Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago, I presided over a regional conference in La Paz, Bolivia, high in the Andes Mountains. Members came to the conference from small towns and villages scattered throughout the area of La Paz and the Altiplano.
Before the leadership training session, I stood in front of the stake center and greeted the brethren as they gathered. One older brother told me through an interpreter that he lived a long way from La Paz. I noticed that his shirt was a different color from about the middle of his chest down. The upper portion of his shirt was white, while the lower portion was a brownish-red color.
I learned that he and three other Melchizedek Priesthood holders had taken more than eight hours to travel to these meetings. They had walked most of the way and had to ford two rivers, where the brownish-red water came up to their chests. When they came to the main road to La Paz, they stopped a truck to ask for a ride. The four men stood in the back of the truck for the last two hours to the stake center.
I could hardly believe that anyone would have such commitment, faith, and courage. When I expressed my deep concern for this dear brother, he said, “Brother Ballard, you are an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. I would walk as long as required, ford as many streams as required, to come and hear from you what the Lord wants me to do as a priesthood leader in the Church.”
This response brought tears to my eyes. We embraced one another in the special brotherhood of the priesthood of God. I also learned that he and his companions had not had anything to eat. Nor did they have a place to stay that night. Through the goodness of the Saints of La Paz, they were taken care of during the conference weekend.

I would like to say a few words about President Thomas S. Monson. Some years ago, President Monson came to a regional conference in Hamburg, Germany, and it was my honor to accompany him. President Monson has a remarkable memory, and we talked about many of the Saints in Germany—I was amazed that he remembered so many so well.
President Monson asked me about Brother Michael Panitsch, a former stake president and then a patriarch, who had been one of the stalwart pioneers of the Church in Germany. I told him that Brother Panitsch was seriously ill, that he was bedridden and unable to attend our meetings.
President Monson asked if we could pay him a visit.
I knew that shortly before his trip to Hamburg, President Monson had undergone foot surgery and that he could not walk without pain. I explained that Brother Panitsch lived on the fifth floor of a building with no elevators. We would have to climb the stairs to see him.
But President Monson insisted. And so we went.
I remember how difficult it was for President Monson to climb those stairs. He could take only a few at a time before needing to stop and rest. He never uttered a word of complaint, and he would not turn back. Because the building had high ceilings, the stairs seemed to go on forever, but President Monson cheerfully persevered until we arrived at the apartment of Brother Panitsch on the fifth floor.
Once there, we had a wonderful visit. President Monson thanked him for his life of dedicated service and cheered him with a smile. Before we left, he gave him a wonderful priesthood blessing.
No one but Brother Panitsch, the immediate family, and myself ever saw that act of courage and compassion.
President Monson could have chosen to rest between our long and frequent meetings. He could have asked to see some of the beautiful sights of Hamburg. I have often thought of how remarkable it was that of all the sights in that city, the one he wanted to see more than any other was a feeble and ailing member of the Church who had faithfully and humbly served the Lord.
President Monson came to Hamburg to teach and bless the people of a country, and that is what he did. But at the same time, he focused on the one, name by name. His vision is so broad and far-reaching to grasp the complexities of a worldwide Church, yet he is also so compassionate to focus on the one.

I’d like to tell you a true story about a young boy who didn’t have the opportunity of going to school for very long. His father died, leaving little money for the boy’s family. One day the boy became very ill with smallpox and had to miss a lot of school.

Slowly his health improved, and he was glad to be able to go to school again. But he was back in school for just one year, completing the seventh grade, when he had to stop going altogether. He and his brother then had to find jobs to help earn enough money to buy food and clothing the family needed.

The boy worked very hard, grew up strong, and learned a lot through his experiences. He read books whenever he could, and was interested in learning the things he had missed by not going to school. Often he would say how sad he was not to have had a formal education. He was a wonderful man and worked hard to develop himself. And he kept hoping that someway he could get back to school again. But he never had that chance. This little boy who grew up wanting to continue his schooling was my father.

I have a little bit of a strained relationship with my brother, Michael. Just normal sibling stuff, like we get on each other’s nerves. But I’d been praying to God for a few weeks to bless Michael and to help me love him and be kind to him.
Then one Sunday in sacrament meeting, my brother was up at the sacrament table so that he could bless the bread. While the bread was being passed, I said another little prayer in my head: “Lord, please bless my brother Michael with happiness.”
In that moment, I just felt this enormous sense of love for my brother, and I realized how much God loved him. The feeling was quiet and reverent, but it was extremely powerful to me.
After the sacrament, Michael came and sat down. It felt so awkward, but I turned to him and told him that God loves him.
I have felt God’s love for people around me, and I’ve felt it for me personally. I know that He loves you, too.

In 1991, as the world marked the 150th year since the death of Mozart, the BYU Singers were invited by the Israel Chamber Orchestra to join them for a series of all-Mozart concerts performed throughout their country. We faced enormous opposition as we were preparing for the trip. We thought for a long while that the Kuwaiti-Iranian conflict had finished all plans for the trip. But as that conflict ended, President Lee told us to proceed with faith and confidence.

We arrived in Israel with great excitement and anticipation and found, much to my chagrin, that the greatest conflict we were to meet was a conflict with the orchestra itself. This is a professional orchestra, made up of sophisticated musicians, most of whom have immigrated to Israel from Western and Eastern Europe, Russia, and the United States. I am sure they were grumbling to themselves as this totally unknown, probably inexperienced choral conductor from a department of music of one of those American universities was introduced at the first of our two rehearsals. To make matters worse, the orchestra had been trained to play with a delayed attack, coming after the ictus of the conductor’s beat. That means that rather than playing at the point where my conducting pattern would create the beat, they would slightly delay the sound. I have observed and been puzzled by conductors who work this way and was inexperienced when it came to that sort of music-making.

Although the attitude of the orchestra changed noticeably as they heard the musical preparation and sound of our choir, the rehearsal was riddled with precision problems that were totally unacceptable in any music, but doubly so in Mozart, where precision of articulation, dynamic shifts, attacks, and releases is elemental to the music’s sound and style. Though the music had held together generally, I left that rehearsal sick at heart. What was I going to do?

We were the orchestra’s guests in the country. We knew of the delicate relationship of our Church, particularly the university’s Jerusalem Center, and the Israeli government. We were on a mission to build goodwill. We had been told by then Elder Hunter that our mission was not to harvest, probably not even to plant, but to clear away a few more stones. And I did not want to start throwing verbal stones at members of that orchestra and impede our greater purpose for being there.

We were lodging at the Jerusalem Center because the Gulf War had forced cancellation of the Semester Abroad Program that season. I spent most of that night standing at the window of the room where my wife and I were staying, looking out over the Old City wondering what more I should have done to prepare and praying earnestly for the right way to approach our last rehearsal the following morning.

Morning came, and when Jan was ready to go up to breakfast, I told her to go without me, that I wanted to fast. After she had left, my heart was increasingly heavy, and I knew I had to speak my anxiety aloud. I walked over to my bed, and as I knelt down, even before I could address Father in Heaven, two words were spoken forcefully and simultaneously to my mind and to my heart: “Be strong.”

“But be courteous,” I added of my own accord.

And then the words came a second time, as forcefully as before: “Be strong.”

I knew then and know now that this was a great blessing, given not so much for me as for the small contribution toward the unfolding of a very large work. On the bus from Jerusalem down to Tel Aviv, Jan squeezed my hand and asked what I was going to do. “Be strong,” I answered. As we began that last rehearsal, I stated my expectation as clearly and as firmly as I could. The orchestra understood, and with only the need for small reminders, we found the precision, the musicality, the greater communication we all sought.

There is a boy in my class who acts mean. He kicks classmates, and he stole a toy from my backpack. When my birthday came, I decided to invite everyone in my class, except for that boy. But as soon as I had that thought, I knew that it is not what Jesus would have done. I invited the boy to my party, and he was excited when I handed him an invitation. It felt good to be nice to someone, even if he is not always nice to me. I think this is what Jesus would want me to do.

I was baptised on 26 September 2004. I know for sure from that week onwards I was regular to the church. Both my daughters, Annie and Jenny, and I did our best in all our callings.
After few years of our membership in the Church, we had to move to Tirupur due to my daughter’s job and there was no branch in the town. We used to make two and a half hours trips by train to Coimbatore or Semmedu to attend sacrament meeting. My husband had an accident and time made it very difficult for us to attend church regularly.
We still kept our faith, prayed both personally and as family. We prayed and fasted for a branch in our town. It was three long years without sacrament, no gospel had been taught, no missionaries, no people then to visit. This filled us with unhappiness and heavy hearts. Our material blessings kept us alive but still our souls were always hungry and thirsty for spiritual food and comfort.
To our surprise and wonder it was announced that there is going to be a home group in our town. I felt so happy and my soul rejoiced.
It was a fast Sunday and we were about 70 members, each of us testified how merciful and mindful the Lord was of His children. Now, our life is blessed. Now our generations will grow in the Church, follow Christ and hold on to the iron rod as we follow the principle of obedience. I know that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the true Church on this earth. The Book of Mormon is a true word of God. I know President Nelson is called of God.

I give my aloha to Kahoku Haverly, my wife, my love and companion; she is quite literally the reason why I am standing here in this suit and arguably with this stress, speaking to you in this capacity as stake president.

I have lost many a Gospel discussion with this woman. From the days where I'd ask, “You don't REALLY believe that Joseph Smith actually SAW God do you?” and her calm and confident responses, I'm not gonna lie, they kind of irritated me. Not because she was sharing them as a “know it all,” but more because I could feel her answers were correct, and fought it. Other questions; as an active Protestant, I'd ask, “Well in Revelations at the end of the Bible it says that you can't add to this Bible, and here's your church adding this whole other book, The Book of Mormon. Explain that.” And with calmness and confidence, she'd explain that well, that same promise was stated in Deuteronomy; the word Bible means collection of books; Revelation was written much earlier chronologically than other books in the New Testament; John meant that no one should add to the revelations of what he was describing… ugh. Again, it was irritating yet convincing. My spirit told me she was right. I knew she was right. Again. And again.

The discussions turned from, “Why does your church…?” to “Tell me about…?” Notice the difference in tone. A young woman's prayers of faith to be that instrument in conversion of a friend were now prayers being answered to soften that young man's heart, demeanor and perspective. I look back at those times with such surprise and awe, knowing it definitely was critical that the prayers of a young woman, True to the Faith8, inseparably connected to the concepts of what is now For the Strength of Youth, followed the Spirit, paid attention in seminary and used her quiver of spiritual tools to help a very hard headed young man allow his heart to be softened. They were so very different. Yet they became the same.

Years later, after a baptism, a mission, a temple marriage, and 6 children, I'd draw upon these experiences as I counseled with many couples as they prepared to get sealed in the temple.

Another way to be happy is to learn self-control. When I was younger, I loved to play basketball. But I did not have good sportsmanship. Winning was everything to me. Whenever someone fouled me, I would get angry.
Then I learned that basketball is only a game. I decided to change. One day, someone elbowed me in the chest on purpose. He pushed me hard. In the past, I would have gotten angry, but this time I walked away without saying anything. I had the best feeling. I knew that I had learned to control myself. It felt better than winning!

One of the favorite stories of our family comes from a true incident in the life of a woman who was the victim of cerebral palsy. The woman tells how as a child she would look forward to meeting her father at the gate of the ranch corral each evening as he returned from rounding up the cattle. He would drive the herd into the corral, close the big gate, and then hoist her up into his arms and steady her hand as she practiced placing the rope over the post to secure the gate. One evening she waited in her usual place by the gate. She watched as the cattle ran into the corral. Then she looked for her father, but he did not come. Panic struck her as she realized the gate must be closed and secured without his steadying hand to guide her own. It was with great effort and struggle that she tried over and over again to slide the rope up and over the gate post. With great concentration and with her strength almost completely exhausted, she finally succeeded. As she completed what was for her a very difficult task, she looked up to see her father nearby. He had been there for some time watching her determined struggle, wanting to reach out and help her and to steady and guide her hands as he usually did; but he knew she needed that experience. She needed to know she could do the task and thus gain the confidence to try other difficult tasks on her own. As much as he loved her and wanted to make her trial easier, he had to permit her to struggle, to learn through her own efforts the satisfaction that comes from personal sacrifice and achievement.

Jonathon grumbled as he climbed into the car next to his brother, Mike. He wanted to stay home and play the new game he had been given for his birthday last week. But his mother insisted they all go to the meetinghouse and help with the ward’s cleanup day.
“Why do we have to go?” Jonathon had asked his mother as he helped her load their vacuum into the car.
“It will be fun,” she said, smiling. “Besides, all of us use the meetinghouse. It’s only right that we help clean it from time to time.”
Jonathon stared out the window and watched the houses and trees pass by as they drove to the church. As his mother pulled the car into the church’s parking lot, Jonathon was surprised to see Brother Lawson park his car next to theirs.
“What is Brother Lawson doing here?” Jonathon wondered.
Brother Lawson had been very sick lately with a type of cancer called leukemia. He had been in the hospital for a long time. Jonathon remembered his parents encouraging Mike and him to pray for Brother Lawson during their personal and family prayers. Brother Lawson hadn’t been home from the hospital for very long.
Jonathon had always liked Brother Lawson. He was older than Jonathon’s grandfathers, but he went out of his way to talk to Jonathon and ask him about school and his sports team. One time he even came to one of Jonathon’s games.
As Jonathon climbed out of the car, Brother Lawson waved and said, “Hi, Jonathon.” Brother Lawson walked around to the back of his car and took a vacuum out of the trunk. Walking slowly, he pushed the vacuum into the church.
“Jonathon,” his mother called, “can you give me a hand with this?” She was struggling to pull their vacuum from the back of the car.
“Sure, Mom,” Jonathon said. He helped her pull the vacuum out and quickly pushed it across the parking lot.
All that evening Jonathon and Mike worked beside Brother Lawson. Several times Jonathon became tired and stopped to rest, but he noticed that Brother Lawson continued to work. And he was smiling! “It’s nice to be able to help, isn’t it?” Brother Lawson asked.
Jonathon felt something change inside him. “If Brother Lawson can be happy while he’s helping, so can I,” he thought. He started working even harder.
“Thank you for coming with me,” his mother said later as they were heading home.
“You’re welcome,” Jonathon said. “I’m sorry I complained about coming. I didn’t know you could learn so much from vacuuming.”

I have two very close friends, and I love them both for different reasons, because they represent two different parts of myself. I have found myself trying to get them together, but you can’t force two people to like each other. So I have made the decision and chose not to choose between them. Finally, one of them took the step and broke the ice. Now they are on better terms, and things are a lot easier because the tension is gone.
Hang in there, and don’t be two-faced about it. Be honest with both of them.
Mindy Smith, 15Soda Springs, Idaho

My senior year in high school was filled with student body responsibilities, classes, activities, and planning for next year at BYU. I felt my senior year was a time for me to evaluate and take stock, to plan for big changes in my life. And all my friends were getting contact lenses.
“It’s a whole new world!” Cheryl confided as we huddled in our band uniforms at the opening football game. “I can see things I never saw before!” I had to admit she looked much prettier, too. Her small Japanese features no longer hid behind the thick glasses she had worn for years.
I pushed my own glasses back up on my nose and considered the possibilities. If Cheryl and Carolyn and Ron and Celia could make the change, why couldn’t I? It couldn’t be all that big a deal.
Or could it? I pondered some more as my regular checkup with the ophthalmologist approached.
“Of course!” he reassured me. He could fit me with contacts. I would have them within two weeks, for a mere $200, including eye exam and fittings during the breaking-in period.
That, of course, was another problem. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money for my family in 1970. I didn’t want to waste it. What if I couldn’t get used to the contacts?
I thought some more as I bicycled home. Daddy’s business hadn’t been going well. On the other hand, I had a good part-time job. Maybe I could offer to pay part of the bill. Maybe I would have to pay for the whole thing. Would it be worth it? I decided it would.
“Absolutely not,” said Daddy. “No daughter of mine is going to wear contact lenses.” I argued that everyone was getting them. I argued that I would pay part of the cost. I argued that I would pay all of it. I argued that I had $200, and more, sitting in the bank at that very minute. I argued that the doctor thought he could correct my vision more accurately with contacts. I argued that my glasses pinched behind my ears. I argued that contacts would give me better grades in school. Daddy was adamant, totally unreasonable. He finally put his foot down and refused to listen any more. “I don’t want you to go through all that,” he said flatly. “No. Don’t ask again.”
I stormed to my room in tears. The fight had bolstered my resolve. Anger had replaced any squeamish fears I had entertained. I would show him! I was 17 years old. I had my own life to live! Nobody was going to have control over me, not while I had $200 of my own money in the bank. I fantasized that I would be beautiful, independent. I would even lose weight, maybe streak my hair. Boys would take me out. I would show that mean, old-fashioned man a thing or two!
The next day I made an appointment for another eye examination.
I felt very shy and embarrassed the day I returned home wearing my new contacts. My eyes seemed different and foreign. The feeling was not unlike the strange tingle I had in my fingertips on the rare occasions when I used nail polish. I felt naked without my glasses, but I was astounded at the clarity of my vision. And in my heart a lurking fear was beginning to grow.
My father was more surprised and curious than shocked and angry. “Please let me see them,” he said. I held out the tiny green disk on the tip of a finger. He stared at it almost reverently. “Is this all there is to it? It’s so tiny. Are you sure you can see with it?”
I felt smug, superior, vindicated.
His next question surprised me. “Didn’t it hurt your eyes when they poured the latex in?” What on earth was he talking about? Nothing of that sort had gone on at all.
“I want to show you something,” he said, beckoning. I followed him upstairs to his room. From the back of his sock drawer, he pulled out a hinged leather case and opened it. On the white velvet lining were two glass balls. No, not balls. I picked one up. Doll teacups, of clear glass, an inch in diameter and an eighth inch thick.
“These are my contact lenses,” Daddy said sadly.
I was horrified. “How could anyone wear those? Why they must cover the whole eyeball!”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I wore them three times.”
My mother peered over my shoulder. “One of the times was on his second date with me,” she said. “His poor eyes watered so much and he was so miserable I made him take them off.”
“They made them by propping my eyelids open with a metal brace and pouring liquid latex over my eyes,” he explained. “The molds were then used for the glass lenses, which fit tightly over the entire eye. It took all my courage to put them in. I didn’t want that to happen to my little girl,” he finished lamely.
Remorse filled my heart. Daddy had only been trying to protect me from the pain he had suffered himself, while I had thought he was being mean and unreasonable. I shuddered as I remembered my misery when the orthodontist had made latex molds of my teeth. Then I thought of the young man, 20 years earlier, who had endured incredible agony for the hope of being freed from the burden of thick, heavy glasses.
Daddy hadn’t realized that times had changed. His actions toward me had been motivated by memories of his earlier experiences. I understood better now the reasons for other restrictions he imposed upon his children. He had once been a young man. Events during those years had shaped his relationship with his family; and the family rules, fair or unfair, were influenced by those experiences.
I knew the remaining months I would spend in Daddy’s household were limited. I would soon begin a new life that would lead me away from home. Very shortly, my parents would not be responsible for my welfare, and I was sorry my new understanding of them had come so late. I wished I had been more considerate and teachable.

While serving with her husband, George C. Pingree, as he presided over the Nigeria Port Harcourt Mission, Sister Pingree focused some of her efforts on promoting literacy, especially among auxiliary leaders. “I’ll never forget how joyful the sisters were when they learned to read. When they stood up in training meetings and read simple sentences about their leadership responsibility, the other women there would clap for them, they were so happy,” says Sister Pingree. “It opened up a whole new world.”

My beloved wife, Jeanene, loved doing family history research. When our children were young, she would trade babysitting time with friends so she could have a few hours every few weeks to work on researching our family lines. After our youngest child left home, she recorded in her personal journal: “I have just made a decision and I want to stand up and shout about it. Mike’s old bedroom has become my genealogy workroom. It is well equipped to organize the records and work in. My life will now focus on vital family research and temple name submissions. I am so excited and anxious to get going.”

Another journal entry reads: “The … miracle for me occurred in the Family History office of Mel Olsen, who presented me with a printout of all my known ancestral pedigrees taken from the update of the Ancestral File computerized records sent into the genealogical society. They came mostly from the records of the four-generation program the Church called for many years ago. I had been overwhelmed with the thought of the huge task ahead of me to gather all my ancestors’ research records from family organizations to get them all in the computer for the first computerized distribution of the Ancestral File. And there they all were, beautiful, organized, and laser printed and sitting there on the desk before me. I was so thrilled and so overwhelmed I just sat there stunned and then began to cry, I was so happy. … For one who has doggedly, painstakingly researched for thirty years, the computerization of all these records is truly exciting. And when I think of the hundreds of thousands of people who are now or soon will be computerizing huge blocks of censuses and private research disks, … I am so excited. It is truly the Lord’s work and He is directing it.”

Nina Lyn Oliver is a young woman who cares a lot about her country and her community.
The 17-year-old from West Jordan, Utah, knew that when war broke out in the Persian Gulf, there would be a lot of turmoil and concern. She wanted to do something to comfort families that were torn apart, as well as to support those serving overseas.
“Nina Lyn is a get-things-done kind of person,” comments her mother, Pat Oliver. “She got this idea and away she went!”
First of all, Nina Lyn and her sisters canvassed the entire ward community (approximately 200 homes) in the West Jordan 66th Ward, West Jordan Stake, and asked each neighbor, both LDS and non-LDS, if they’d like a yellow ribbon decoration for their mailbox or door in support of the troops. “The response was remarkable. Only one family did not wish to participate,” comments Nina Lyn.
Next, Nina Lyn and her mom blitzed several fabric stores and bought up 500 yards of yellow ribbon. “We cleaned them out!” she laughs. The neighbors shared in the costs. “They were very generous,” Nina Lyn comments.
Along with more help from her mom and her three sisters, Heidi, 15, Julie, 13, and Mandi, 11, and her two brothers, Brant, 9, and Mark, 6, Nina Lyn plunged into her ambitious project. Everyone worked all day on Saturday, and on Sunday evening, six of the Beehives and four of the Laurels in her ward’s Young Women program pitched in and helped, too.
Early Monday morning, on Human Rights Day, Nina Lyn and her family members set out in freezing snow flurries and high winds to tie the yellow ribbons on mailboxes and doors throughout their neighborhood. “It was a challenge,” comments Nina Lyn, “but on occasion the weather was kind of nice to us.” Several hours later, they returned home chilled to the bone and with fingers sore from tying on the bows with wire fasteners. The entire project from start to finish took over 100 hours of work.
Where did Nina Lyn get her idea? “My dad, Klare Oliver, is in the army reserves, and although he doesn’t have to go to war because he is diabetic, it’s important to me to support the troops—to be patriotic. They are carrying out their responsibilities to our country and helping others to have their freedom. I believe it’s important that we all support them. And the yellow ribbons are a way of showing this.”
Nina Lyn is a senior at West Jordan High School. “She is highly motivated and a bundle of energy,” comments her mom. Nina Lyn’s alarm clock goes off every morning at five o’clock so she can attend early-morning seminary. She sings with the concert choir and madrigals, and plays viola in the orchestra. She also teaches 15 piano students through the week. Nina Lyn is a member of the Peer-Leadership team, which is teens against drug and alcohol abuse. “I keep busy to make life fun,” she says with a smile.
Nearly every hour of every week in Nina Lyn’s life is accounted for, and yet during a crisis she took time out of her hectic schedule to involve herself, her family, and her neighbors in a show of patriotic support.

Thinking about this young sister missionary brings back memories of my first few days as a young elder. Serving in Tokyo, Japan, with no previous language training, I participated many mornings in a flyer distribution activity at the Nishi Koiwa train station. As men hustled to board their train to go to work early each morning, we politely approached them and offered a small flyer detailing the location of our church and providing a brief spiritual message. As the men rapidly passed by, I learned to say, “Dozo, yonde kudasai,” or “Please read this.” After a few days of repeating the same simple directive, I asked my companion, Elder Kent McKell, if there might be another phrase I could use. He told me to say, “Dozo, o yomi ni natte kudasai,” which means the same thing (please read this) but in honorific language. I proceeded to use the newly discovered expression but unfortunately failed to pronounce one syllable correctly. That morning I repeated, perhaps 200 times, to busy Japanese businessmen, “Dozo, oyome ni natte kudasai,” or “Please marry me” (literally, please become my bride). Yes, we risk failure or embarrassment when we approach others, but it is the right thing to do!

It had been a long, disappointing day, and now Elder Cooksey and I were walking through the rain of Puerto Montt, a city in the Chile Osorno Mission. We had lost three families from our investigator pool. Two were unable—perhaps unwilling—to commit to keeping some of the commandments, while the third family felt they couldn’t leave the pastor of their current church, a man who was this family’s close, personal friend.
We knew that all three families had testimonies of the gospel, yet they were no longer interested in listening to our message. I was in the depths of despair. As we walked through the cold rain that night, I thought, What’s the use? We were struggling to share something that no one wanted to hear. I wondered what I was doing. I was in this strange country, far from family and friends, and now to make matters worse I was soaking wet.
As I dried myself after arriving home late that night, I crawled into my bed, ready to do battle with fleas. I opened the Book of Mormon at random and glanced at a page. The words of Ammon helped me find the answer to my despair.
“And we have entered into their houses and taught them, and we have taught them in their streets; yea, and we have taught them upon their hills; and we have also entered into their temples and their synagogues and taught them; and we have been cast out, and mocked, and spit upon, and smote upon our cheeks; and we have been stoned, and taken and bound with strong cords, and cast into prison; and through the power and wisdom of God we have been delivered again.
“And we have suffered all manner of afflictions, and all this, that perhaps we might be the means of saving some soul; and we supposed that our joy would be full if perhaps we could be the means of saving some” (Alma 26:29–30).
This passage brought me back to reality, and I had the answer I was looking for. That was why I was in a foreign land, and that is why we serve missions—that perhaps we might be the means of saving some soul.

A family had been taking pictures on a lookout point of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. They heard screams and ran to find that a two-year-old girl had fallen through a railing to a ledge about 35 feet (11 m) below. The little one tried to climb back up, but her movements caused her to slip even farther until she was 5 feet (1.5 m) from a dangerous 200-foot (61-m) drop.
A 19-year-old young man named Ian saw where she was and, using his emergency-response training, knew how to handle the situation. These are his words: “‘Immediately, it all came at me, and I just knew what I had to do. I set down my camera and went up the trail a little ways where it wasn’t as steep, climbed over the rail, scrambled down a bunch of rocks and through brush, and found her.’ Holding her in his arms for an hour, Ian waited until emergency teams could drop down with ropes [to rescue them]” (in Patricia Auxier, “Save Her!” New Era, Sept. 2007, 6). The phrase “holding her in his arms” caught my attention because the scriptures talk about arms—arms of love, arms of mercy, and arms of safety (see 2 Nephi 1:15; Mosiah 16:12; Alma 5:33; D&C 6:20; 29:1).

It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I sat at the window in the living room and looked out. The snow had piled up almost every day for a week, but now the skies were clear and the air was icy. I could hear Mom, Tara, and Laurie in the kitchen, making treats for the neighbors. Next to me the Christmas tree twinkled, and there were piles of presents stacked beneath it. Usually on Christmas Eve I would feel each package and shake and smell it. I didn’t care about the packages this year.
Christmas had always been fun before. As soon as all the presents were exchanged, I would call Bryan, and we would spend the rest of the morning together until it was time to visit our cousins.
I couldn’t ever remember a time when Bryan and I hadn’t been best friends. We did everything together. We studied together, weeded our gardens together, had a paper route together, joined Cub Scouts together.
Bryan and I were both planning to play football in the pros. He was going to be the quarterback, and I was going to be the end. What a team we’d make! But now I wasn’t sure if we would ever play football together again.
Ever since Bryan had told me about the cancer in his left leg, I had prayed for him. I had even fasted two different Sundays. But the doctors still took his leg off, just above his knee. They said that they thought that they had caught the cancer in time and that it hadn’t spread, but his leg was still gone, and right now he lay in a hospital bed with nothing but a TV and a stack of books and magazines to keep him company.
“Randy,” Mom said, coming into the living room, “you sure look glum for a Christmas Eve.”
“I keep thinking about Bryan,” I mumbled.
“He’ll be fine,” Mom declared. “His mother told me that his whole family is going to celebrate Christmas Eve in his hospital room tonight.”
“But it’s not the same thing. Besides, I wanted to give him something … something super.”
“You already sent a present over.”
I nodded sadly. “A book. But that’s nothing, even if he does have to stay in bed and reading is all that he can do. I wanted to give him something extra special, something that he’d never forget.” I stopped for a moment, then blurted out, “What he really wanted was a football, an official leather football so that we could practice to play in the pros.”
Mother smiled understandingly. “That’s what you’ve both wanted for years, I know.”
“Bryan really did want a football, Mom. But you know how much they cost.”
Mom smiled again and just said, “Yes, I know how much they cost.”
I glanced in toward the tree and stared at the package wrapped in gold foil paper that was nestled under the far side of the tree. Yes, I thought, Mom knows how much footballs cost.
Then she asked gently, “Are you forgetting Bryan’s leg?”
“Bryan won’t always have a stump for a leg,” I told her. “They make legs. Good ones. There was a guy that had his leg cut off because of cancer, and he walked clear across Canada. If he could do something like that, Bryan will be able to play football. And if he had a football now, he’d have something to look forward to, something to work for. We’re still going to play in the pros!”
Mom went back to the kitchen, and I looked out the window again. Christmas would soon be here. If I was going to do anything for Bryan, I would have to do it soon. Then an idea came so quickly that for a moment I could hardly breathe.
Hurrying to my room, I pulled on my sweatshirt, wiggled into my heavy coat, pulled the hood over my head, stomped my feet into my snow boots, grabbed my gloves, and raced back to the living room. I reached for the gold-wrapped package under the tree, called to Mom that I’d be back in a while, then slipped out of the house.
The snow squeaked and crunched under my boots, and my breath puffed out of my mouth and nose in steamy clouds as I sped down the street. Finally I reached the hospital. I pulled open the huge glass doors, walked rapidly down the long hall, and got on the elevator and pushed the third floor button.
Bryan didn’t see me slip into his room, so I whispered, “Hi, Bryan.”
His head turned toward me, and his face and eyes brightened. “Randy!” he cried. “I knew you’d come.”
“How do you feel?” I asked, setting the package on the floor by the bed.
“Oh, OK I guess.”
“You’ll be out of here before you know it,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad you came, Randy.”
“I knew you couldn’t have much of a Christmas here,” I told him. “A hospital is no place for Christmas. And I knew I could never have Christmas without seeing you. I just had to come—and I brought you something.” I bent over, picked up the package, and handed it to Bryan.
“But you already gave me a present. It’s over there, under the tree.”
I glanced at the small silver tree in the corner. My book, wrapped in Santa Claus paper, lay with several other packages. I shook my head. “That’s not my real present,” I told him. “This one is. Open it now, while I’m here.” I pushed the package across the covers to where Bryan could reach it.
He tugged at the gold wrapping paper, pulled the lid off the box, and caught his breath. Then he reached in and lifted out the football. “But, Randy, this was supposed to be yours, wasn’t it?”
“But I want you to have it,” I faltered. “It’s the only thing I could think of that was super special enough for you. It’s one just like we’ve always talked about. Now we’ll play in the pros for sure!”
For a long time Bryan stared at the ball. Then tears came to his eyes.
“Don’t you like it?” I asked hoarsely. “It’s a real one, just like they use in the pros. I just knew you’d have to have one because—” The words caught in my throat. I looked down at the flat place on the bed where Bryan’s left leg should have been.
Bryan was staring at the flat place too. “I can’t take your ball, Randy,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can even play any more.”
“Yes you can—we’ll still play together!” I burst out. “It’s just like I was telling Mom. They make artificial legs, Bryan. Good ones. And the quarterback doesn’t have to run much. You can still play. We’ll still be a team.”
Bryan smiled weakly. “Maybe I ought to be the coach,” he said. “The coach doesn’t have to run at all. All he has to do is yell and blow his whistle, and I can at least do that.”
Bryan stared again at the flat place. I caught my breath, starting to feel sick.
Suddenly Bryan grinned up at me and declared, “It’s a super ball, just what I’ve always wanted. I’m glad that you brought it. Real glad.” Then his smile faded. “But I don’t have anything for you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t need anything. There’s only one thing I really want, and that’s for you to get well and leave here.” There was a terrible, hurting lump in my throat. I tried to swallow it away, but it was stuck. I bit down on my lip. “Every night I pray for you. And every Sunday in Primary we pray for you too. We never forget you, Bryan.”
“I know, and it means a lot to me. But I still want to give you something. I want to give you a super gift too.” He held his new ball tightly. “You know I’ve always wanted a football just like this, and to play in the pros,” he said, rubbing his cheek against the ball. He looked up at me. “You’ll have to play for both of us.” He stopped, then holding the ball out, added, “You’ll need a good ball. The very best. Take this one and play for both of us. It won’t hurt so much if I know I’m helping you out, that you’re playing with my ball.”
“But if I take your ball, that will mean I didn’t give you anything good.”
“Oh, but you did, Randy. You gave me the best gift of all, just by coming.” Bryan smiled. “I waited all day. I didn’t even sleep. I just lay here and looked out the window. I knew you’d come because you’re my friend, the best friend in the world, and having a friend like you is the very best Christmas present of all.”
I could feel a tear trickle down my cheek. I reached out, took the ball from Bryan, and tucked it under my arm. “I’ll come and see you tomorrow too.”
Bryan nodded.
As I trudged back home through the snow, I knew that now I could enjoy Christmas.