed as he neared the door and saw Dad standing over in a far corner—just standing there. Odd, his being there alone just standing, as busy as he was. Bill hesitated and then walked quietly to the doorway for a better look. There was something different about Dad. He looked tired and even a little sad.
Bill had never seen him like that before. The cover protecting a weathered terminal apparatus had been folded back, and he was scrutinizing it with wistful eyes. He finally began gently fingering a screw. Dad had started that invention a year ago. He liked building things and even had a special set of expensive tools that none of them were allowed to touch. He always had an idea for a new invention and Mom kidded him about finishing some of them. Strange he didn’t spend more time in the garage if he had such a craze for it. Why didn’t he? What was his problem? Bill stared at his father again, and then, slowly, a penetrating light, a flood of understanding, began to surface. Why, Dad had to make choices, too! All those trips to the mountains to catch him up with the Church group was time he could have been spending on his inventions. All the nights waiting in the car to take him from one meeting to another could have been enjoyed in the garage. And the way he honored his priesthood in accepting calls and helping people! A wave of guilt surged inside Bill making it hard to breathe. He hadn’t even said thanks for all those catch-up trips! Dad glanced up and smiled. “Well, hello there! Sorry I didn’t get home before you left for basketball. Mother said you wanted to see me about something.”
“I … a … well … I … a … was just wondering what I could do to help you get ready for the clothing drive Saturday.”
Dad walked over and put his arm around his shoulder. “You don’t know what that means to me, Bill. I’ve been wondering how I’d ever get all the calls made to remind the boys about coming. If you could take on a few after school tomorrow, it would really help. I appreciate your continual support so much!”
They walked slowly toward the house together, and there it was again—that maddening warm, satisfied feeling!

When Bret May was a high school freshman in Salmon, Idaho, one of his summer jobs was doing maintenance for a mobile home park. He never imagined he was beginning to discover what he wanted to do for a career. “Mostly I did upkeep work,” he says, “but I loved it when I got a chance to do landscaping.”
Other jobs followed, including a lawn-mowing business with his brother, Clint, and work with landscaping crews as he finished high school. Then he enrolled at Ricks College, a Church-sponsored school in Rexburg, Idaho, which offered a two-year degree in landscaping.
“Following my first year of schooling, I went on an occupational internship and spent about three months working for a landscape contractor in southern Utah. I gained some practical experience at that point; then after my internship I went on a mission, not knowing whether my career ideas would change.
“I was called to the Arizona Phoenix Mission, and after I’d been there about six months, I knew I was going to stick with landscaping. Every place I went, especially when I saw the beautiful homes and surroundings in Scottsdale, I just knew that’s what I wanted to do.
“But I also had a goal that I wanted to operate my own landscape installation company. When I returned from my mission, I got a little impatient. I didn’t want to go for a four-year degree, and I didn’t want to spend a lot of time working for someone else. So I got my two-year degree, then set myself up so I could work for several different contractors for short periods of time, so I could get a variety of experience.” Bret realized his dream of starting his own landscaping business. Today you’ll find him in St. George, Utah, where he’s still spending his days outdoors, “creating additional living space outside people’s homes.”
If you’re trying to decide what career you want to follow, Bret suggests working for as many people as you can, with the attitude that “I’m here to work hard, and I’m here to learn.” Then, he says, “apply what you learn, and pick a program that can give you the training you need.”

Many of Samoa’s early Saints were exiled, persecuted and even executed for their faith. In 1904, prophet and President of the Church, Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918), directed the purchase of 800 fertile acres up in the green hills of rural Upolu. This land would provide a refuge for members of the Church.
The people praised the Lord for His kindness and dedicated the 800 acres with a prayer that it might “become a choice land and a fit place for Saints to gather and become a choice people of the Lord.” They then voted to call this place: “Sauniatu,” which means “prepare to go forth.”
Starting over wasn’t easy but the early villagers moved forward in faith, planting crops, building homes and chapels, and founding a school for their children.

For fans of true crime, here’s a personal story related to forgiving our enemies. I love riding bikes. I love the feeling of riding on my own power wherever I want to go. I love the challenging physics involved as well, but I won’t subject you to that today. The first bike I ever bought was a forest green mountain bike that I got when I was about 14 years old. I rode it every day. One day, I took it to a youth activity and parked it outside our church building. When the activity ended, I went outside and saw that someone had stolen that beautiful, green bike. I felt gutted. I don’t remember if I cried, but I probably did. I could not understand why anyone would do something that hurt me like that, and I remember being so angry as I slowly walked home from the church that night. I try not to make enemies, but during that bitter walk home, I’m sure I considered that thief my enemy.

I told my friends to keep their eye out for my stolen bike. Weeks later, I got a knock on my door. Two of my older sister’s friends had seen their neighbor riding a bike that matched my description. When they followed him home and confronted him about it, he admitted that he had taken it. They gave me my bike and revealed the identity of the thief. He was someone I knew. He was a member of the church, and I was friends with his little sister. Even though I was relieved and happy to have my bike back, I was still angry with him. Not long after, there was another knock on my door. I opened it to find the thief—my enemy—on the doorstep. He seemed nervous—even on the verge of tears; he said he was sorry and asked me not to call the police. I don’t remember if I had even considered doing that, but I told him that I wouldn’t report it to the police. Then, I was surprised to hear myself say that I forgave him and I was even more surprised to feel like I meant it. He seemed relieved, thanked me, and left. I don’t remember ever talking to him again. I’m convinced that God gave me the help I needed to frankly forgive this person who had caused me so much grief. I promise you that He will also provide a way for you to accomplish whatever He asks of you.

Here’s a twist ending to my bike story: five years later, while I was a student here at Ricks College, I learned that the guy who stole my bike had died. He was only 20 years old. I remember feeling profound relief that I had been able to forgive him when he had asked me to; I didn’t have any regrets or doubts about the way I had responded to his apology.

If we applied that advice in today’s social climate, would it work? Imagine using it on a personal interactive basis. Let’s say I boarded a plane, sat next to a fellow traveler, and declared: “Hi, I’m Scott Swofford. What do you know about me? Would you like to know more?” I am pretty sure a call button would be pressed and I would be relocated, if not removed from the plane.

The most authentic way to enter a gospel discussion is to first seek to understand. I have experimented with the following approach when seated on a plane: “Good morning. I like those shoes.” The dialogue is now underway on a positive note.

Eventually it gets us to “Is this flight outbound or returning home for you?”

Inevitably they will ask me where home is, and I am lucky in that admitting I’m from Utah is like setting a timer on a predictable response. Three, two, one: “Are you Mormon?”

Now, I could launch into my memorized first discussion, but it is in Japanese, so instead I usually reply, “Yes. And you?” I then pay genuine attention to a lot of information about this new friend—their thoughts on faith, their struggles, and their current frame of mind. Then I am ready for the Spirit to direct the next move.

When I was younger, I had trouble falling asleep each night. It was frustrating to be so tired and still not be able to rest.
I talked to my parents about my struggle, and they suggested I switch out my pillows, move my head to the other side of the bed, and not be near any electronic devices before bedtime. But even after following their advice, I still couldn’t sleep!
Then my dad gave me one more suggestion that changed everything. He said, “When you say your nighttime prayers, just talk to Heavenly Father.”
So night after night, I began talking to Heavenly Father about my day. I would start with when I woke up and talk about everything that happened until right when I was in my bed. I told Him about people I saw, blessings I was grateful for, how pretty it was outside, and things that made me feel happy. I also told Him about things that were sad, like if I hurt my leg or made a mistake.
I wasn’t able to fall asleep right away, but I noticed that my relationship with my Heavenly Father was strengthening. He listened to me. He understood my high points and my low ones. He helped me feel calm enough to eventually fall asleep each night.
I am so grateful I could talk to Heavenly Father during those sleepless nights. I know He loves me and helps me, even with small things like helping me sleep.
Alyssa B., 19, Virginia, USA