Gospel Story Finder

The first thing Zayne Callahan can remember is living in the basement of an orphanage in China. He had been there since he was a baby. Zayne later learned that he was kept in the basement so people who came to the orphanage to adopt children wouldn’t see him.

“I was considered an embarrassment because I was born with spina bifida,” Zayne says. Spina bifida is a birth defect that made his legs weak and prevented him from walking normally. “I wasn’t able to go to school or hardly even learn the Chinese language because the people at the orphanage didn’t think it was important to teach a child with a disability.”

Zayne was seven years old when John and Wendy Callahan—his future parents—first saw him on a videotape of Chinese children waiting to be adopted. When the photographer passed the camera over Zayne briefly, he smiled and waved. That action won the hearts of his future parents who recognized his brave, strong, intelligent spirit.

That was five years ago. Now, Zayne is a deacon in the Lolo Ward of the Stevensville Montana Stake. When he turned 12, he wanted to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities by passing the sacrament. That was a big challenge for a boy who must use crutches to walk.

Originally, Zayne tried to pass the sacrament while balancing on his crutches. When that didn’t work, he decided to use his wheelchair instead. Now Zayne passes the sacrament by placing the trays on his lap and wheeling down the aisles.

Zayne works hard to fulfill his other priesthood duties too. An older member in his ward says she was impressed when the young men went to her home to pick up rocks as a service project. She found Zayne sitting on the ground putting rocks into a wheelbarrow. He had laid his crutches down because they were in the way, but his disability didn’t stop him from serving just like the other boys.

According to his father, Zayne doesn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. If he wants to do something, he figures out a way to do it. He played a lead part in the school production of Red Riding Hood. He was the head wolf and led a pack of wolves onstage, his crutches keeping time to the music. He is also an accomplished violinist and pianist. While playing his violin, he has to sit on a high stool rather than stand like most violinists, but that doesn’t distract from the beauty of his music.

No matter where Zayne goes or what he does, people notice his good example. One classmate summed it up by saying, “He’s that boy with the big smile.”

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

A true story from Argentina.
“I’m looking at a little person who will have a birthday soon! Who could she be?” Mamá asked.
“It’s me!” Maria said, jumping up and down. She was turning eight the next week.
Mamá nodded. “And it will be a special birthday. Do you know why?”
“Because I will be baptized!”
“Yes! Papá and I have a special gift to help you prepare for this important step.”
“A gift? But it’s not my birthday yet,” Maria said.
“It’s a special gift that will help you to remember the covenant you will make with Heavenly Father. You can open it after dinner.”
Maria kept thinking about the word covenant. She couldn’t wait for Papá to come home. She offered to set the table for dinner and felt her heart warm. Dinner seemed extra delicious that night.
Afterward, she sat on the couch between her parents.
“How do you feel about baptism?” Papá asked.
“I’m excited!” Maria was working hard to prepare for her baptism. She had started reading the Book of Mormon. She even made a poster to help her remember to pray every night.
“That is great! Do you have any questions?”
“Yes. What is a covenant?”
“That’s a good question,” Mamá said. “A covenant is a promise with God. When you are baptized, you promise that you are willing to take upon you Jesus Christ’s name, that you will keep God’s commandments, and that you’ll serve Him all your life.”
“That sounds like the sacrament prayer,” Maria said.
“You’re right,” said Papá. “Our Heavenly Father also promises the Holy Ghost will be with you, guiding and encouraging you.”
“And now your surprise.” Mamá handed Maria a shiny wrapped gift.
Maria opened it to find a beautiful pink journal and a pen. “Thank you! I love it!”
“This journal is for you to write the feelings and thoughts you receive from the Holy Ghost.”
“Baptism is a big decision,” Papá said. “You can pray and ask God about it.”
That night, Maria knelt by her bed. She prayed, “Heavenly Father, is it right for me to be baptized?” She paused, listening. A clear “yes” filled her mind, and her heart filled with joy.
She pulled out her journal and wrote about what she felt. The next morning she told her parents about her answer. She knew that getting baptized was the right thing to do.
At last it was her birthday, and Maria would be baptized. She and Papá dressed in white. Mamá hugged her. “You’ll feel warm in your heart.”
The water was cold, but Maria felt clean and pure—and warm inside.
That night, Maria opened her journal to a blank page and started writing.
“When Papá said, ‘Receive the Holy Ghost,’ I really could feel it,” she wrote.
She wanted to always remember her baptism day. She was ready to keep her covenant, knowing the Holy Ghost would always be there to help her.
Maria is grown up now but kept writing in her journal every day! When she sees her journals, she remembers the covenant she made at baptism.
Illustrations by Zoë Bennett

Juan sat quietly in the flickering light of the fire. He watched his mother grinding corn on her metate (grinding stone) for the evening meal. Juan’s father was busy too. He was carving a wooden ball for Juan. The even, polished surface gleamed yellow in the firelight.
“Will it be ready for the race on Friday?” Juan asked.
“Yes. I will finish it tomorrow,” his father replied.
Juan smiled. He and his two teammates would run even better with such a well-made ball.
Juan was an Indian of the Tarahumara tribe. He lived high in the Sierra Madre Mountains in northern Mexico. His family home was near Barranca del Cobre (Copper Canyon).
Juan’s father, Dionisio, was a great man. He was the best runner in the village—maybe the best in all the mountains! Wearing his “lucky” belt of deer hooves, he’d won many races. For the Tarahumara people, running was one of the most important things in life. In fact, they called themselves Rama Mure (foot runners). Men and boys ran along the rocky mountain paths, kicking before them a wooden ball carved from an oak tree root.
Juan was fifteen now. He’d been running almost since he could walk, and on Friday he and his teammates would run a big race against a team from the village of Pilares. Juan wanted to run as well as his father ran.
All the Indians knew Dionisio. “¡Kawira-ba (hello)!” people called whenever Juan’s father passed them during a race. It was nothing for Dionisio and his team to run for two days and nights without stopping for anything except a drink.
Juan loved racing at night by torchlight, but right now the race he was most interested in was the race against the Pilares team. Although it would only be twelve miles, it was still important. To Juan and his friends, every race was important.
There were other important things in Juan and his father’s life besides running. They planted corn, beans, and squash. They also tended their seventeen goats, corraling them each night. Each of the goats was named and was well known by the family. To have so many goats to provide milk and cheese was good. Seldom would Juan’s father kill one of the animals, for they were too precious to use as meat. Meat was provided by the deer and chipmunks of the mountains.
At the end of each day Father would take the handmade violin from the pegs on the wall and draw the bow across the strings, bringing forth sweet, sad songs.
In all things Juan’s father was his ideal. He did everything well—running, hunting, growing crops, playing music, carving from wood. Sometimes Juan became discouraged. He could not carve well—except the flesh of his own fingers! He could beg only mournful cries from the violin. And running? Not yet. Maybe this race against the Pilares team would be a turning point for him. Not only would my winning the race make father proud, he daydreamed, but it would also mean that one day I might be a truly great runner!
Early the next morning Juan went with his father to move the corral. Juan knew that besides giving them cheese and milk, their goats also fed the earth. He knew that seeds planted in the place where a corral had stood grew into strong plants. Juan was glad for so much work that day, because he would have less time to think about the upcoming race.
Friday dawned, and Juan tried to quiet his excitement. His father had told him that too much fear or excitement could take the strength from his body.
Today was also a holiday. Juan’s people celebrated many holidays each year, and running was always part of the festivities. Mother had prepared cedar tea so that Juan could bathe his legs in it. All Tarahumara runners did this before running. They thought it kept away evil spirits.
On his left foot Juan wore a sandal, as did all the runners. The right foot—the kicking foot—was bare. A runner must be able to lift the ball and kick it with his toes and foot. Although the running must be swift, the ball must go ahead. A lost one meant a delay until another ball was put into play.
Finally the Pilares team arrived. The signal was given, and the two teams ran. Juan’s new ball was painted with a red stripe. First it was kicked by Juan, then by each teammate in turn. Up and down the steep, rocky path they went. The boys had run this trail many times. They knew when to send the ball swiftly ahead and when to slow down for curves in the path.
On and on they ran. Many of the villagers ran behind them to see the outcome of the race. Juan knew that his father was with them.
When at last they neared the end of the twelve-mile run, Juan found himself running side by side with a Pilares runner.
I must win! I must win! Juan told himself. He ran faster and faster. He felt power in his tired legs. He felt the wind of his own speed rushing through his hair. He felt he could fly! The runner from Pilares was no longer beside him. Juan ran alone.
Then the wind was gone.
Juan looked up from the rocky path where he had fallen. The runner from Pilares sped ahead.
It was Father who tended the deep cut in Juan’s knee.
“I lost! I will never be a great runner,” the boy declared mournfully.
Father stopped wrapping the cloth around Juan’s leg and looked at him. Then he spoke. “I don’t know how many races I lost when I was young, but I know I learned something each time I raced.”
“But you are the best! You are a winner. Everyone admires you.”
“Ahhh. It is because they do not remember the times I lost. They remember only the times I won. I remember both.”
Juan sat amazed. His father had once lost races!
“You are not a loser, my son. You are a winner learning how to win.”

Why do I say that? Here’s one reason: I knew a boy who faced an unexpected and challenging decision. He faced it at the end of the summer in the year he turned fifteen. He had just returned home after working all summer on his uncle’s farm in another part of the state.
It was the first sacrament meeting he had attended since returning home. For some reason, he was detained a few minutes after the meeting. When he found his friends, they were standing in a group just outside the church building. As he approached, he noticed that they were concluding some kind of agreement. When he joined them, he was met with a seemingly innocent question: “Are you going in with us on it or not?”
“On what?” was his reply.
“On a half gallon of beer.”
That answer really shook him. He was not ready for it. His group had always been good kids. This question was completely out of character, he thought. But things were not as he remembered them. He had spent his summer away from his pals, and this had kept him more or less as he was. Something, however, had happened to change his friends. They seemed more grown up and worldly. This surprise made him falter before answering their question. It’s strange how many things can go through your mind in a flash: These were his friends. They were not enemies. He knew each one well. He had sat in Primary and Sunday School classes with them. They had sung songs together. Some of them had been ordained deacons the same Sunday. They had passed the sacrament together scores of times. Their school activities had brought them close. With some of them he had built toy airplanes and scooters and played rubber guns. They had hiked and worked and played together. Why should this simple question threaten this choice association?
Pressure from friends and acquaintances our own age is tremendously powerful! There is a desire to want to be “one” with friends. Besides, who wants to be a sissy, afraid to join in the fun. What’s more, if he didn’t join them, he would be one against the crowd.
But even with all of these ideas running through his head, another idea impressed itself even harder on his mind. There was one reason that stood out against all that seemed so appealing: It was not right. From somewhere within him came the courage to say, “No, I don’t think I will.”
The group turned away and strode across the street toward the beer hall, intent on carrying out their plan. My friend was left standing—alone. I’m sure he did not think of the Lord’s statement, “It is not good for man to be alone,” but he certainly understood its meaning in a new and personal way. He came to understand the truth of that statement in the days that followed and to see why all of us need true and loyal friends who believe and live as they should.
Even though he was fifteen—going on sixteen—tears came to his eyes as he walked home. His mother, sensing that something was wrong, asked, “What has happened?”
He blurted out the short experience.
“You’ve done right, my son” she reassured him.
“I wish I were as sure as you are,” he answered.
“You made the right decision,” she repeated, “and you’ll see. You will be blessed.”
The days that followed this incident were not especially happy ones. It took readjustments to establish his equilibrium. There followed a process of establishing new friendships. There was the inevitable heartache at school when conversations would grind to a stop as he joined his former group. There were moments of loneliness as he walked between the high school and the adjacent industrial arts building. What was formerly spontaneous fun and youthful sport changed to a subdued good humor. There were some obvious moments in basketball practice, too, when he would be in the clear and call for the pass, only to be ignored while another person was sought out to receive the ball.
But that all passed as everyone knows it will. Time is the great eraser. It dulls the former sad moments. It smooths hurts and salves wounds.
It was not long until former friendships were reestablished, although on a different basis than before. In a little more than a year, this young man was elected seminary studentbody president. The next year he was elected high school studentbody president by his friends. Two years later he entered the mission field, the only one of his class to do so. One classmate went on a mission the following year, but his other friends never did.
This young man has since fulfilled many calls to service and responsibility in the Church. Other tests of his integrity and moral standards have come into his life—as they come into the lives of us all. But few such tests have been so well-remembered or have made so lasting an impression on his life.
In a rather undramatic situation, he chose the right. And his mother was right, as mothers generally are. Her promise was literally fulfilled: “You’ll see. You will be blessed.”

Summer Saturdays are special times for my brothers and me. After eating an early lunch, we usually take a large jug of water and drive with our dad to the Gila Indian Reservation a few miles south of our home in Tempe, Arizona, to look for dust devils. There, on dry fields that don’t have any crops growing on them, giant swirling columns of dust regularly form and march across the landscape. We like to run into them and release colored balloons or smoke bombs, while our dad takes pictures of them. These pictures help him understand how whirlwinds are created and how they grow and finally disappear.

Sometimes when decisions are to be made, they aren’t necessarily those involving a temptation to do evil but are decisions that will affect our lives. Now and again word comes back to me about my being offered a chance to play baseball for the major leagues when I was a young man. I was offered an opportunity to try out for the big leagues. But I turned it down. Recently I was asked if there was any hesitation in my decision. There wasn’t. I didn’t take it to my folks or even consider it at all. I knew ahead of time what playing for the major leagues involved, and it wasn’t the life I wanted. Shortly after this, I was called to serve a mission.

I recently met a young woman whose family stopped attending church when she was young. When they moved to a new place, this young woman started going to church again. Then she brought her brother back, and eventually her parents also returned to the Church. This was only possible because she spent time with her family. They worked together, went to movies together, and had dinnertime discussions. Her parents knew her friends and knew that she was going back to church. Her parents were engaged with her in good things—they just needed some help from their daughter to return.

By Geiziane Morais Freitas Duarte, Brazil

I once ministered to a sister who had stopped attending church. When I visited her, I would share how much the Savior loved her and her family. I would always invite them to come to church the following Sunday. This practice went on for a long time, but they never came. I felt discouraged. The temptation to give up was strong. But every time my companion and I visited their home, we had a glimpse of heaven. We would always picture them in the temple, dressed in white. We knew we had to keep trying.

After many prayers and visits, the day finally came—the family came to church! They kept coming back each week. The family put in hard work to grow their faith and get on the covenant path. It became evident that the gospel had strengthened them.

Eventually, I received an invitation to their temple sealing. As I watched the sacred ordinance, I couldn’t help but shed tears of joy. It was a miracle.

At times I wanted to give up. But every time I visited them, I saw the temple. God showed me a glimpse of His plan for this family. He used me as His instrument to stay in touch with them. I am grateful to Him for showing me the true vision of ministering.

It had been almost three months since the train of two-wheel handcarts had left for the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. Without enough money to buy teams and wagons, the emigrants had had their carts made in Iowa City. All their belongings were either loaded inside the carts or lashed to the sides of the carts. And every able-bodied person took his turn pushing and pulling them during the journey. Now the distant snow-topped mountains and the cooler nights warned the struggling band that they must waste no time, or winter would be upon them before they reached their destination.
Several fires for the evening meal had already been lighted, and all those old enough to help were busy at necessary tasks. Some of the men were greasing axles; others were repairing carts, a number of which were almost beyond repair. A few men with guns fanned out from the campsite, hoping to obtain game. Women were dipping meal from wooden casks, in some cases scraping the bottoms.
Ben Ashford, large for a twelve-year-old, walked cautiously along the almost dry creek bed. He was a good shot, and he hoped that he might scare up a jackrabbit, because the Ashford provisions were very low.
Hearing a low moan, Ben stopped and quietly looked around. The sound came again. Certain that it was a person making the noise, Ben ran back to camp shouting, “It sounds like somebody’s hurt down in the creek bed!”
“You must be hearing things, Ben. There’s nobody within miles of here,” said his father.
“Well, it could be an animal, but it sounds like a person … Honest!”
Taking the gun from Ben, his father called to two other men, “Bring your guns—the boy thinks there’s a person or a beast down in the creek bottom.”
The men stopped and listened intently as they approached the creek bed. From a cavelike hole in the bank came the sound of a barely audible moan. Brush and grass had been drawn over the opening, and while Ben’s father jerked off the brush, the others stood ready to shoot.
Glaring at them from inside the opening was a young Indian boy with a sharp pointed stick in his left hand. Blood covered his right shoulder and arm. After making signs to the boy that he wouldn’t be harmed, the men helped him from his hiding place.
Back at camp when Ben’s mother dressed the boy’s wounded shoulder, he didn’t even whimper.
There were only a few dried berries and a small serving each of oatmeal porridge for supper, but Ben’s family shared what they had with the Indian lad. As the boy began to recover, they talked kindly to him and learned that his name was White Cloud. Slowly he began to trust them, especially Ben. With signs and a few English words, White Cloud told them that he and a friend had been picking mountain berries and had gone too far from their camp. His friend had been killed, and he himself had been grazed by a bullet and had escaped by running down to the creek bed and hiding there.
“We’d better post an extra guard tonight,” advised Sandy McIntire, the camp leader, when he saw the boy. “Although we’ve had friendly relations with the Indians so far, White Cloud’s people might suspect us of shooting the boys.”
With the first light of dawn, the camp was stirring. Weeks before, Ben had discovered a bee tree not far from one of their camps. The honey had been shared, and Ben’s mother had used theirs on special occasions. Now Ben grinned broadly when he saw his mother drop a little of the precious sweet into their breakfast porridge.
After a prayer for help and guidance, the carts rolled forward. Mr. Ashford took the shafts to begin pulling the cart. His wife ducked under the cart handle to add her strength beside her husband. With Ben, his younger brother, and the Indian boy pushing from behind, the Ashford cart moved steadily over the rough, rock-strewn trail.
Without warning, White Cloud stumbled and fell, and Ben called for his parents to stop. The Indian boy made no complaint as he struggled to his feet, and when Ben’s father started to lift him onto the cart, he pulled back and shook his head violently. By not helping to push, he was able to walk along at their slower pace.
The sun was just slipping over the horizon when several mounted Indians appeared, riding out from behind a bold outcrop of rock just ahead. The carts were stopped, and an order was quickly given to remain calm and to display no firearms.
The Ashford cart was near the front of the line where they could clearly see the approaching Indians, and White Cloud recognized them at once. He cried out, pointed to himself, and ran weakly toward the braves. The riders broke into a gallop, then slowed down and stopped upon reaching the boy. The leader dismounted, and for a long moment the train waited while man and boy talked. Then, remounting with the boy behind him, the leader approached the carts with his hand raised, palm out. Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire stepped out to meet him.
“I am Walking Horse. You helped White Cloud, my son. We want peace with you.”
“We are your friends,” Ben’s father responded.
White Cloud’s good arm was held tightly about his father’s waist as they rode away.
Ben said slowly, “I’m glad I found White Cloud. I only wish he could have stayed with us long enough for us to have become good friends.”
Relieved by the outcome of the meeting, Sandy McIntire waved for the emigrants to move out, saying, “We’ll stop for the night as soon as we reach water.”
They made camp in an open space by a little brawling stream. All were exhausted from pulling and pushing the carts, often uphill. Two men had circled out ahead of the train to search for game but returned empty-handed. Suddenly two Indians on horseback entered the little valley.
Ben, who was watching anxiously, exclaimed, “It’s Walking Horse!”
Walking Horse was leading a heavily ladened pack horse. The second rider was also leading a pack animal. The members of the emigrant train were speechless as the Indians unfastened the pack horses’ lashings and dropped two elk at the feet of Ben’s father and Sandy McIntire.
Ben’s father responded instantly: “We are grateful. Our people are hungry. God be with you.”
“White Cloud said you have no meat. Now you have meat.” Walking Horse raised his hand slowly in a sign of peace. He touched his heel to his horse’s flank, and the two Indians and their horses were soon out of sight.

Laura was looking out the window when she heard Sister Warren say, “Laura, can you guess from the clues I’ve just given whom we will learn about in our lesson today?”
Rob started to laugh. “Perfect little Laura wasn’t listening!” he teased.
Laura could feel her face getting hot. She whirled around and faced Rob. “Even when you do listen, you never know any answers!” she snapped.
When Primary was over, Sister Warren asked Laura and Rob to stay for a moment. She wrote “Mosiah 27:3–4” on two small pieces of paper. She handed one to each of the children, saying, “During King Mosiah’s reign, a strict command was given to all the church members. Will you find out what it was? Then I’d like both of you to read this scripture aloud to the Primary next week.”
Laura found the scripture and read it carefully. The parts she understood best were: “There should be an equality among all men” and “every man should esteem his neighbor as himself.”
Laura thought about Rob. She had been unkind. Sometimes she thought she was a better person than Rob because she usually knew the right answers.
When Rob read the scriptures in his Book of Mormon, he knew that making fun of Laura had been wrong. He felt bad when he remembered how embarrassed she had been. At Primary the next week, Sister Warren began by saying, “Did you know that there are over five billion people who live in this world right now? Did you know that every single one of them is different? Heavenly Father created each person and loves everyone.
“When we treat each other with respect, honor, and love, we are showing reverence for Heavenly Father. We must be courteous and kind to every person, even those who may seem to be very different from us.”
Then the class played a game called “We Are Different.” When the game was over, Sister Warren asked Laura and Rob to read the scriptures in Mosiah to the Primary. Then Sister Warren said, “Some of you may have noticed how courteous Laura and Rob were as they helped you play this game. Their example helps us see how treating all people with respect is a good way to show reverence for Heavenly Father and Jesus.”

My father was my best friend while I was growing up. He had a great influence on my life because of the way he treated my mother. I never, ever heard him speak a cross word to her. He treated me and the rest of our family with the same kindness.
He often took me fishing. We also worked together at our family’s sawmill. After working hard all day, we sometimes went on evening picnics. Spending time working and playing together created a real family bond.

There’s a hospital in New York called a foundling hospital that cares for orphaned infants. Their mortality rate some years ago was unbelievable. About two out of three died, no matter what the directors and doctors did in terms of constant surveillance, medical care, all the things that you do to keep a child alive. Two out of three still died.
And then they discovered a ward in that hospital where all of these little kids were flourishing. There was a light in their eyes; they would eat instead of ignore their food; they smiled and gooed, and their crying wasn’t a chronic sick cry. It was a “let you know what is needed” cry.
They couldn’t understand why these children were so hale and hearty—until they discovered old Anna, not a nurse but a washwoman. A huge, older woman, she would strap (she knew she shouldn’t, but she waited till nobody was watching) a little baby on each hip, and then while she was working along she would cluck, and put a hand under each baby’s head, and say nice things.
These children lived because they were loved! The others died because they weren’t. Love is a matter of life and death, and you’d better believe it!

Another time when I felt really hopeless, I went to my room and said a prayer that Heavenly Father would let me know that everything was OK—that I was OK. I was worried about mistakes I’d made in the past and wondered if life would ever get easier. Then I opened up to Isaiah; that’s just what I do when I’m feeling down. And here’s what I read, first thing: “Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert” (Isaiah 43:18–19). And I was so grateful, I just cried. In those verses, I felt God telling me not to stay focused on the past but to move forward with faith. He had miracles in the works for me, and I would know them when I saw them.

Later, after I started dating the wonderful guy I’d end up marrying, I reread this scripture and, of course, I cried. Again. God had done “a new thing” and truly had made “a way in the wilderness.” And I did know it.

Blessings come from holding true to our principles. When I was the president of the Cottonwood stake, one of our stake patriarchs was Dr. Creed Haymond. He would occasionally bear strong testimony of the Word of Wisdom. As a young man he was the captain of the University of Pennsylvania track team. In 1919 Brother Haymond and his team were invited to participate in the annual Inter-Collegiate Association track meet. The night before the track meet his coach, Lawson Robertson, who coached several Olympic teams, instructed his team members to drink some sherry wine. In those days, coaches wrongly felt that wine was a tonic for muscles hardened through rigorous training. All the other team members took the sherry, but Brother Haymond refused because his parents had taught him the Word of Wisdom. Brother Haymond became very anxious because he did not like to be disobedient to his coach. He was to compete against the fastest men in the world. What if he made a poor showing the next day? How could he face his coach?

The next day at the track meet the rest of the team members were very ill and performed poorly or were even too sick to run. Brother Haymond, however, felt well and won the 100- and 220-yard dashes. His coach told him, “You just ran the two hundred and twenty yards in the fastest time it has ever been run by any human being.” That night and for the rest of his life, Creed Haymond was grateful for his simple faith in keeping the Word of Wisdom.

A youth activity on a chilly night in January 2017 changed the Sorenson family forever. Terry and Jenilyn’s son Tanner was 14 years old. The combined activity was wrapping up. A leader was offering the last of the refreshments. Tanner, who was allergic to peanuts, grabbed a cookie and bit into it. He shouldn’t have. It was a peanut butter cookie.

“He was usually so careful,” Terry says.

Tanner managed to get home—his house was just down the street from their meetinghouse. But he lost consciousness quickly after. He stopped breathing. Paramedics and emergency room staff fought valiantly for him. But unfortunately their efforts were not successful.

Tanner passed away that night because of his food allergy.

Tanner’s family has felt many miracles, large and small, since losing their son. They hope increased awareness of food allergies is one of them.

“It’s not that these kids with allergies are irresponsible. It’s not that they aren’t paying attention. But they are kids,” says Tanner’s father, Terry. “It just takes one second of letting your guard down.”

I was excited to go to youth conference, but then I found out there were lots of rules—for example, no cell phones and no going outside alone. It seemed like adults were constantly keeping an eye on us. But I had a great time, made a lot of friends, worked on a service project, and learned about the gospel.
During a testimony meeting on the last day of youth conference, one of the leaders talked about how much he loves us, the youth in the stake.
If you love us, why do we have so many restrictions here? I thought. At that same moment, like he could read my mind, he answered my question.
Leaders put rules in place, he said, not to annoy us but for our safety. The moment he said that, I was touched by the Spirit. I understood that Heavenly Father gives us commandments for the same reason. They are not to annoy us; they are to help us return safely to Him (see Doctrine and Covenants 82:2–9).
The Holy Ghost touched me and helped me to know that this is true.
Serge P., Île-de-France, France

To understand how this story turned out the way it did, you probably need to know Joe. And that’s not an easy thing.
In the small town of Oakley, Utah, if you ask the other teenagers about quiet, soft-spoken Joe Frazier, they say the same types of things: He’s … hmmm? … great to be around. He’s … hmmm? … funny. He’s … hmmm? … I don’t know … He’s just Joe.
Hmmm?
“Let’s put it this way,” says D. J. Glade. “You know how in high school it’s not cool to talk to the younger kids? Well, Joe talks to the younger kids. Joe talks to the older kids. Joe is friends with everyone.”
Come on.
“Serious.”
But then there was Joe, at age 16, lying unconscious in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth, a bag dripping into a tube in one arm. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong. It was strange, sobering. And without exception, all of his friends thought, That could be me.
Joe Frazier had been sick for about a month and was getting progressively worse. The doctors were baffled. At first they thought he had a virus, maybe hepatitis. And then, on a July 1994 morning, he was in the kitchen, reached out for the counter, and was suddenly on the floor. His brother, Josh, picked him up and carried him to the car.
The following Monday, Joe was still in the hospital. His parents, Blake and Barbara, were told their son was in very serious condition, that he needed a new liver. The Fraziers’ insurance company did not cover the cost of the experimental surgery, and before Joe could be put on a national transplant waiting list the family would need to raise $125,000.
“We didn’t have time to sell our house or our cars,” says Barbara. “Joe hadn’t been sick in years, and now out of the blue they were saying the word transplant. It was overwhelming.”
The hospital suggested the Fraziers ask a handful of their close friends and relatives to help raise part of the money. The neighbors they asked to help got on the phone to other neighbors who got on the phone to others … well, you get the idea. All they had to say was “Joe is in trouble” and money started appearing. The first donations were from Joe’s brother and sister, Josh and Jamie, who emptied their bank accounts and dug under couch cushions and in the back of dresser drawers for any cash they could find.
Right away, the kids from Joe’s high school got together to brainstorm ways to raise the money. They gave $500 they were saving for their prom. And then they organized car washes, bake sales, a rodeo, and an enormous garage sale.
It was late one evening that week, as the teenagers collected items for the garage sale, that Sam Aplanalp, 15, realized something miraculous was happening.
“The football players were pulling things off a truck when a little boy rode up on his bike,” says Sam. “I know his family doesn’t have much money—and his bike was about all he had in the world—but he wanted us to have it. To help Joe.”
The next day at the sale, a loaf of bread fetched $400 and someone paid $25 for a root beer. At the car wash, 16-year-old Michelle Cooper and her friends washed a stranger’s car who, in payment, handed them two $100 bills. “I don’t know who he was,” Michelle says, tearing up at the memory. “But it taught me that deep down, people really do care.”
On Wednesday afternoon, only a day and a half after the call for donations had gone out, the phone rang in Joe’s hospital room. Barbara answered. It was Joe’s 14-year-old sister, Jamie.
“Mom, you’re missing a miracle,” she said. “I wish you were here to see what the people in town are doing. They’ve already raised $55,000!”
Teenagers from across the county, from all faiths and backgrounds, came together to help raise money and to pray for Joe.
“I don’t think any of us had ever prayed that hard or worked that hard,” says Michelle.
Jake adds, “But we learned where real joy comes from. Passing a test, winning a ball game, having a girlfriend makes you happy—but real joy comes from giving, from sacrifice.”
On the same Wednesday, Barbara and Blake met with their surgeon and told him that Oakley and the neighboring communities in their county had already raised $55,000—in 36 hours. Tears ran down the physician’s cheeks and Barbara recalls him saying, “You have renewed my faith. There really are human beings in the world.” The doctor, realizing the severity of Joe’s condition, had already put him on the transplant list. He said he would not let Joe die without a chance.
When Joe went into surgery the following Monday, the Fraziers had already received $135,000.
But Joe’s fight was not over. He was given only a 50 percent chance of making it through the eight-hour operation. And, says Barbara, “If he hadn’t received the liver that day, he would not have seen another sunrise.”
“The first day I remember is the 24th of July—five days after the surgery,” says Joe. “I remember going to the window to watch the fireworks.”
When Barbara told him what the community had done, Joe seemed strangely sad. “I kinda wish I’d been there to help,” he explained.
On a hot August day with thin clouds in the Utah mountains, the Fraziers’ Thunderbird slowed as it reached the turn into the Kamas valley. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, Joe could see the group of vehicles waiting for him at the intersection, where twisting Brown’s Canyon meets Highway 189.
The fire engine and the cars fell in behind Joe’s car, fender-to-fender. The parade stopped in Oakley, and Joe got out and hugged his mom. A dozen young kids who had donated their toys to the garage sale and who felt in some way they owned a little piece of Joe gathered close to him. And one little guy yelled, “Hey, Joe, how ya feeling?”
There wasn’t a dry eye when Joe smiled and said in a soft voice “fine” and “thank you” and that it was “good to be home.”
“Every street corner, every business, everything was covered with pictures of Joe,” said Barbara. “But when we got home, Joe asked me to get the collection jars out of the store and take his pictures down.
“And then he wanted me to make sure no one had given more money than they could afford.”
Maybe that selfless attitude is why everyone cared, why they did what they did. Who knows? But it’s definitely the reason, when you ask who is Joe Frazier, that all his friends say with love, He’s … hmmm? … he’s just Joe.

One thing you can say for the Laurels in the Rockford First Ward, Rockford Illinois Stake, is that they have heart. And they give it away. Their 1991 service project had them sewing valentine outfits for premature babies in a local hospital.
The outfits included nightgowns with red hearts, red knit socks, hats, and mittens. After Valentine’s Day, they continued to make outfits for premature babies in other hospitals in the area.

I know a woman with several small children whose husband served in a time-consuming Church calling. He often came home late from work—just long enough to say hello—then off he went to perform his Church duties. The children sometimes had to be reassured, and sometimes the mother had to reassure herself, by saying, “Aren’t we glad that Daddy is worthy to serve Heavenly Father so we can receive so many blessings?” A support instead of a murmur brought results that had a lasting influence on that home and family.