Gospel Story Finder

The first time I went duck hunting, I was ten years old. My dad wanted to spend some time with his boys because his Church job and his job as a lawyer had taken so much of his time. He suggested that we go duck hunting at a lake an hour outside of St. George, Utah. My older brother, Michael, was excited about the trip. I didn’t know what to expect, but I felt happy to sit alongside my brother and my dad in the pickup truck.
When we got there, we crawled on our hands and knees to the edge of the lake. The frozen ground felt hard underneath my hands. I peered over the water, looking for some ducks. My fourteen-year-old brother stood up and shot at the few birds on the lake as they were taking off. When the birds cleared away from the lake, I could see one dark bird left floating on the water. My dad realized that we didn’t have a dog to fetch the dead duck out of the water, so he said that he would get it.
The water was freezing at that time of year, and my brother and I were thankful that he had volunteered. Dad took off his shoes and his jacket and waded into the lake. He swam until he reached some reeds, where he stopped to grab onto them to catch his breath. Unfortunately the reeds were not strong enough to hold him up, so he treaded water for a while.
When he finally made it to the bird, he held it up and called to us, “It’s a mud hen.”
A mud hen is different from a duck because it is not good to eat. My brother groaned and shook his head at the effort Dad had made for an uneatable mud hen.
Dad started to swim back. Suddenly he yelled that he was in trouble. He could not get enough air, and he couldn’t swim anymore. I can still remember seeing him sink in the water. He came up again and thrashed around in an effort to stay afloat.
“We have to go get him!” Michael cried. He had earned swimming and life-saving merit badges and had the presence of mind to realize this was an emergency.
Fear flashed through my body. I began to take off my shoes and jacket because I thought that I shouldn’t try to swim with all my clothes on. Meanwhile, Michael could see that there was no time to take off anything. So with all of his clothes on, he dove into the water and swam out just before Dad went under for the second time. He grabbed Dad and used the Boy Scout lifesaving technique to bring him back to the shore.
When they finally reached the shore, they were both breathing heavily. Dad had inhaled a lot of freezing water and felt so tired that he could barely walk. My brother and I wrapped him in blankets to keep him warm during the drive home. I knew that Dad had come very close to drowning. My heart thumped inside my chest the entire ride home because I felt so scared.
My older brother saved Dad’s life. As I watched Michael swim out to save Dad, I felt very thankful that my brother had learned what to do in Scouts. At age ten, I knew that I could not have saved my dad. I was not strong enough, I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do even if I had gone out there. Michael did. Later, the Boy Scouts of America awarded him its highest honor—a gold medal for saving a life.

I knew that studying the Book of Mormon during my final year of seminary would also fortify my testimony. As I truly studied, I felt Heavenly Father’s love for me. The stories inspired me to the point that all I wanted to do was read the Book of Mormon. I began to take the Book of Mormon to school and would read it during my free time. I also began to discuss what I was reading with my father.
One day after a long conversation with my father about the gospel, I challenged him to read all of the Book of Mormon. I testified that, like me, he could receive a testimony.
I am happy to say that my father read the Book of Mormon. When he did, he knew the Church is true and was eventually baptized! My family is now preparing to be sealed in the temple. I know that attending seminary and reading the scriptures helped me develop my own testimony, and I know that they bless families.

Soon it was time for Emma’s baby to be born. The pile of manuscript pages had grown thick, and Martin had become convinced that if he could let his wife read the translation, she would see its value and stop interfering with their work.32 He also hoped Lucy would be pleased with how he had spent his time and money to help bring forth God’s word.
One day, Martin asked Joseph for permission to take the manuscript to Palmyra for a few weeks.33 Remembering how Lucy Harris had acted when she visited the house, Joseph was wary of the idea. Yet he wanted to please Martin, who had believed him when so many others had doubted his word.34
Unsure what to do, Joseph prayed for guidance, and the Lord told him not to let Martin take the pages.35 But Martin was sure showing them to his wife would change things, and he begged Joseph to ask again. Joseph did so, but the answer was the same. Martin pressed him to ask a third time, however, and this time God allowed them to do as they pleased.
Joseph told Martin he could take the pages for two weeks if he covenanted to keep them locked up and show them only to certain family members. Martin made the promise and returned to Palmyra, manuscript in hand.36
After Martin left, Moroni appeared to Joseph and took the interpreters from him.37
The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43

“If you took a look at my books, you might not be quite so anxious to open your store on Sunday! I can show you mathematically that we did not make any profit on Sunday during the years our business was open on Sunday!”
As a young couple, my wife and I worked for several years in Idaho Falls in eating establishments which were open on Sunday. During that time, we noticed that on Sunday, the business often lost money. The machinery always seemed to break down, and then we could not serve the customers. Repairmen charged twice as much on that day. Good hired help was hard to find. We vowed that if we were ever able to buy a business of our own, we would make some changes.
The opportunity finally came one year with the purchase of a drive-in restaurant. The loan we took out to buy the business was large, and the finance people and the other owners of surrounding food establishments, assured us that we did not have the slightest chance of paying off our loan if we did not compete on the biggest sales day of the week—Sunday. Because we had already paid the down payment and wanted to make a success of our enterprise we felt trapped. We stayed open.
As predicted, Sunday proved to be our biggest day. Having made the decision to stay open on Sunday, we couldn’t change. We were afraid of the business we would lose. Eventually, in the back of our minds, grew the fear that if we did not serve people on Sunday, we would lose our customers and be unable to raise the large sum we needed to make the business ours.
We had almost reached our goal when I had a heart attack. Because good Sunday help was hard to find, we agreed to close on Sunday through the winter months.
My doctor was pleased with our decision, happy that I could get some much needed rest. But as the months passed, I became worried about the low volume of business we had on our books. One day I told my wife that we should again open on Sunday. She looked at me in silence for several seconds, then said, “First, go look in the mirror and see if you look like a man who could stand seven days of work each week!”
“I guess I don’t have to look,” I answered slowly. “We’d better forget the whole idea.”
Later, as we sat down together to review and evaluate our business year, our fears were confirmed—our gross sales were over $17,000 lower than the previous years! But in spite of our low volume, our balance showed only $10.00 less profit! We were amazed. Pleased with such figures, we agreed to keep the drive-in closed on Sunday for another year. Again, the volume was way down but the profit was no less. Our drive-in was a success without opening on Sunday!
When I think of the poor effect on my health and all the work I did for nothing on those Sundays, I am surprised it took me as long to learn the lesson that obedience to the law of the Sabbath carries its own reward. The Sabbath is the Lord’s day. Wc will all be blessed for honoring it.

“Beth, come on! Mom’s ready to go!” Beth’s older sister, Rachel, said. She stood outside of their room, tapping her foot.
Beth tied a ribbon in her hair, just like the one Rachel wore. “Just a second,” she said. “Now I’m ready!”
The girls ran to the car, and Mom drove them to the church. Today was activity day, and all of the age groups were meeting together. Beth was excited to be with her big sister, but she was nervous too. What if she couldn’t do things as well as the older girls?
There were three activities for the day. First the girls learned about cleanliness and made bubble-bath jars.
“I’ve done this before,” Rachel whispered to Beth. “It’s easy.”
But it wasn’t easy for Beth. She kept spilling the bath salts on her shoes, and her jar was messier than Rachel’s.
Next they decorated journals. Beth drew red tulips on her journal cover. She smiled at her picture, but when she saw Rachel’s beautiful drawing of a fairy-tale castle, Beth covered her own artwork. Why couldn’t she be as talented as her sister? For a moment, she wished that she could be her sister.
After the girls finished their drawings, they had a devotional with Sister Foster. When Beth sat down, Rachel said, “Beth, your hair ribbon is loose. Do you want me to fix it for you?”
“OK,” Beth said, but that made her feel even worse. Rachel was perfect in everything. Beth couldn’t concentrate on the devotional because she was worrying about how she looked compared to Rachel.
After the devotional, Beth watched Rachel go up to Sister Foster.
“Thank you for your talk,” Rachel said. “I really liked what you said about how Heavenly Father loves us for just being who we are.”
Beth blinked. Was that what Sister Foster had said? She hadn’t been listening.
“You’re welcome,” Sister Foster said. “I think we all go through times when we feel we aren’t good enough, but Heavenly Father always loves us, even when we have room to grow.”
Beth thought about how her parents loved her and Rachel equally, even though she and Rachel looked different and had different talents. If her parents loved her that much, Heavenly Father must love her even more. He loved every girl in the room!
Beth remembered feeling Heavenly Father’s love after she was baptized. It had been like a warm blanket over her heart. She felt that way again as the Holy Ghost whispered to her that Heavenly Father loved her for who she was—His daughter. Beth decided that she didn’t want to compare herself with others anymore. She just wanted to keep feeling Heavenly Father’s love and sharing that love with other people instead of worrying so much about herself. It was a good feeling. Beth walked over to Rachel and threw her arms around her.
“Thanks for being my sister, Rachel,” she said. “I love you.”
Rachel was surprised, but she smiled. “I love you too, sis. Thanks for being who you are.”

Moving from a small high school in a small town to a big one in a faraway place is hard enough. But it’s especially rough if your name is Ferger Brown. Some people with different names shorten them, or use a nickname. There is nothing you can do, however, with Ferger. Shortening it doesn’t help, and the only nicknames I ever received were worse than Ferger.
In every class that first day of school my junior year, I endured the snapping of other students’ heads in unison when I answered “Here” in my deep bass voice to each teacher’s incredulous question, “Ferger Brown?” Had I been six feet and 190 pounds with the face of a movie star, I suppose any name might have been considered dashing. As it was, at five-feet-four, with a hook nose; long, skinny face; and glasses, I looked—as one of my friends back home said—”just like my name.” Added to that, I had a voice lower than sea level. For some reason, when I turned 13, my voice went bottom fishing and never came up.
As I walked out of my second-period class, a girl with blond hair walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Stephanie Hays. You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her freckled nose crinkled when she smiled, and I thought things may not be so bad around here after all.
“Yeah,” I answered, returning the smile. “We just moved here from Steamsprings, Illinois.”
“Welcome to Hillsdale High,” she said.
I was ready to start strolling down the hall with this beauty when a character who looked like he had been on Mr. America vitamins since the third grade walked up to us. He was muscular and at least six-five.
“This guy bothering you, Steph?” he asked.
“No, he’s new here. I was just introducing myself.”
Brute Force—that’s what I immediately named him—looked down at me from on high.
I stuck out my hand and said, “I’m Ferger …”
“I know what your name is,” he said, cutting me off. “I heard the teacher.” He looked down at my hand but didn’t take it. Then he looked up again. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone forgetting that name, or that voice.” He grinned, looked at my hand once again, then said, “Come on, Steph. Or do you want to hear Frogger croak again?”
“The name’s Ferger!” I boomed, aware that my basso profundo voice had the power of intimidation—unless, of course, the person I was trying to intimidate happened to be looking at me.
Brute Force and Stephanie walked out of the room. I started to leave when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. I turned to see a kid with glasses, red hair, four well-placed pimples, and a big grin. “That’s Brandon Wallerstadt—heaven’s gift to this school and every girl here. Don’t worry about him. I’m Jason Carr. Welcome.”
Jason, it turned out, was a great find. He was a straight-A student who seemed to know everyone at school. For some reason, he took me under his wing. He never even teased me about my name.
Brute Force Wallerstadt did, though. Every time he saw me, he made a snide remark or said something like, “Croak for us, Frogger.”
It was about midterm when Jason started inviting me to go to church with him. I didn’t know much about churches, but I figured if Jason liked this place it must be pretty good. And it was. Three hours of church every Sunday, though, nearly wiped me out. But I kept hearing this stuff about a Savior, about priesthood, about the Book of Mormon, about testimonies. It was fascinating. We talked about angels, visions, gold plates, premortal life, three kingdoms. I’d come home every week with some new idea that spun around in my head for days.
My life with Brute Force was another matter. That is until I found out we had one thing in common: golf. With spring lurking around the corner, I told Jason I was thinking about trying out for the golf team. He rubbed his hand through his red hair and said, “Did you know Brandon Wallerstadt led the team last year as a sophomore?”
I hadn’t known until then, but that was when a plan hatched deep within my devious soul. I had been toying with the idea of asking Stephanie Hays to the junior-senior prom. Despite Brute Force Wallerstadt’s attempts to brand her his exclusive territory, we had become friends. It seemed she didn’t want to be tied to just one guy. To get free sailing for the prom, though, I needed to get Wallerstadt completely out of the way. And I was sure I could do it.
You see, I was born thinking the ninth green of the Steamsprings Municipal Golf Course—right out our back door—was our yard, and that golf balls were teething rings. My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs when I was two. My sophomore year I led the Steamsprings golf team and carried a four handicap. Before I tipped my hand at the varsity tryouts, I thought I might challenge Wallerstadt to a match for the rights to ask Stephanie to the prom.
I sat down in the lunch room at the table with Brandon and his friends and made him the proposition. The winner gets to invite Stephanie to the prom. Brute Force looked at me and laughed. “You know how to play?” he asked.
“I played for my high school last year,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
A glint came into his eye. “Frogger, you’re on. Friday after school we’ll play at my dad’s club. There are two lakes there, so if you get tired of golf, you can jump in with the other frogs and croak away.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and wondered if my knuckles could reach across the table to his perfect rows of white teeth.
I had asked Jason to be my caddie. That meant he’d drive the cart carrying my clubs and cheer me on. We arrived at the Hillsdale Country Club in my old Chevy. I wore blue and orange plaid shorts and a green and white striped shirt. I’ve always thought ugly distracted opponents.
Brandon, of course, drove up in his red convertible dressed in $400 worth of clothes. His clubs and balls were some of the finest money could buy. One of his buddies was there to caddie for him.
Brute’s father came out from the clubhouse to the tee, looked at me like I was an alien, and said, “Son, I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
For the first time I saw Brandon Wallerstadt flinch. “I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
“If you don’t come in at 74 or better today, you’ll play two rounds on Sunday. Understand?” his dad said.
Brute suddenly didn’t look so brutish. Sheepishly he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
We flipped a coin and Wallerstadt won. He had honors. He teed his ball and nailed a high draw down the right side of the fairway. I had aptly named him. Brute must have hit the ball 315 yards. But it wasn’t a smart play. It meant he had to drop a delicate wedge shot over the bunker, and in front of another if he wanted a chance at birdie. Since this was a short par-four, I took out my two-wood and drove my ball down the left side of the fairway.
My second shot put me within eight feet of the cup. Brute dumped his ball in the front trap, but a brilliant shot out of the sand put him three feet from the cup. My putt for birdie rimmed out, he sank his, and we were both even-par after the first hole.
We played even until the par-five ninth hole. Again, Brute made the mistake of driving too far. His ball rolled into a fairway bunker. By the time he finished, he was one-over and I was one-under. Quite a spectacular nine for me, I thought. And a pretty darn good one for him, too. He even complimented me on a couple of my shots.
Brute’s father was waiting for him as we headed for the tenth tee. I didn’t stand too close, but when Brute told him his score you didn’t need spy gear to hear he was upset.
On the back nine, the lead seesawed until we reached the 17th tee. We were even with two holes to go. I had the honors on the little par-three. I took my seven-iron and dropped the ball within three feet of the flag. Brute overhit his shot and it rolled off the back of the green. He chipped up, but his putt slid off to the right. My birdie to his bogey put me two-up going into the last hole.
“You’ve got him,” Jason hooted as we rode to the final tee. I looked at Brute. I’d expected him to throw clubs after bad shots. He hadn’t. He didn’t make too many bad shots, either. Actually, he was somewhat of a gentleman on the course. But now I could see he was just plain despondent.
Ready to finish him off, I teed my ball, looked over at Brute, and said, “Brandon, you don’t have to answer this, but what happens if I beat you?”
“You get to ask Stephanie to the prom,” he snapped.
“No,” I said. “I mean between you and your father?”
“He’ll yell at me for not concentrating and insist I spend an hour on the driving range before I go home. But you haven’t won yet. Let’s go,” he said, looking down the fairway.
I drew back my club and hit a perfectly placed drive 250 yards down the middle of the fairway. Brandon, trying too hard, pulled his shot to the left. Still, it went about 290 yards.
I laid out my second shot, but it faded to the right. Not what I wanted, but still okay.
Brute tried to hook his second shot around a bunch of trees, but the ball flew straight, landing near mine. It looked like we were five yards apart and about 80 yards from the green. Only an absolute disaster would keep me from winning now.
As I surveyed my shot, there was Brandon’s father casting a huge shadow behind the 18th green. He stood there with his legs spread and arms folded across his chest as he watched.
“Brandon, do you like golf?” I asked.
“I hate it,” he said bitterly.
“You’re very good,” I said. “Why do you hate it?”
“Him,” Brandon said, nodding toward his father. “He wants me to be a golf pro. It’s his dream and I can’t say no. All I have to do is play golf and he gives me anything money can buy. Would you walk away from that?”
“Let’s get this over with, Ferger,” he said. I was stunned. It may have been the first time he didn’t call me Frog or Frogger.
Looking at Brute, I remembered what Jason’s Sunday School teacher had said once: “It was never the Lord’s plan to make yourself taller by standing on someone else’s sore head.”
I took a practice swing. “If you par out, you’ll have a 74 and you won’t have to play on Sunday, will you?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. Even if I birdie this and finish with a 73, if you beat me I’ll get extra duty.” Then he looked me square in the eye. “Ferger, I underestimated you. You’re a fine golfer and good guy.”
“I underestimated you, too, Brandon,” I said. And I had. He was an excellent golfer, and somewhere under that jerk veneer, there seemed to be a nice guy lurking. Then I spoke in my most solemn, adult voice. If you were to win this round, would you go somewhere with Jason and me on Sunday?”
“Where?”
“It’s kind of a different place, but I think you could use it.”
“Okay, but I’m not worried. You’d have to shank this ball to lose.”
Which I did. And Brute beat me by one stroke, finishing with a 74 to my 75.
As Jason and I left the course, Brandon was walking with his dad, who was slapping him on the back. I called to him, “Remember, Jason and I will be by at ten Sunday morning to pick you up.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What are we doing with Wallerstadt on Sunday?” Jason asked.
Then he looked at me like I was crazy when I told him we were taking Brute Force to church with us.
It’s now two years later, and Brandon Wallerstadt—former jerk, now close friend—and I will be going on our missions in two weeks. I’m going to California and he’s been called to England. Jason will leave for Australia two weeks after that. I would have never supposed a shanked golf shot could have put two guys like Brandon and me together. Brandon’s dad wasn’t happy when he first told him he wanted to join the Mormon church and perhaps go on a mission. His dad still thinks Brandon has thrown away a great career, but he’s accepted his son’s decision.
Oh, about the prom that year. That Sunday when we picked up Brandon, he said I could ask Stephanie to the prom if I wanted to. So I did. But someone had told her about our golf game for the right to ask her and she got mad and wouldn’t speak to either one of us for months. Eventually she forgave us, and even came to both of our missionary farewells. Before we leave, Brandon and I are going over to her house to give her a Book of Mormon. The problem is, we’re having trouble trying to decide who should give it to her.
Perhaps we should play golf.

Experience Helps Us Understand Our Heavenly Father’s Love for His Children

I have asked young missionaries, “Do you know what the word father means?” They say, of course, they do know. I respect their answer, but deep down I think, “You know so very little.” They do know what the word father means, but their knowledge is immature.
To you who are married and have a child, the word father takes on a new meaning; the word father comes into clearer focus.
Perhaps there will come a day when a doctor tells you, “I think you are not going to keep this one.” Finally, you learn about the Father and about yourself.
We had been married for nine years when we first heard those words from the doctor: “I’m afraid you’re not going to keep this one.” As parents, we looked at our tiny baby son and did the only thing we could do. He was named and given a father’s blessing in the hospital. We prayed, had faith, and said aloud, “Thy will be done.”
Hours passed, and then days. The doctors and nurses continued to work with our son.
At last we heard the words from the doctor, “I believe you will keep this one.”
As parents, we grew in understanding and strength and drew closer to each other and to the Father.
Thirteen years later, in a much larger hospital, that experience was repeated with our tenth child. He was given a name and a father’s blessing in the hospital. We prayed, had faith, and once again said aloud, “Thy will be done.”
Hours crept slowly by. Once again we were greatly blessed. He would live. The lessons learned years before had been repeated.
Such experiences will teach you what father and mother mean. Then you know that you would give your life if that little son could live to experience mortality. You then can begin to understand our Heavenly Father. Then you will truly know what the words father and mother mean.

When do we teach this principle? When we become alert to situations which point the need for its application. On an occasion when a small boy got angry at a playmate, he came into the house stating that he would never play with that boy again and would not ever let him into the house. The mother—a wise woman—stopped what she was doing, not later, but that very moment, and said: “Son, we need to go into the bedroom and kneel down and talk to Heavenly Father.” There she explained that the boy needed to learn how to forgive and told him he should pray about it. She prayed first and then helped him to start. When they came from the bedroom, the boy looked up at the mother and said: “I guess I’ll play with him again. I think he can come here.” You might say, answer to prayer. Yes, but it was also the beginning of that boy’s hearing the voice of the Lord, and that’s important.

My first-grade teacher at Beaumont Elementary School in Knoxville, Tennessee, was Miss Ready. At the beginning of the school year, she asked me to sit beside and help a blind boy named Josh. At first, I was a little nervous because I had never been around anyone with a disability before. I tried to remember how kind and loving Jesus was to all people. By the end of the year, Josh and I had become best friends.
Josh lives with his grandmother and rarely gets to go anywhere, so I invited him to the zoo. We had a lot of fun feeding the animals and stuff. I also took Josh swimming in the pool where my mom works in the summer. He’d never been to a pool before. In the spring, I invited Josh to go with us to sing for a senior citizens center. It was our Primary’s Easter service project. Josh made lots of new friends. We sang for the seniors, and then we went back to the church and had an Easter egg hunt and played games.
One of my mom’s favorite memories is of when she brought cupcakes to share with my class on my birthday. Josh was with his special education teacher in another classroom down the hall and around the corner. Miss Ready asked me to go get him. I was so excited that I told Josh, “Let’s run!” With Josh holding my arm, we ran for all we were worth. When we got to the classroom, we were out of breath, and Josh said, “That was so much fun! Can we do it again?” I realized then that Josh never gets to run.
Josh’s teacher came huffing and puffing into the room, her eyes big and round from fright. She calmed down when she saw that Josh was OK and that I had been careful and hadn’t bumped him into anything as we ran.
During a field trip toward the end of our first-grade year, Miss Ready separated Josh and me and put me into another group. She told my mom that she hadn’t realized until then how isolated I had been, taking care of Josh all year and that she felt bad about it. But both Mom and I feel that it was a very rewarding year.
I have gone on to second grade now. Josh stayed back in first grade. I miss him a lot, but every couple of days or so we talk on the phone. I’m going to invite him back to church with me and pray that his grandma will let him come. I know that Heavenly Father loves Josh, and I pray that he will find someone else in his class to care for him with love and kindness. In the meantime, I’ll find someone in my second-grade class who needs a friend, because I’m trying to be like Jesus.

One night a friend of another faith visited me. I usually study my scriptures alone, and I had taken them out to study that night. I was prompted to invite her to join my scripture study, but I was afraid and began instead to study alone. I knew that I had ignored a prompting of the Spirit. After a few minutes I cautiously asked, “Would you like to study the scriptures with me?” Without hesitation my friend replied, “Yes.”
We then read from the Book of Mormon. She asked me some questions, and I could feel the Spirit guide me as I answered. I bore my testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. After I did this, she told me, “I have been crying and fearful all day. I had just prayed to God for help when you asked me to read the scriptures with you. I feel so much better now. Thank you.”
The Lord had used me as an instrument to answer a prayer and serve one of His children in need. I know that promptings are divine instructions from a wise, glorious Father. When we put aside our fears, we allow Him to manifest His power through our obedience.

I began school again and started dating. I could see that I was progressing, but I felt that I would always view my mission with a little bitterness. Then a friend of mine reminded me that the Savior’s Atonement can heal all pain and bitterness. With His help I could be happy when thinking about my mission.
I knelt down and prayed to my Heavenly Father. I told Him about my pain and my efforts to be healed and comforted. I asked if He would take away the bitterness I felt. After my prayer, the Lord opened my eyes to see my mission from His perspective. Both my service and early return were a part of the Lord’s plan to help make me into who He wanted me to be. I could see the miracles that He had provided since I came home. It has been a hard path, but now I can look back on my early return home with peace, knowing that God has my best interests at heart.

Niles stared blankly at the book in his hands, trying hard to concentrate on the words on the page. But Anna was throwing a paper airplane across the classroom, Tyler was making seal noises, and Chris was bragging about how many free throws he could make. Who could pay attention to a book when everyone else was doing all that stuff?
Niles dropped the book on his desk in frustration. His teacher, Mrs. Bradshaw, was gone for the day. She had left a reading assignment with the substitute teacher, but everyone in the class was doing whatever they wanted. Niles glanced up at the substitute, who was running after the paper plane.
“Hey, Niles,” Sarah called from the back of the class. “I bet you can’t do this!” She leaned forward and lifted her feet above her head in a perfect handstand. Niles knew she was challenging him—he had the handstand record in his class.
As he started to get up to show off his own handstand, his elbow bumped the book he was supposed to be reading. He sighed and changed his mind. “Next recess, it’s on!” he called to Sarah, who was still upside down. He opened his book again and stuffed his fingers into his ears. He could still hear some of the commotion going on around him, but now he could actually concentrate on his book.
The next day Niles’s teacher was back. “Pop quiz!” she announced as she passed the papers down the rows. “Ten questions on what you read yesterday.”
The whole class groaned. Niles started to feel worried. He had tried to read the assignment yesterday, but even though he had concentrated his hardest, he had only gotten through about half of it. He answered the questions the best he could, but he knew he failed the quiz.
When the final bell rang, Niles’s teacher asked him to stay behind while the other kids left the classroom.
“The substitute teacher left me a note, and it mentions you by name,” Mrs. Bradshaw said. “Would you like to know what it says?”
Niles swallowed and nodded, trying to remember if he had done anything wrong the day before.
“‘Of the entire class,’” she read, “‘Niles was the only one who actually tried to read the assignment. He was an example to his classmates.’”
Niles was stunned. He didn’t know the substitute had noticed him. He thought she was too busy with the other kids.
“Niles, I am going to give you full credit for the quiz,” Mrs. Bradshaw said. “Thank you for being an example yesterday.”
Niles’s jaw dropped. He didn’t know you could get good grades for being an example! As he ran home, he thought about what his teacher said. Not only was he the class handstand champion, but by being an example, he was a pop quiz champion too!

Three Christmas trees stand out in the memory of Elder Gary B. Sabin.
The first was a beautiful Christmas tree of his youth. When Gary scaled the tree trying to reach a candy cane, the entire tree crashed to the ground.
The second was an evergreen branch he found as a missionary while serving in Belgium and the Netherlands from 1973 to 1975. Elder Sabin and his companion took the branch home to their apartment and propped it up around the Christmas cards they had received from home.
The third was a tree made of Christmas lights strung on the IV stand next to his daughter’s hospital bed. One of three Sabin children to suffer from cystic fibrosis, his daughter had received a double-lung transplant one year after the death of her brother from the same disease.
“We have learned a lot more from our children than they have learned from us,” says Elder Sabin.
As a General Authority he will remember the Christmas trees and the lessons he learned from them. Each tree highlights portions of his journey—from a young boy wanting a candy cane to a missionary teaching the plan of salvation to a father who relied on the plan and the Savior’s love to sustain his family through mortal trials.

While in the hospital, Peter had a lot of time to think about what to do. He still had a long, painful time ahead of him before he could be released from the hospital. It was during this time that several good friends helped him learn about setting goals and controlling attitude. One in particular was from his ward, Brother Lawrence Oburn. He came to see Peter often and was always encouraging him to set a goal. At first, Peter didn’t want to try. Brother Oburn insisted by saying, “It’s what is on the inside that counts, not the outside.”
I remember how angry I got. I said very sarcastically “Okay, why don’t you get burned and you come here.” I could hear him crying although it was muffled by the bandages around my head. As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t because he had done so much for me. He said, “Peter, if I could, I would.” This was when I realized that this man truly loved me, like a son. That was when I determined to do everything he asked.
They decided on a goal. Peter would count the stitches he had during each surgery. The doctors and nurses asked to be allowed to stop counting just before they reached 2,000.
Peter set another goal—to count his shots. He quit counting at 1,252. He set a third goal—to be the most enthusiastic patient in the hospital. Even though he was often angry at the world, Peter tried to keep his goal. When he left the hospital, the staff presented him with a plaque naming him the most enthusiastic patient in their care.

Chris sighed. “Do I have to go to school today?”
Mom looked up from tying Alicia’s shoes. “What’s the matter, Chris? You love school.”
“I used to,” Chris said. He took his little sister’s hand and started the walk to school.
“Today we’re going to make applesauce!” Alicia said as they walked down the hill. She loved her first-grade class. She reminded Chris of how he used to feel about school. Before they moved, he ran to school every morning because he was so excited to do math, work in his writing group, and do science experiments with his friends. Sometimes he played four square with Michael and Ryan at recess. Other times he stayed inside with Janet and Caleb so they could help their teacher organize the class’s books.
But now his family had moved to a new state, and even though he still got to learn about math and writing and science, it just wasn’t the same. Chris didn’t have a single friend at school. He walked into his classroom by himself, stared at his desk while his teacher talked, and sat alone at lunch. At recess he wandered around looking for shiny rocks, but he didn’t really want to keep them.
He tried to smile and be a good example for Alicia as he dropped her off at her classroom, but he just didn’t feel very excited about another lonely day.
“How did school go, Chris?” Mom asked when he got home.
“It was OK, I guess. I don’t really have any friends, though.”
“Do you remember what we talked about in family home evening yesterday?” Mom asked.
Chris tried to remember. Alicia had planned a game of musical chairs, Mom had picked out Primary songs to sing, and Chris had helped Mom make the treat. Then he remembered the lesson. “Dad told us about praying for help,” he said.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “I know you’ve been reading your scriptures about how much God loves us. Heavenly Father wants you to be happy, so if you have a problem, you can ask Him for help.”
“Do you think I could pray to Him to help me find friends?”
“Let’s try it,” Mom said.
As Chris said his prayers, he felt like Heavenly Father was right there, listening to him. The next day, as Chris walked to school with Alicia, he still felt a little lonely, so he said a prayer in his mind: “Please help me to find some friends at school today.”
School started just like every other day: he walked into his classroom by himself, stared at his desk while his teacher talked, and sat alone at lunch. But during afternoon recess Carlos from Chris’s class ran up to him. “Hi, Chris! I’m having a birthday party on Friday night.” Carlos handed Chris an orange invitation.
Chris was excited to get home and tell Mom about his new friend. He burst in the front door, but before he could say anything, Mom said, “Chris, I just got a phone call from Jared’s mom in our ward. She invited you to Jared’s birthday party at the zoo on Saturday morning.”
Chris was amazed. He told Mom all about Carlos’s birthday party. When he was finished, Mom handed him a letter. “This came in the mail,” she said.
Chris looked at the blue envelope. He never got any mail except from Grandma. He tore it open and inside was an invitation that read: “Dear Chris, you’re invited to my birthday party on Saturday night.” It was from another classmate.
Chris looked up at Mom. “Three birthday parties in one weekend?”
Mom smiled. “Heavenly Father answered your prayer.”
“That’s right,” Chris said. “I’m going to go thank Him right now.”

That same light showed two teenage sisters the way to go on a very frightening day in 1833. An angry mob stormed through the quiet streets of Independence, Missouri, where 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister Caroline lived. The terrifying mob was destroying property and burning and rioting. Some of the mobsters broke into the home of Brother William Phelps, where the printing press was located. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. They tore apart the printing press and threw it into the street. They carried the priceless printed pages out of the building, throwing them in a pile in the yard to burn.

Mary Elizabeth and her sister Caroline were hiding behind a fence, trembling as they watched the destruction. Mary knew full well the danger of angry mobs, but in spite of that, she felt the urgency to save those precious pages. The two teenage sisters ran out to the street, grabbed armfuls of the scriptures, and fled. Some of the mob saw this and ordered them to stop as they chased after the courageous sisters. The girls ran into a large cornfield, where they fell breathless to the ground. Between the rows of corn they laid the copies of the revelations on the ground and then spread themselves over the pages. The men were relentless in their search for the girls among the tall cornstalks, coming very near at times, but they never were able to find the girls, and eventually they gave up and left to finish their destruction in the town.

The light of the Lord showed those young women what to do and where to go for safety. That same light shines for you. It can keep you safe as it did them. We have a sculpture of those sisters in the Young Women office to remind us of the courage of young women then and now.

When I was in the fourth grade, I had a variety show to sing in. Some of the girls were singing a bad song. I didn’t like it. When I got home, I told my mom about it. She talked to my dad, and my dad told my principal. The girls had to sing a better song. The program turned out good because I wasn’t afraid to speak out about a bad song. I know that Jesus Christ was happy.
Hydee Rushton, age 10Sun River Valley Ward

When Jean’s senior year began, she started her first journey through the refiner’s fire. Our mother and stepfather were divorced, and Mother drifted further and further from the Church. She no longer cared whether or not Jean even went to sacrament meetings much less all her other activities. Jean trudged on with the help of her friends and the support and sympathy of her bishop’s family. Her testimony grew stronger still, and she continued in all of her activities.
At graduation time, Jean learned that her trials had only begun. Mother remarried and moved far away. Jean had no choice. She had to go live with our father in rural Georgia. He lived in a tiny, isolated town where he was the minister of the only church.
Our father had always been bitter toward the Mormons, and that bitterness had turned to hatred when all three of his daughters had been baptized. Jean was his baby, his special pet, and it cut him to the quick to see her not only in a religion different from his but as a Mormon and a devout Mormon at that. He looked upon her move to his house as an answer to prayers. Now things would be different. Now he would be able to show her the error of her ways.
Although I live more than 200 miles away, I came as often as possible during the summer and took Jean to my home in Columbia. However, the summer soon ended, and Jean had to start commuting to college. Jean had a car to make the drive back and forth to school but not for her personal use on weekends. The nearest branch was 30 miles away, and even if she could get there, Dad wouldn’t let her go. There wasn’t an institute at her small college, and it just seemed that there was no way for her to have any contact with Church members.
Days turned into weeks, and then months had gone by since she had attended a meeting. She read her scriptures, wrote daily in her journal, and spent hours on her knees. As she grew closer to her Heavenly Father through earnest prayer, Jean’s testimony of the gospel grew. She began to realize how often she had taken the opportunity to attend meetings and functions of the Church for granted, how she had even wished meetings would hurry and be over. During this time, Dad made every effort to break her testimony. He quoted scripture after scripture, but Jean’s seminary scriptures stood her in good stead. She was able to parry with scriptures of her own. Sometimes he threw things at her that she couldn’t or, to stop an argument, wouldn’t defend. While her testimony wasn’t harmed, it did make Jean weary as she faced each day on the defensive, knowing that everything she loved and considered holy would be denounced in her father’s booming voice at mealtimes, in discussions with her stepmother, or in his verbal prayers.
Some nights only hours on bended knees kept her from total despair. She fought back the desire to rage against her Heavenly Father for deserting her. Soon even the scriptures she loved were difficult to read because they produced such a terrible longing for her old friends, teachers, and bishop. Often she lay in bed at night with tears streaming down her face trying to remember that she wasn’t the only Latter-day Saint in the world. She tried to be strong, but she was young and alone and there had been no contact with members for so long.
One night in January, Jean reached rock bottom. Her father and stepmother had baited her and prayed aloud for her soul until she was ready to scream. No one understood the trials she was going through. Her sisters sympathized, but we were too far away to be any help. Finally Jean knelt by her bed and poured her heart out as she had so many times in the past. She told her Heavenly Father that she knew he loved her and that he had promised no burden heavier than she could bear. She begged for some sort of help because the burden had grown so heavy that she could not bear it any longer.
When Jean left Natchez, her records had been sent to the nearest branch. Once the records were received, she was assigned home teachers. However, as no one had ever met Jean and she lived so far away and had never attended a meeting, the home teachers didn’t visit her. In their minds, she was probably someone who had joined the Church at age eight but had never been active. Someone in the branch had heard that a Mr. Swilley in Egypt, Georgia, was the Baptist preacher there, and this Jean was probably his wife. No way were they going to drive all that way to get a door slammed in their faces!
In a small branch, the work load is heavy for each member. The home teacher lived 15 miles on the other side of the town where the branch was located, a total of 45 miles one way on country roads from Jean. Months went by, and each month his home teaching report was complete except for Sister Swilley. Being a good and conscientious man, this bothered him. He decided to go at least once just to see what sort of circumstances she was in.
The night came when he couldn’t rest until he had made the effort to see this sister. He called his companion, a young boy of 16, and they began the long drive. As they drove farther into the countryside, they began to be uneasy and wished they could turn around and go home. Yet something urged them on. Little did they know that at that moment, Jean Swilley was on her knees begging her Father in Heaven to throw her a lifeline. As her prayer ended and she dried her tears, Dad knocked on her bedroom door. “Jeanie, there are two men outside, and they are asking for you. They are Mormons, and I won’t ask them in, but you can go talk to them on the porch.”
Jean flew through the house and onto the porch. She stood on the steps, and tears fell again as the older of the two men stretched out his hand and said, “We are your home teachers …” He didn’t have to say anything else because Jean fell into his arms and cried out all the pain and loneliness that was there. Finally someone had come. God had indeed heard her prayers.
As Jean told her story to these wonderful men, I know that their hearts were touched. They expressed sorrow for not having come sooner and promised to make the branch president aware of her situation. They prayed with Jean and told her to call them when it got too hard and left with the most beautiful words Jean had ever heard, “You aren’t alone anymore.”
Jean is still not allowed to go to church, but her spirit is so much stronger now that she knows her Father in Heaven is aware of her needs and answers her prayers. Dad said the home teachers could keep coming as long as they had a talk with him first. When Jean explained the situation to the home teachers, they told her that they would talk with him and do it gladly.
Jean’s home teachers had every excuse in the world not to visit her. It was inconvenient—one and a half hours just in driving time. She had expressed no interest in seeing them. They did not think she would welcome them, and they were busy with other church responsibilities. Still, they obeyed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Those home teachers will never know just how happy they made my sister nor will they know how thankful they made me for a Heavenly Father that heard my sister’s prayers. How can they know what will come of their talk with my dad? Or that Mother, who had drifted so far away that she denied the Church on every opportunity, would cry when told that her baby girl wasn’t quite so wretched anymore and why. How could they have known that Mother would say through her tears, “I knew He would take care of her and hear her prayers.” I know that more good will come because those two men listened and obeyed. I hope that I will learn to listen and obey. I hope we all will.

Each of us must at times courageously and firmly stand up for what we are and what we believe. When President Joseph F. Smith was a young man, he was faced with this predicament:
“One morning when he and several other missionaries were returning to Salt Lake City, a group of rough Mormon-haters rode up on horses, firing their guns and cursing.
“The leader jumped off his horse and shouted, ‘We will kill anyone who is a Mormon!’ The other missionaries had fled into the woods, but Joseph F. bravely stood his ground. The man shoved a gun in Joseph F.’s face and asked, ‘Are you a Mormon?’
“Joseph F. stood tall and said, ‘Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through!’
“The man was surprised at his reply. He put the gun away, shook Joseph’s hand, and said, ‘Well, you are the pleasantest man I ever met! I’m glad to see a fellow stand up for his convictions.’ He jumped back on his horse and rode off with his companions.”

One thing that people outside of academia, and often even students at universities, don’t know is that when professors undergo a bid for tenure, it is an all-or-nothing proposition: either professors earn tenure (or what BYU calls “continuing faculty status”) and have a nice measure of job security or they do not earn tenure, which results in their dismissal from the university, usually after another year is given to them so that they can secure another job elsewhere. Thus, while the reward of tenure is high, so is the risk—and so is the stress of getting there. In my pre-tenure years I worked assiduously to shore up my teaching, my publication record, and my service to the department and college so that I would meet the standard when the time came and so that I would establish good habits for my post?tenure career.

In one particular case I had the opportunity to publish one of my essays in a book by a prominent university press, but while the initial drafting and submission of the piece had gone smoothly, I struggled with getting the revised essay just the way the editor wanted it. To make matters worse, I had a long professional relationship with the editor of the book, so my repeated failed attempts to successfully revise the essay to meet the reviewers’ expectations embarrassed me, as my friend had to tell me that the essay still wasn’t the way it needed to be. He explained that if I couldn’t revise the essay to the reviewers’ and the editor’s satisfaction, it would not be included in the book and the project would move forward without my work in it.

Finally humbled, or perhaps compelled to be humble by the humiliation of the process, I did what I probably should have done long before: I knelt down in my office and prayed for Heavenly Father’s help, asking that the Spirit would impress upon my mind what I needed to do to make the necessary changes to the essay so that it would be publishable. When I finished my prayer and sat back at my desk, I experienced what I think Joseph Smith meant by “pure intelligence flowing into you” and “sudden strokes of ideas” 5 from the Spirit. I had concepts coming into my mind as if a faucet had turned on in my brain, and I raced to jot down these ideas before they were lost. I subsequently moved around entire sections of the essay, incorporated some new information into it that I hadn’t before known existed, and generally shifted the tone and tenor of my writing in keeping with the promptings I had received. The editor was astonished at the revision and accepted the essay without any subsequent changes. It made it into the book, which now sits on my shelf as a tangible reminder of an experience that was entirely more unusual for me than it should have been.