Gospel Story Finder

Now a General Authority, I sometimes play at stake conferences. I usually play “O My Father,” “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief,” “I Am a Child of God,” “Love at Home,” “I Know That My Redeemer Lives,” or “I Need Thee Every Hour.” Each time I’ve played, several mothers have come up to me and said, “Thank you. I wanted my children to see a grown man play. I have some sons who think that they want to quit, but when they see you, they want to keep going.”

This very Tabernacle was the scene for such a faith-inspired miracle. It occurred several years ago at general conference time. During the session when I was assigned to speak, my attention was drawn constantly to a little blond-haired girl seated on the first row in the balcony. The more I looked at her, the less I felt inclined to present the formal message I had prepared. I yielded to the inspiration 1 felt and spoke rather about the faith of a girl in far away Louisiana, Christian Methvin. I directed my remarks to my young friend in the balcony.

Upon returning to my office, I found waiting for me this same young lady and also her grandmother. The young girl’s name, Misti White. Her home, California. Here is her story. She began: “I have had a problem, Brother Monson, but not any longer. A person very dear to me told me to wait until I was 18 to be baptized. My grandmother said I should be baptized now. I prayed for an answer and said to grandmother, ‘Take me with you to conference. There Jesus will help me.’”

To conference they came, and so did divine help. Eagerly Misti took my hand and exclaimed, “You helped Him answer my prayer. Thank you.”

Upon returning to California, Misti sent me a treasured letter, with this beautiful ending: “Brother Monson, I was baptized on November 29th. I am now very happy. Love, Misti.” Faith does precede the miracle.

Every time I am in seminary, I know Heavenly Father loves me and cares for me! Attending seminary has blessed me with a clearer understanding of who I am and why I am here. The principles and doctrines I have learned in seminary have helped me make righteous decisions. I am more resolved now to serve a full-time mission and excited to share the gospel with others.
Marlou T., age 20, Sorsogon, Philippines

Ida B … and Her Plans to Maximize Fun, Avoid Disaster, and (Possibly) Save the World, by Katherine Hannigan. Ida B is a smart, fun-loving, and happy girl who lives on an apple orchard and loves going to school at home. But when change comes, Ida B is neither happy nor willing to accept it without a fight. How does Ida B set out to change the world? Read and find out!

Early one morning, Sam and Lindsay climbed out of their beds and walked to the kitchen. They saw a sign with bright blue letters hanging over the doorway.
“Mini MTC,” Lindsay read.
“What’s MTC?” Sam asked.
Just then, Mom walked into the kitchen. “Good morning and welcome to the Missionary Training Center!” she said. “You get to be missionaries today!” She handed Lindsay a piece of paper. “Here is your schedule.”
Lindsay read the first line. “Prayer and scripture study.”
Sam and Lindsay got their scriptures and sat with Mom. Sam said a prayer. Then they read Mark 16:15 together. “And [Jesus] said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.”
“What do you think that means?” Mom asked.
“Jesus wants us to share the gospel with everyone,” Lindsay said.
After scripture study Lindsay read the next line on their schedule. “Language study.”
Mom handed them some sticky notes. “Sometimes missionaries learn new languages. Let’s write Spanish words on sticky notes and label things we see.”
Sam looked around the kitchen. “How do you say ‘milk’ in Spanish?”
“Leche,” Mom said. She wrote it on a sticky note and handed it to Sam. Sam stuck it onto the milk carton.
“Leche,” he repeated.
Soon Spanish words dotted the kitchen. For breakfast, they ate panqueques (pancakes) and fresas (strawberries).
Next on their schedule was “Get ready for the day.”
“We should wear missionary clothes!” Sam said. He ran to put on a white shirt and tie, and Lindsay picked out a purple dress.
Sam smiled proudly as Mom pinned a homemade black nametag to his shirt. “Now what?” he asked.
“Missionary service.”
Lindsay frowned. “Who can we serve?”
“Well, Mrs. Mason just had surgery,” Mom said. “How do you think we could serve her?”
“Let’s take her lunch and see what we can do to help,” Sam said.
As they walked to Mrs. Mason’s house, Lindsay saw the drooping flowers in her yard. “I can water her plants!”
“I can feed her cat,” said Sam.
Lindsay and Sam watered the plants and fed the cat while Mom chatted with Mrs. Mason. When they finished, Sam and Lindsay shook Mrs. Mason’s hand.
“Is there anything else we can do?” Lindsay asked.
“Well,” Mrs. Mason said, “I could use some cheering up. Do you know any happy songs?”
Sam and Lindsay sang their favorite Primary song. “I am a child of God, and He has sent me here. …”
When they finished, Sam and Lindsay saw tears in Mrs. Mason’s eyes.
“I’ve never heard that song,” Mrs. Mason said. “It was beautiful. Thank you for everything, especially the song.”
Sam and Lindsay were quiet as they walked home.
“You’ve been real missionaries today,” Mom said. “You prepared yourselves, you served, and you taught the gospel, just like missionaries.”
“When did we teach the gospel?” Sam asked.
Go to “Family Night Fun” for an activity to go with this story!
“When you sang, you shared your testimony that we are children of God,” Mom said. “I think that’s just what Mrs. Mason needed to hear.”
“Do missionaries always feel this good?” Lindsay said. “If they do, I’m going to be a missionary every day.”

“The first day I walked into the Salt Lake Temple when I was a young man, I had the feeling that I had been there before. In an instant, the thought came to me that what I recognized was a sense of peace beyond anything I felt before in this life, but that I seemed to recognize and almost remember from before I was born.”

Brian took a deep breath. Three balls, two strikes—full count. He squinted at the pitcher and tightened his grip on the bat. Fast ball, he thought. No doubt about it. The pitcher wound up and let loose. Brian planted his right foot and swung hard. The ball curved smoothly around his bat—thwack—into the catcher’s mitt. “Strike three. You’re out!”
Brian watched the ground as he walked back to the dugout. Andrew jogged past on his way to the plate. “Good goin’, Brian. Why don’t you just go on back to the tee-ball league so they can teach you how to play?”
Brian clenched his fists. “Oh, be quiet, Andrew. Just play, OK?”
On the way home after the game, Brian sat slumped in the back seat.
“What happened out there today?” his mom asked. “The team looked pretty good in the first inning, but after that you fell apart.”
“It’s Andrew,” Brian mumbled. “He’s really good, and he knows it, so he tries to make the rest of us feel stupid. Nobody likes him.”
“You like him, don’t you?” his dad asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
“I guess so,” Brian answered, but mostly because he knew that’s what his dad wanted to hear.
“Good. The Savior teaches that we should love everyone, even people who are mean to us. Maybe if you showed Andrew a little love, he wouldn’t act that way.”
Brian sighed and looked out the window. His dad was always saying stuff like that. But his dad didn’t have to play on the same team with Andrew. How could anyone possibly love him?
“You know,” Mom said, “there was a girl on my basketball team in high school—Sarah—who had the worst attitude. She was always yelling at everybody and making us feel terrible when we made mistakes.”
“She must be related to Andrew.”
Mom laughed. “Well, I got pretty fed up with Sarah’s bullying. So one day I decided to show her what real team spirit was all about. Every time somebody made a mistake, I jumped in before Sarah had a chance and said, ‘Good job, Karen,’ or ‘Nice try, Susan.’ And if somebody did something really great, I jumped up and down and yelled and screamed and really whooped it up.”
“So did Sarah stop being so mean?” Brian asked hopefully.
“No.”
Brian looked out the window again. “I didn’t think so.”
“But everyone else was too busy watching my spirited pep shows to notice her anymore,” Mom said with a smile. Brian smiled, too, in spite of himself.
That night during family prayer, Dad prayed that Brian would find a way to show love for Andrew. Brian didn’t have much hope, but he said “amen” anyway, just in case.
The next day at practice, Brian decided to try out Mom’s idea. When Ryan let an easy grounder slip under his glove, Brian started clapping wildly and shouted, “All right, Ryan! Nice try! Go get ’em, dude!” Ryan busted up laughing so hard that he didn’t hear Andrew call him a name. The other guys laughed too.
Hey, what do you know? Brian thought. It works!
It worked through the next two practices too. “Go get ’em, David!” “All right, Jason!” Brian was becoming a regular expert in whooping and hollering, and it was contagious. Pretty soon, all the boys were too busy clapping, giving high-fives, and laughing to notice Andrew’s insults.
By Saturday’s game, the boys were starting to play like a team again, and they were having a good time doing it. At the end of the fifth inning, the score was tied, 8–8.
Then, with two out in the top of the sixth, it happened: Andrew misjudged a pop fly ball, and it dropped behind him in the grass. The runner scored from second, and Andrew was so flustered that he overthrew the second baseman, and the batter took third base. The score was now 9–8.
At first, Brian wanted to scream at Andrew. How could he be so stupid? But just as Brian was about to open his mouth, he saw Andrew’s face. A small, quiet voice seemed to whisper in his ear, “Andrew could use a little love right now.”
Brian ran over to Andrew and slapped him on the back. “Nice try, Andy. It’s OK—don’t worry about it.” Then he shouted to the whole team, “All right, Pirates! Let’s go!” and clapped all the way back to third base.
When Brian turned around, Andrew was staring at him in astonishment. Brian socked his glove and grinned at him. “Let’s play ball!” he shouted, and Andrew turned away.
The pitcher struck out the next batter, and the Pirates came to the plate down a run. The first two batters struck out, but the next three singled, so Brian stepped up to the plate with two outs, the bases loaded, and the winning run on second.
The first pitch whizzed over the plate. “Strike one.” The second pitch looked high, but dropped into the strike zone at the last second. “Strike two!” Brian’s lips drew tight as he took his stance for the next pitch. The pitcher let it fly and Brian swung with all his might. The ball thwacked into the catcher’s mitt. “Strike three! You’re out!”
The Pirates had lost, 9–8.
Brian kicked the dirt and started walking slowly back to the dugout while the other team jumped up and down and gave each other high fives.
When Brian reached the dugout, a pair of cleats blocked his way. Brian looked up into Andrew’s face and waited for the usual insults. But this time, it was Brian’s turn to be surprised.
“Good game,” Andrew said slowly. “We’ll get ’em next time.”

Sometimes temptation to slacken can be almost overwhelming, especially when a cherished goal comes in sight. Like the time Jenny was invited to meet with top deejays from Independent Radio City, Liverpool—on a Sunday.
She wanted so much to be there, supporting her hospital team and meeting influential people, possibly furthering career opportunities. Workmates kept pressing invitations. But she refused, at the same time explaining her feelings for the Sabbath.
“I felt awful letting them down,” she says, “but I’d have felt even more awful letting myself and Heavenly Father down and my workmates, too, in the long run, because they’d have witnessed a bad example.”

Oftentimes we are like the young merchant from Boston who in 1849, as the story goes, was caught up in the fervor of the California gold rush. He sold all of his possessions to seek his fortune in the California rivers, which he was told were filled with gold nuggets so big that one could hardly carry them.
Day after endless day, the young man dipped his pan into the river and came up empty. His only reward was a growing pile of rocks. Discouraged and broke, he was ready to quit, until one day an old, experienced prospector said to him, “That’s quite a pile of rocks you are getting there, my boy.”
The young man replied, “There’s no gold here. I’m going back home.”
Walking over to the pile of rocks, the old prospector said, “Oh, there is gold, all right. You just have to know where to find it.” He picked two rocks up in his hands and crashed them together. One of the rocks split open, revealing several flecks of gold sparkling in the sunlight.
Noticing a bulging leather pouch fastened to the prospector’s waist, the young man said, “I’m looking for nuggets like the ones in your pouch, not just tiny flecks.”
The old prospector extended his pouch toward the young man, who looked inside, expecting to see several large nuggets. He was stunned to see that the pouch was filled with thousands of flecks of gold.
The old prospector said, “Son, it seems to me you are so busy looking for large nuggets that you’re missing filling your pouch with these precious flecks of gold. The patient accumulation of these little flecks has brought me great wealth.”

At the end of January 1831, Joseph and Emma Smith traveled to Kirtland, Ohio, in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was very cold, and Emma was expecting a baby. They arrived safely in front of Newel K. Whitney’s store in Kirtland the first part of February. As they stopped, the prophet sprang from the sleigh, entered the store, and approached Brother Whitney, whom he had never met before. “Newel K. Whitney!” he declared, extending his hand to shake. “Thou art the man.”

“You have the advantage of me,” replied Brother Whitney. “I could not call you by name as you have me.”

“I am Joseph the Prophet. You prayed me here, now what do you want of me?” Joseph then explained that while he was still in New York he had seen Brother Whitney in a vision, praying for him to come to Kirtland. With great joy the Whitneys made room in their home for the Smiths until they could find another place to live.**

When I was growing up, my mom talked to me about the gospel. She talked about it every day, not just on Sundays. She loved stories from the Old Testament.
My favorite story was about David and Goliath. David was just a young shepherd. Goliath was a huge, strong soldier. When David went to fight Goliath, David didn’t wear any armor. His only weapon was a sling to throw small stones.
But David stood for what he believed. He wasn’t alone. God’s power was with him. He beat Goliath.
My mom liked to tell me what David said to Goliath: “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts” (1 Samuel 17:45). I knew my mom trusted that God would be with us. He would help us even when we faced Goliath-sized challenges.

Their great faith was strengthened by the faith of our leaders. I pay tribute to the First Presidency and to leaders of the choir who had the foresight to plan as they did and when they did. How bold and inspired they were to conceive this tour many months—even years—before Europe’s unwelcoming walls began to crumble! The Brethren had the faith to believe that the choir could sing in cities such as Warsaw, Budapest, Prague, Leningrad, and Moscow long before such dreams seemed plausible. Then in January 1991, hopeful plans were seriously threatened when war erupted in the Persian Gulf. Even then, our leaders decided against canceling the tour. They knew of its potential for good and had faith that countless obstacles could be overcome. Often they prayed that the choir’s tour might be successfully accomplished.

Those prayers were answered!

Think of the timing. In one thousand years of Russia’s existence, its first popular national election ever to be held occurred in June 1991. Six days later, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir performed in Moscow! That very night, after the strains of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (see Hymns, 1985, no. 30) had resounded from the Bolshoi Theater, the vice president of the republic announced that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had been granted recognition in the Republic of Russia. On the eve of a supreme crisis that was yet ahead, Russian people heard songs of faith, courage, hope, and love.

I was just a young child when my father died of pneumonia. My 14-year-old brother died just a few days later from an unrelated illness. It was the early 1930s, the middle of the Great Depression in the United States. Jobs were scarce and so was money. My mother, a nurse, struggled to provide a living for the five remaining children. It wasn’t an easy life for any of us, and I often wondered how it would all work out.
But one thing happened during those tough times that I remember as well as if it had happened yesterday, something that made me look forward with courage and hope.
About a year after my father’s passing, his cousin came to visit our home. Israel Bennion came, not just on a social call, but as the stake patriarch. Each of us children, scrubbed clean and dressed like we were going to church, waited in turn to have this dignified man place his hands on our heads and give us our patriarchal blessings.
I was only seven, not old enough to understand the significance of all that was going on. (Today, the Church advises you to wait until you’re older to get your patriarchal blessing.) But I felt a great reverence, the same sort of feeling I felt during fast and testimony meetings. I remembered his instructions, although they were brief, that my blessing should be a guide to me, something I could use to chart my course through life.
Although I was young, I was impressed by the statements Brother Bennion made as he gave me my blessing. He told me that the Spirit of the Lord would be with me as I was growing up, that the gospel would be in my heart, that I would love the work of the Lord, and that the Lord would bless me.
He spoke of the future, that I would someday be a judge in Israel, that I would have children, that I would have a strong body and a sound mind.
But most of all, he stirred something in me. He helped me to begin to realize how literally I was a son of God. The Lord knew who I was and what I was doing. If I lived the right way, the Lord would help me.
My patriarchal blessing is only 263 words long. But it has always made a deep impression on me. As I have read and reflected upon it through the years, that impression has never diminished.

After teaching Armand, Brandon and the missionaries visit a young man who had seen a documentary about the Prophet Joseph Smith and wanted to know more about the Church. Brandon helped the missionaries teach the first discussion with the aid of some study cards he had made.

Light spilled through the open door onto the cobblestone street outside. Behind the marble counter a 13-year-old boy slapped and pounded a fistful of dough into a flat circle and drizzled it with olive oil.
“Funghi o qualcos’altro? (Mushrooms or something else?),” he asked Casimiro.
“Funghi,” replied Casimiro, and Annalisa nodded her head in agreement. While on their way home from Mutual they had not been able to resist the yeasty, spicy aura hanging about the street near the neighborhood pizzeria and had stopped in for pizza.
The boy deftly smeared a ladleful of tomato sauce on the flattened dough and almost as quickly chopped up a fresh curd of mozzarella cheese, still dripping milk from the bowl it was snatched out of. He dashed coarse salt and pepper over the two pizzas and slipped a large wooden paddle under them one at a time. Taking a large straw broom from against the wall, he swept away the embers near the fire in the back of the oven. Without hesitation the wooden paddle soon deposited the pizzas on a fine layer of ash on the floor of the brick oven.
Near the door of the pizzeria, three of Casimiro’s neighbors were discussing in tones growing warmer every minute the merits of their favorite calcio (soccer) teams.
“The fire in the oven isn’t the only thing that’s cooking this evening,” chuckled Casimiro to Annalisa as they watched their pizzas roast and grow bubbly through the pizza oven’s open door.
Soon the mozzarella was running in milky rivers between crusty mountains of browned pizza dough, and the wooden paddle swished them from the fire. Still piping hot, the two pizzas were folded over, wrapped in paper, and held out to Casimiro and Annalisa. Each plunked 250 lira, about 50 cents, on the counter and turned to leave the pizzeria.
Outside the door the conversation had turned from soccer to the irresponsible driving habits of youth because a young girl crossing the street had just narrowly avoided being hit by a small motorbike. Casimiro and Annalisa dodged the discussion just as one of the participants began offering Casimiro the opinion that “in the old days, youth had more respect.”
Waving back at the men and laughing as they hurried down the cobblestones toward their homes, Casimiro and Annalisa finally bit into their steaming pizzas. Mutual had been over for about half an hour, and their parents would begin wondering where they were.

Marion G. Romney was born in the Latter-day Saint community of Colonia Juárez in Mexico and lived there until he was about 15 years old. A political revolution that began in 1910 forced the Romneys and others to leave everything behind and flee to the United States. “We had a difficult time making a living,” President Romney recalled. “We had to root hog or die.”1 (“Root hog or die” is an American saying that means one must take care of oneself.)

In the opening exercises of our priesthood meeting, the bishop announced that many of the teachers would be assigned new senior home teaching companions. Filled with the gentle excitement that accompanies such changes in assignment, I left the chapel wondering who my new companion would be. I strolled down the hallway hoping that I had been chosen as the companion of one of the young, dynamic elders in the ward. I looked in the open classrooms that lined the hallway and imagined working with a powerful, spiritual man intent on fulfilling his calling. At the end of the hallway was the Relief Society room where the high priests met.
Turning to go up the stairs, I looked into the room and my eyes caught a glance at an old man sitting in an almost tattered gray suit. He was sitting alone, thoughtfully, with his fingers intertwined. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a slightly blotchy, leathery complexion. I had seen this brother before, but I did not know him by name. And it seemed to me at the moment that he represented the companion I would like not to have. Please not him, I said to myself. He’s too old.
Upstairs the teachers quorum adviser informed me that I would be the companion to a brother Oliver Johnson. The name did not mean anything to me, but he was soon described as an elderly high priest who had round glasses, often wore a gray suit, and kept bees. That was him. That was the man I had seen downstairs a minute before. I was deeply disappointed. I reasoned that I deserved it after what I had thought about him, but that did not diminish my dissatisfaction. If anything, it made my yearning for a powerful young man—someone I knew—even greater.
Though I wanted to be a good home teaching companion, I still begrudged my assignment as the companion of this old, slow-walking, slow-talking brother. I remember in particular how critical I was of his driving. I was in the process of getting my long-awaited driver’s license, and I thought there was no better driver than myself. The first time we went out as companions, Brother Johnson drove up in a 20-year-old worn out car. In that outdated vehicle it seemed to me that he drove well below the speed limit.
But to accompany the slow, steady pace of his driving, he talked slowly and steadily, perhaps sensing my impatience and reluctance—my youth. As we visited our families monthly, I came to realize that dressed in that gray suit and tattered old hat was a man whose power was experience. He talked about the mission he and his wife had been called on. (During the course of the mission his wife had died, but after she was buried he returned to finish his calling.) He talked about Indian trails, about his bees, and about people who seemed to me to be out of another time period.
The more we talked the less critical I became. The slow driving no longer irritated me. It gave us more of a chance to talk. His old car, his funny glasses, his withered hat, and his pocket watch with the broken crystal no longer bothered me. It was as if he got younger, and as his years shed in my mind, some of them must have fallen to me.
Of all the topics we discussed, I was most drawn to Brother Johnson’s activities as a beekeeper. One early summer day, he called me and told me that he was going up the canyon to see how some of his bees were doing. He asked if I would like to come. We drove casually up the canyon, and he told me how he had started in beekeeping and what he did to help the bees produce their honey. We drove off the paved road, up a bumpy dirt road, through some streams. Periodically I had to get out, open sheep fence gates, let Brother Johnson drive through, and join him after I closed the gate.
We finally got to the hives. He gave me an old veil—a hat with material mesh that came down in front to protect my face from the bees. He told me to be sure my long-sleeved shirt (which he had warned me to wear) was buttoned at the wrists. Then he gave me some rubber bands to put around the wrists. He told me to push my pant legs inside my socks. As Brother Johnson did these things himself, he explained to me that if the bees flew or crawled up a sleeve or pant leg, they would not be able to get out, so they would become afraid and sting. I marveled that he did not wear any gloves. As he got the smoker ready with which he subdued the bees, I asked him if he got stung very often.
“Oh, you get stung every once in a while—usually if the bee gets scared or doesn’t know you. Or they may sting if you don’t know what you’re doing. And they sting if they get trapped.” As he said that he looked at me, and from beneath that distorting veil I saw the bright, shining eyes and the quick smile of one who knew what he was talking about. Brother Johnson was slow, methodical, careful as he lifted the tops off the hives and puffed in the smoke to relax the bees. Some landed on him, crawled on his gloveless hands. Some even buzzed agitatedly around his head, but he never cringed or moved away. I kept a safe distance where I could watch. I was not going to let bees crawl on me and have a chance to sting me.
Some of the hives were doing better than others, and I marveled that Brother Johnson could tell what was wrong, why some hives were not producing, and then correct the problem. He did not take any of the honey that day, but he promised me that when he did he would bring me some. He told me that you chewed the honey out of the honeycomb and spit the wax out. He said it was better than eating the honey itself because you had to work for what you got. I didn’t understand then how that could be. But once I had tried it, I knew.
A few years later in the mission field, I received a letter from my mother with a newspaper clipping. At the top of the clipping was the picture of the man who had so kindly taught me something of bees, something of aged men, and something more. The face in the picture of that obituary notice was strangely lifeless—so unlike the face I had seen in the Relief Society room the first time I remember seeing him, but much more unlike the face behind the beekeeper’s veil that day in the canyon. And though I could ask with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting?” I felt a quick pain of regret and sadness at the passing of this gentleman, this brother. And yet my mind is ever soothed by the memory of that rich, sweet honey he encouraged his bees to produce and which he gave to me—with the wax to chew out for myself.

As a boy, I loved to run. When I was eleven years old, I won an Oregon state cross-country race and I vowed to become a national champion before I graduated from high school. Full of boldness, determined to be better than anyone else, I began a training routine that was to last for years. Every day I ran from five to sixteen kilometers. I loved training. Neither mud, rain, sweat, nor pain were to keep me from my goal. “You only get out of it what you put into it” became my motto.
I began to look ahead to running in the Junior Olympics. My plan was to prepare to race in the 1985 competition, when I would be fourteen years old, and again in 1987, when I would be sixteen. I calculated that these would be in my best years and I would be in my top running condition. What I didn’t calculate was that by 1985 I would grow from a skinny, lightweight boy, to a taller and heavier young man. My whole system had to catch up with the added dimensions of my growing body. My knees ached constantly; my feet and hips almost cried out in pain as I ran; and it was all I could do to win a state championship by a fraction of a second. I knew 1985 wasn’t the year to enter the Junior Olympics, but I would have two years to prepare myself for the 1987 event.
By the spring of 1987 I was running well. I was undefeated in the 1,500-meter run and praised by a local newspaper as the fastest high school freshman in the state of Oregon. My aches and pains had gone. I felt good and I knew I was ready for the Junior Olympics.
Meanwhile, three teammates and I had been invited to participate in a prestigious regional track meet. Full of confidence and in high spirits, we got into the team van with our coach for the ride to the meet.
As we drove onto the main highway, I noticed how congested the traffic was and subconsciously fastened my seat belt. We were all laughing and joking when I casually looked up and noticed a speeding car coming our way. Completely out of control, it began swerving back and forth in our traffic lane, barely avoiding several cars ahead. Stunned into silence, we helplessly watched the car head straight for us.
I awoke to the sounds of screaming sirens, two-way radios crackling, and shouting policemen. We had been hit head-on by a car driven by a wanted man in a stolen car who was being pursued by police in a high-speed chase. My teammate and good friend, Lenny, who was in the seat behind me without his seat belt on, had been thrown across my seat. I had been propelled forward and pinned under the weight of his unconscious body and my doubled-up seat.
I managed to move just enough to see out of the window. The other car looked like a crumpled piece of paper. Two ambulances drove in beside our crushed van, and I was quickly, but very carefully, lifted out of our wrecked vehicle. “I think this one has a broken back!” I heard one ambulance man say as he looked at me with pity and concern.
As miracles go, my back wasn’t broken—just my nose! However, serious back strain, several pulled muscles, and joint displacement prevented me from walking for a few days and kept me from running normally for several months. This had not been in my plan. I became discouraged as my training schedule for being in top condition was once again interrupted.
I continued to train, both with the high school team and with a running club my brothers and sisters and I belong to. As I watched my ten-year-old brother, Tyler, run, I began to feel more frustration and irritation. He ran strong and well. He could keep up with several of the high school runners and was getting better every week. As much as I loved him, I resented how easy it all seemed for him.
I watched Tyler win in a state track and field championship, defeating his nearest competition by 500 meters. A crowd of excited supporters gathered around him as I stood back. An incredible sense of pride built up inside me, and as Tyler looked past all the well-wishers, seeking my approval, the feeling of love was so intense between us that I felt we were the only two in the noisy stadium. As I sensed his deep need for my approval my resentment of his success totally left me. At that moment, I vowed that my little brother would go to the national championships prepared with all the knowledge I could share and with the assurance of my support.
We ran together after that. I talked about form and strategy, how to pass other runners and maintain a lead. We ran up hills to build his endurance, sprinted on the track to build his speed, and made up all sorts of exercises to improve his reflexes. We talked about racing as we did chores around the house, as we ate breakfast, as we drove into town, and as we watched sports news on television. We ran in pouring rain and sweltering heat.
Tyler and I both placed first in our age categories in the Northwest Regional Championships, and that gave us the chance to compete in the national championships. Because of the accident and the interruption of my training, I thought I might only place in the top twenty-five runners. My race was first, and I was twenty-first out of 300 and gained a national ranking.
Satisfied and happy with my performance, I then turned my attention to Tyler. I had already taken him through the cross-country course, showing him how to approach and hurdle a deep ditch, when to stride out, where to save his strength, what to avoid, and how to stay mentally tough. He wa ready! As we looked for his starting place among the other 265 runners on the starting line, I felt as nervous as when I had lined up for my own race. Tyler was tense, and I just kept assuring him that he was the best. I could sense his apprehension as if it were my own. How I wished I could transform his pain to joy! “Be tough, Tyler. Just remember, no one is better than you. No one can beat you,” I said. My arm slipped around his slumping shoulder, and I felt like I was deserting a desperate man when I walked away and noticed the tears in his eyes.
I watched him run a perfect race as I ran from place to place on the course to cheer him on, hoping he could feel my support reaching out to him. Could he hear? Could he sense my strength reaching out to him? He came toward the last stretch of the race in second place. “Keep going, Tyler!” I yelled. “Use your arms! Breathe deeply!” If he could just feel what I felt for him in that crowd of 5,000 wildly screaming spectators.
He was turning the corner for the last 100 meters—a part of the course we had run over and over together as we planned this moment. “Now Tyler! Give it all you’ve got left! Come on!” I pleaded. My voice choked as I thrilled at the sight of my little brother, a picture of perfect health, striding down the homestretch to a spectacular finish to become the national champion I had planned to be.
My pride in him told me that I had won something too. I realized I had given part of myself away to help Tyler succeed, and it created a feeling within me far richer and more powerful than I could have ever imagined. As an exhausted Tyler broke away from the crowd and came to me, he gasped out the words which taught me the lesson of my life.
“Jason, I felt terrible—but I could hear you cheering the whole way, over the noise of all the people, and I knew I could win. I knew I had to win!”
What other lessons would this little champion learn from me—good or bad?
What about all our other brothers and sisters in the family of men. What messages do they hear above the crowd? Just as Tyler could hear and respond to that call to win, how many others need that voice in the crowd? How often do we get caught up in our own plans and fail to call out our encouragement, fail to cheer others on to victory?
As Tyler and I embraced, I truly knew the meaning of the words, “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him” (1 Jn. 2:10).

Accept and magnify callings. I knew it was important to continue to serve in callings, to minister, and to associate with other Latter-day Saints. When I found out one of my daughters wanted to sing in the ward choir, I joined the choir too. We had a lot of fun singing together.

Hugo at the Window When Hugo’s friend leaves, Hugo looks for him out the window. Hugo can’t see him, but we can if we look hard among the shops and other interesting places that are shown. And when the friend comes back, he brings something that makes Hugo very happy.Anne Rockwell2–4 years