Gospel Story Finder

I spoke one day to a friend escaped from his native land. With the fall of his nation, he had been arrested and interned. His wife and children had been able to get away, but for three years and more he had been a prisoner without means of communication with those he loved. The food had been wretched, the living conditions oppressive, with no prospects for improvement.
“What sustained you through all those dark days?” I asked.
He responded: “My faith; my faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. I put my burdens on him, and then they seemed so much the lighter.”

Dinah sat on the rug, excited for story time. It was her favorite part of the day.
She looked across the rug and saw a classmate named Felicity waving to her.
“Come here!” Felicity said.
Dinah scooted across the rug. “What’s up?”
“Your hair is different than mine,” said Felicity. “Why does your hair look like that?” She touched Dinah’s braids and giggled.
“My mom helped me do it,” Dinah said. She loved the color of her hair and how it felt under her fingers. She loved the neat rows of cute little plastic hair clips.
“Also, I want to see something,” Felicity said. “Show me your arm.”
Dinah held out her arm. “Well, what?” she asked as Felicity moved her own arm next to Dinah’s.
“Your arms are so brown!” said Felicity.
“Oh,” said Dinah, scooting back to the other side of the rug. Suddenly she couldn’t wait for the day to end.
At home, Dinah didn’t say much at dinner. When it was cleanup time, her sister, Aly, grabbed a towel to dry dishes and Dinah picked up the broom.
Mom started singing. Mom loved to sing while they cleaned.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine …”
Dinah smiled a little. She hummed and sang along as she swept: “Let it shine, let it shine …”
The song ended. “My turn!” Aly said. She started a new song. Dinah tried to harmonize like Aly and Mom did, but it sounded flat. Like a boring gray color. Everyone burst out laughing.
“That was funny!” said Dinah. “Let me try again.”
Aly started the song again, and Dinah closed her eyes and joined in. This time, the different notes started to blend, like yellow and blue mixing into a bright green.
They sang almost the whole time they cleaned. When they were finishing, Dinah remembered what happened at school. She still felt uncomfortable about it.
“Mom, do you ever think about how people look different?” Dinah asked. “How everyone has different hair and skin and eyes?”
“Hmm, yes, I know what you mean,” said Mom. “Did something happen that made you think about that?”
Dinah told Mom about what Felicity said. “I felt weird. I didn’t like it. Why did she say that?”
“It sounds like Felicity was curious about you,” Mom said. “Everyone has their own unique skin color. And hair and eyes too. We’re all Heavenly Father’s children, and there’s no right or wrong way to look. But sometimes people need to get used to the beauty of different colors.”
“All peoples’ colors are beautiful?” Dinah asked.
“Definitely. Everyone’s color shows something special about their family and their history. The way you act represents our family to others. And who do we always say we follow in our family? Jesus Christ, right? So you also represent the Savior.”
Dinah nodded as Mom pulled her into a hug. Then she pulled Aly into the hug too.
“We can always feel good about who we are—especially when we’re following Jesus Christ,” she said quietly.
Dinah’s upset feelings began to settle down.
“Now,” Mom said with a smile, “time to get ready for bed. And then—dessert!”
“Yay!” Aly shrieked. “It’s gonna be pie, I just know it!” She zoomed upstairs.
Dinah followed Aly. She felt much better after talking with Mom. Her skin color was another part of who she was, like her family and her testimony were. She would keep being kind and set a good example at school. With God on her side, it would be a piece of cake.
Or even better, a piece of pie!

Most people are glad to get away from home for a couple of weeks when they get a vacation. I’m glad to come home. Concert dates can keep our performing group away from home for months at a time. That’s probably why I felt so relaxed being back in Salt Lake, standing in line with a girl I liked, ready to see a movie I thought I’d rave about.
It was a popular space science fiction film, and the line was long. Waiting gave us time to talk but also time to think. My mind wandered to parts of section 88 in the Doctrine and Covenants. Section 88 [D&C 88] talks about the judgment day.
Verses 108 through 110 [D&C 88:108–110] talk about a great revealing that will take place, during which our actions will be shown to all. These verses even mention that our thoughts will be unveiled and imply that our life’s journey will be recreated to prove that the judgment is just.
I had heard people describe this as an epic motion picture on a giant screen, but that thought had never really been clear to me before. Now the thoughts came rushing to me. If a movie were made of my life, would I be half as excited to see it as the one I was standing in line to see now? Would I want to take a girl I liked to see it? Would I take my bishop? My friends? Would I invite the Savior?
What started as a simple thought evolved into deep reflections about my life and the motion picture I would make. The concept remained in my mind long after the true film ended and I had driven my date home. In fact, I kept thinking about it for weeks. I couldn’t get rid of the concern I felt wondering what type of movie it would be.

As Paul jogged across the horse pasture toward the barn, he made a mental list of things that he’d need to free the frantic horse: I need some oats. Grandpa said that oats are a great tamer, and if there is anything I need right now, it’s a tamer horse to work on! I need some wire cutters and a halter and lead rope, too—and maybe a flashlight, in case I run out of daylight.
He found everything he needed except the flashlight. The only one he knew about was under the pickup seat, and it was at the hospital. He dropped the wire cutters into the bucket of oats, looped the halter and rope over his shoulder, and jogged back across the pasture.
Wary of getting knocked down again, he carefully offered Ginger a bite of oats. She chewed and reached for more, but he set the bucket out of reach while he put the halter on her and buckled it. Then he offered her another bite before he started cutting wires. Ginger, who must have finally realized that help was at hand, quieted down considerably. Every time she got restless, he gave her another bite of oats. The tangle of wires around her feet was such that he really couldn’t tell which wire to cut, so he had to cut several unnecessarily before he got the strand holding the mass of wire to a half-buried tree stump.
When Ginger felt the tension on her legs ease, she jumped to her feet, shook, and snorted. Then she reared up when she found that she was still tangled. Careful to not get hit by a flying hoof, Paul caught the lead rope and pulled her down. He petted her briefly, gave her a couple bites of oats, and went back to cutting wires. It was so dark by then that he had to work mostly by feel, and he had trouble finding the right places to cut.
Finally the last wire fell away, and Paul pulled the scratchy mass away from her feet. He rubbed a hand down each leg to be sure, left the now-empty bucket to be picked up later, and led Ginger out of the willows and across the dark pasture. She did fine, but he stumbled often in the darkness.
He turned on the barn light and led her under it so that he could examine her injuries. She had some bad cuts, but, he decided, nothing life threatening. Quoting what his father always told him when Paul complained of an injury, he petted the horse softly and consoled her, “It’s a long way from your heart.”
He tied Ginger to a post and went to the house to get some warm water and a rag. While there he read the labels on the containers in the veterinary cabinet until he found one that said it was for “wire cuts and to keep flies off.” Just what he needed!
Ginger let him wash the cuts all right, but pulled free when he tried to spray the medicine on them. With a quick jump, he beat her to the open barn door, closed it, tied her shorter this time, and tried again. She danced around the post, but he finally got all the deeper cuts and scratches covered.
Because the pasture seemed cleaner than the barn, he turned her out when he finished. It was nearly eleven o’clock when he returned to the kitchen, wearily put the bucket and rag into the sink, and dragged himself out to close the chicken coop door.
Too tired to make a sandwich, he drank two glasses of milk and cut a thick piece off the roast to eat. He set the alarm for 6:00 A.M., then fell wearily into bed.

Aren’t we all a little bit like this? After a recent medical procedure, my very capable doctors explained what I needed to do to heal properly. But first I had to relearn something about myself I should have known for a long time: as a patient, I’m not very patient.

Consequently I decided to expedite the healing process by undertaking my own Internet search. I suppose I expected to discover truth of which my doctors were unaware or had tried to keep from me.

It took me a little while before I realized the irony of what I was doing. Of course, researching things for ourselves is not a bad idea. But I was disregarding truth I could rely on and instead found myself being drawn to the often outlandish claims of Internet lore.

Sometimes the truth may just seem too straightforward, too plain, and too simple for us to fully appreciate its great value. So we set aside what we have experienced and know to be true in pursuit of more mysterious or complicated information. Hopefully we will learn that when we chase after shadows, we are pursuing matters that have little substance and value.

When it comes to spiritual truth, how can we know that we are on the right path?

One way is by asking the right questions—the kind that help us ponder our progress and evaluate how things are working for us. Questions like:

“Does my life have meaning?”
“Do I believe in God?”
“Do I believe that God knows and loves me?”
“Do I believe that God hears and answers my prayers?”
“Am I truly happy?”
“Are my efforts leading me to the highest spiritual goals and values in life?”

Profound questions regarding the purpose of life have led many individuals and families throughout the world to search for truth. Often that search has led them to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to the restored gospel.

I wonder if we as Church members might also benefit from asking ourselves from time to time: “Is my experience in the Church working for me? Is it bringing me closer to Christ? Is it blessing me and my family with peace and joy as promised in the gospel?”

Alma posed similar questions to Church members in Zarahemla when he asked: “Have ye experienced this mighty change in your hearts? … [And] can [you] feel [it] now?” Such contemplation may help us to refocus or realign our daily efforts with the divine plan of salvation.

Many members will answer with great warmth that their experience as a member of the Church is working exceptionally well for them. They will testify that whether during times of poverty or prosperity, whether things are pleasant or painful, they find great meaning, peace, and joy because of their commitment to the Lord and their dedicated service in the Church. Every day I meet Church members who are filled with a radiant joy and who demonstrate in word and deed that their lives are immeasurably enriched by the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.

But I also recognize that there are some who have a less-than-fulfilling experience—who feel that their membership in the Church sometimes isn’t quite what they had hoped for.

This saddens me because I know firsthand how the gospel can invigorate and renew one’s spirit—how it can fill our hearts with hope and our minds with light. I know for myself how the fruits of the gospel of Jesus Christ can transform lives from the ordinary and dreary to the extraordinary and sublime.

But why does it seem to work better for some than for others? What is the difference between those whose experience in the Church fills their souls with songs of redeeming love and those who feel that something is lacking?

As I have pondered these questions, a flood of thoughts came to mind. Today I’d like to share two.

First: are we making our discipleship too complicated?

This beautiful gospel is so simple a child can grasp it, yet so profound and complex that it will take a lifetime—even an eternity—of study and discovery to fully understand it.

But sometimes we take the beautiful lily of God’s truth and gild it with layer upon layer of man-made good ideas, programs, and expectations. Each one, by itself, might be helpful and appropriate for a certain time and circumstance, but when they are laid on top of each other, they can create a mountain of sediment that becomes so thick and heavy that we risk losing sight of that precious flower we once loved so dearly.

Therefore, as leaders we must strictly protect the Church and the gospel in its purity and plainness and avoid putting unnecessary burdens on our members.

And all of us, as members of the Church, we need to make a conscientious effort to devote our energy and time to the things that truly matter, while uplifting our fellowmen and building the kingdom of God.

One sister, a Relief Society instructor, was known for preparing flawless lessons. One time she decided to create a beautiful quilt that would serve as the perfect backdrop to the theme of her lesson. But life intervened—there were children to pick up from school, a neighbor who needed help moving, a husband who had a fever, and a friend who felt lonely. The day of the lesson approached, and the quilt was not completed. Finally, the night before her lesson, she did not sleep much as she worked all night on the quilt.

The next day she was exhausted and barely able to organize her thoughts, but she bravely stood and delivered her lesson.

And the quilt was stunning—the stitches were perfect, the colors vibrant, and the design intricate. And at the center of it all was a single word that triumphantly echoed the theme of her lesson: “Simplify.”

Brothers and sisters, living the gospel doesn’t need to be complicated.

It is really straightforward. It could be described like this:

Hearing the word of God with earnest intent leads us to believe in God and to trust His promises.
The more we trust God, the more our hearts are filled with love for Him and for each other.
Because of our love for God, we desire to follow Him and bring our actions in alignment with His word.
Because we love God, we want to serve Him; we want to bless the lives of others and help the poor and the needy.
The more we walk in this path of discipleship, the more we desire to learn the word of God.
And so it goes, each step leading to the next and filling us with ever-increasing faith, hope, and charity.

It is beautifully simple, and it works beautifully.

Brothers and sisters, if you ever think that the gospel isn’t working so well for you, I invite you to step back, look at your life from a higher plane, and simplify your approach to discipleship. Focus on the basic doctrines, principles, and applications of the gospel. I promise that God will guide and bless you on your path to a fulfilling life, and the gospel will definitely work better for you.

My second suggestion is: start where you are.

Sometimes we feel discouraged because we are not “more” of something—more spiritual, respected, intelligent, healthy, rich, friendly, or capable. Naturally, there is nothing wrong with wanting to improve. God created us to grow and progress. But remember, our weaknesses can help us to be humble and turn us to Christ, who will “make weak things become strong.” Satan, on the other hand, uses our weaknesses to the point that we are discouraged from even trying.

I learned in my life that we don’t need to be “more” of anything to start to become the person God intended us to become.

God will take you as you are at this very moment and begin to work with you. All you need is a willing heart, a desire to believe, and trust in the Lord.

Gideon saw himself as a poor farmer, the least of his father’s house. But God saw him as a mighty man of valor.

When Samuel chose Saul to be king, Saul tried to talk him out of it. Saul was from one of the smallest tribes of the house of Israel. How could he be king? But God saw him as “a choice young man.”

Even the great prophet Moses felt so overwhelmed and discouraged at one point that he wanted to give up and die. But God did not give up on Moses.

My dear brothers and sisters, if we look at ourselves only through our mortal eyes, we may not see ourselves as good enough. But our Heavenly Father sees us as who we truly are and who we can become. He sees us as His sons and daughters, as beings of eternal light with everlasting potential and with a divine destiny.

The Savior’s sacrifice opened the door of salvation for all to return to God. His “grace is sufficient for all [who] humble themselves before [God].” His grace is the enabling power that allows access into God’s kingdoms of salvation. Because of His grace, we will all be resurrected and saved in a kingdom of glory.

Even the lowest kingdom of glory, the telestial kingdom, “surpasses all understanding,” and numberless people will inherit this salvation.

But the Savior’s grace can do much more for us. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we aspire to something unimaginably greater. It is exaltation in the celestial kingdom. It is life eternal in the presence of our Father in Heaven. It is the greatest gift of God. In the celestial kingdom, we receive “of his fulness, and of his glory.” Indeed, all that the Father hath shall be given unto us.

Exaltation is our goal; discipleship is our journey.

As you exercise a little faith and begin your walk as a peaceable follower of our Lord Jesus Christ, your heart will change. Your whole being will be filled with light.

God will help you become something greater than you ever thought possible. And you will discover that the gospel of Jesus Christ is indeed working in your life. It works.

Brothers and sisters, dear friends, I pray that we will focus on “the simplicity that is in Christ” and allow His grace to lift and carry us during our journey from where we are now to our glorious destiny in our Father’s presence.

As we do so and someone asks us, “How is being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints working for you?” we will be able to say with pride, in all humility, and with great joy, “It works wonderfully! Thank you for asking! Would you like to know more?”

This is my hope, my prayer, my testimony, and my blessing in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

My friends, there have been moments in my life when I too have felt unimportant, alone, discouraged, and unseen. I have felt as if I did not belong. I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was 19 years old. One year later, I accepted the call to serve as a full-time missionary, but there was much I had not yet learned about Church history.

Early in my missionary service, I learned that there was a period when those of Black African descent were not allowed to enjoy all of the blessings of worshipping in the house of the Lord. Learning this for the first time brought feelings of anger, confusion, doubt, and fear. These feelings were so intense that my ability to recognize the Holy Ghost was lost for a season.

Fortunately, I had a wonderful missionary companion, Kevin Vick, who ministered to me with love, patience, and kindness. Each night as he witnessed my feelings of doubt and uncertainty, he would simply say to the younger Elder Johnson, “I love you.” After about two weeks, I allowed myself to feel of Kevin’s love. I gained the courage to pray to Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus Christ. As I prayed, I was drawn to section 6 of the Doctrine and Covenants, verses 21–23, which states:

“Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God. … I am the light which shineth in darkness. …

“… Cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart, that you might know concerning the truth of these things.

“Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?”

As I read, I remembered. I remembered the day that I had fasted and prayed to know that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and that Joseph Smith is the Prophet of the Restoration. I remembered covenants made in the house of the Lord that connect me to Jesus Christ in such a personal and intimate way. I felt of the Savior’s love, His mercy, and His assurance that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is His kingdom upon the earth and is necessary to prepare us for His Second Coming. Because I remembered, I again was able to recognize the Holy Ghost and to understand more fully that Jesus is the Christ and I am His disciple.

Let’s just cite one more example where the Lord watched over and protected his Saints in the Church. This is found in the History of the Church: There were threats of a mob on June 19, 1834. As the Mormons were making camp, five men rode up and told them that they would “see hell before morning.” They stated that an armed force from Richmond, Ray, and Clay counties was to join a Jackson County force at the Fishing River ford, bent on the utter destruction of the camp.
While these five men were in the camp, cursing and swearing vengeance, signs of an approaching storm were seen. No sooner had these men left the camp than the storm burst forth in all its fury. Hailstones struck, so large that they cut limbs from the trees, and the limbs fell all around the camp while the trees were twisted from their roots by the force of the wind. The earth trembled and quaked, and the streams became raging torrents, and the mobbers dispersed, seeking shelter that could not be found. One mobber was killed by lightning and another had his hand torn off by a fractious horse, and in fear they dispersed, saying that if that was the way God fought for the “Mormons” they would go about their business.
On the morning of June 21 (just two days later) Colonel Sconce, with two companions, visited the camp to learn what the intentions of the members were. He said: “I see there is an almighty power that protects this people, for I started from Richmond, Ray County, with a company of armed men, having a fixed determination to destroy you, but was kept back by the storm.”
The Prophet then related to these men the sufferings of the Saints, and they left the camp offering to use their influence. (See History of the Church, 2:103–6.)
During all this storm the members of the camp were protected from its fury. Why were they protected? Because of their collective obedience to the Lord.

Elder Smith then married Jessie Evans, a well-known vocalist and member of the Tabernacle Choir, on 12 April 1938. A born entertainer with a vivacious and cheerful nature, she was at Elder Smith’s side for thirty-three years, buoying him up and caring for him with a love and devotion that was truly beautiful. She lived to see him become President of the Church and traveled extensively with him on his many Church assignments—sharing not only his rigorous schedule, but also the loving reception of the Saints of many lands. When she succumbed to a heart ailment on 3 August 1971, millions shared President Smith’s loneliness and sorrow.

At that difficult time, President Harold B. Lee, who served President Smith as a Counselor in the First Presidency, expressed compassion to the prophet over his loss. President Smith assured his friend that the Lord would give him strength to continue in his duties: “I’ve been through this before, you know,” he said.

Now I hadn’t had time to think of what to do to earn a living in a strange land with a strange language. On Friday morning, July 26, 1872, there came a man to the house of Mon Andersen who wanted a boy to help him in the fields. His name was Peter Petersen. My wages were $8.00 a month. I worked with him 20 months. I must now tell a little that happened in that time. It was customary at that time that newcomers should be rebaptized. So Peter Petersen’s wife, Karen Larsen Petersen, told me, “There will be baptisms today. So you must hitch up the horses and take these people down to the mill pond to be baptized. And you must be baptized too.” I told her I would be glad to take them down, but I was not ready for baptism yet.
That coming winter I started to go to school so I could learn a little English. I had also gone with Mons Andersen’s boys to Sunday School. Eischa Pack was the teacher at that time. They were reading in turns out of the Bible; but when it came my turn to read, Brother Pack would read my verse, and there was not even a gap. I was glad although I could not understand what they said. Yet I got to enjoying Sunday School. Sister Karen Larsen Petersen took sick and died on February 7, 1873, and that ended my schooling at that time. But I learned enough so I got into the Third Reader.
Now I had been studying the gospel and made it a matter of prayer. I knew Jesus’s answer to Nicodemus as we find recorded in the third chapter of John: “Except a man is born of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter into the kingdom of Heaven.” So on August 30, 1873, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by Mons Andersen and confirmed by Abraham Lossee in Lehi.

This afternoon I want to describe and discuss a spiritual impression I received a few moments before I stepped to this pulpit during the Sunday morning session of general conference last October. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf had just finished speaking and had declared his powerful witness of the Savior. Then we all stood together to sing the intermediate hymn that previously had been announced by President Gordon B. Hinckley. The intermediate hymn that morning was “Redeemer of Israel” (Hymns, no. 6).

Now, the music for the various conference sessions had been determined many weeks before—and obviously long before my new call to serve. If, however, I had been invited to suggest an intermediate hymn for that particular session of the conference—a hymn that would have been both edifying and spiritually soothing for me and for the congregation before my first address in this Conference Center—I would have selected my favorite hymn, “Redeemer of Israel.” Tears filled my eyes as I stood with you to sing that stirring hymn of the Restoration.

Near the conclusion of the singing, to my mind came this verse from the Book of Mormon: “But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance” (1 Nephi 1:20).

My mind was drawn immediately to Nephi’s phrase “the tender mercies of the Lord,” and I knew in that very moment I was experiencing just such a tender mercy. A loving Savior was sending me a most personal and timely message of comfort and reassurance through a hymn selected weeks previously. Some may count this experience as simply a nice coincidence, but I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.

The spicy aroma of teriyaki chicken greeted the members of the Healdsburg Ward, Santa Rosa California Stake, and their nonmember friends as they entered the cultural hall. The promise of a delicious dinner was fulfilled, followed by a song-and-dance program presented by 26 members of the ward who called themselves the “Healdsburg Kids.” It was a missionary dinner where any family who brought a nonmember was invited to eat for free.
“Everyone was pleased with the results of their efforts and were relieved when it was over!” said Elder Brent Mortensen, who was a member of the “Healdsburg Kids” and is currently serving a mission in Montana. “We didn’t realize at the time that it was really the beginning of an even greater missionary activity.”
Shortly after the dinner, Sister Kaye Davis suggested that the ward present its dinner show at the recently completed Historical Society Museum in Healdsburg. The members of the Church would decorate, provide the food and entertainment, cook, serve, and clean up, with all proceeds going to the museum.
The Society, after being assured that all they would have to do would be sell tickets, accepted the offer. The “Healdsburg Kids,” who had begun performing together five years before with seven members, eagerly accepted the challenge of three rehearsals a week for the next month. A special fast was held, and concluded with prayer, followed by a cast dinner and another rehearsal. The night of the dinner arrived, and the cast was excited! “We wanted to show the non-Mormons what the Church does for the youth, that it is a family-centered Church,” said Elder Mortensen.
Highlights of the evening included “An American Trilogy” (a medley comprised of old-time favorites) and a medley called “America’s Music Through the Years.” The program concluded with “Love at Home.” “We could feel the Spirit of the Lord,” said Elder Mortensen.
“It was a big job to prepare, both physically and spiritually, but it was fun and well-worth the effort! The seventies have been able to teach several people who first became interested in the Church after seeing the program. We discovered that a small ward can have success in missionary work. At one time all the wards in the Church were small. The Church is true in all parts of the world, and it’s our responsibility to make sure our neighbors know about it!” he added.

It started with a discussion about pollywogs, and it ended in a full-scale rebellion.
“Man, it was scary for awhile,” remembers teachers quorum president Ferron Coombs, 14. “They herded us all together and turned on some high-powered fire hoses. That cooled everything down in a hurry.”
The mutiny occurred aboard the USS Manitowoc (LST—1180), which was enroute from the Panama Canal to Ecuador to deliver donated medical supplies and equipment. The LDS young men were part of a group of 27 Canal Zone Explorer Scouts and seven adult advisers who made the voyage at the invitation of Rear Admiral Robert H. Blount.
The cruise wasn’t all work and no play, however. Since the ship would cross the equator on October 10, appropriate initiation ceremonies were planned for the “pollywogs.” A pollywog in the U.S. Navy is someone who has never gone across the equator on a navy ship. Once you’ve been initiated, you’re a shellback. The pollywogs included the Explorers and their adult advisers as well as the majority of the ship’s crew. Roy Meyer, 15, one of the LDS Explorers on the Manitowoc, describes the initiation activities as wild. According to Roy, “The night before we actually crossed the equator, there were all kinds of pollywog uprisings and rebellions. Anyway, since there were only 22 crewmen who had been across before, we outnumbered them more than ten to one. After we knocked off from our chores in the evening, the pollywogs tried to capture the shellbacks and harrass them because we knew they’d get back at us during the regular initiation.
“Boy, we had mutinies going on all over the ship, but they paid us back in full the next day.” In the finest tradition of the sea, the 22 “trusty shellbacks” of the Manitowoc crew insured that all participating pollywogs received their just rewards for various uprisings, rebellions, and other unspecified “crimes.” That’s when the firehoses were used to “control” the unruly pollywogs. Even the adult advisers were found guilty of various offenses.
“Yeah,” laughs a young man whose father is a U.S. Air Force officer, “they really got my dad. I had already been initiated, so I got to watch him be judged. They issued a subpoena for him that accused him of being a ‘High Flying Fowl from the U.S. Hair Farce,’ and the Royal Judge of King Neptune’s Court decided that was a very serious crime. Dad really got sentenced.”
After the initiation ceremonies all the shellbacks—old and new—joined together to give the ship a thorough and much-needed cleaning.
At the completion of the cruise, each new shellback received an official certificate of membership into the Royal Domain of King Neptune.

I squinted against the huge snowflakes falling around me as I replaced my gas cap. Even the auto parts store across the street was a mere shadow in the incessant snow. Ducking my head, I tromped through the slush to the door of the Last Stop Gas and Grub.
“Eighteen-fifty on pump six,” I announced, setting a $20 bill on the counter.
“Where you headed?” the cashier, a man in his mid-50s with thinning gray hair, asked.
I pocketed the change. “St. Mary’s Cross.”
“Over the mountain?” He shook his head and chuckled. “The snowplow left 10 minutes ago. He was going up to close the road.”
“Close the road?” I’ve got to get to St. Mary’s Cross tonight. It’s Christmas tomorrow.”
“You got family in St. Mary’s?”
I hesitated. “I don’t have any family,” I grumbled bitterly. “I’m seeing a friend.”
“You’re pretty young not to have family,” the man commented.
I shrugged. I had no desire to explain that I’d left home a year and a half ago, two weeks after graduating from high school. I recalled my words as I stormed out the door while Mom and Dad begged me to reconsider: “Stop treating me like a kid!”
It hadn’t been a new conflict, just a continuation of the old one over too many chores, staying out late, reminders about church and seminary, and other festering irritations I had magnified.
Stubborn pride squelched every shadow of regret and made my resolve strong. I had traveled to Phoenix with my best friend, Kevan Powers, and landed a construction job with his Uncle Ray. We had both been fiercely determined to make it on our own. But a year ago November, Kevan had gone soft and crawled home. Now he was in South Korea on a mission. He had even written to me, suggesting that I talk to the bishop and reconsider a mission.
As long as Kevan had been with me, I received letters from home because Mom got my address from Sister Powers. Mom assured me in each letter that every night and morning when everyone knelt for family prayer, I was mentioned. At first I was irritated by her comment, but then I derived a strange comfort from it. I wanted to forget them, but I did not want them to erase me.
When Kevan left, I moved and the letters stopped because Mom didn’t have my address. Oh, I’d started a few letters, but I always ended up tossing them, determined to prove my point. But there were times on Sunday afternoons or Monday evenings when I was alone and couldn’t force my thoughts away from those quiet memories of home.
“Who knows when the road will open,” the cashier said. “My name’s Burt. Both our motels are already full, but you can stay here as long as you want. I don’t have anyplace to go. It’s just me and the wife, and she’s visiting family in Denver.”
I looked around. Across the aisle from the register was a long snack bar. The back wall was a series of glass doors opening to the beverage coolers. There were a couple of aisles with chips, candies, and emergency items.
“I wish there was a better selection of sandwiches and eats,” Burt remarked, “but folks cleaned me out earlier.”
I peered out the window as a white car trailing a gray haze from the exhaust chugged up to one of the pumps. “That car needs a good doctor,” Burt commented. “Or maybe a mortician.”
A woman I guessed to be in her late 20s stepped from the car and started pumping gas. She was joined by a seven-year-old boy in short sleeves who sloshed casually through the snow toward the store. The woman hung up the hose, snatched a little girl from the back seat, and charged toward the store. The three burst inside at the same time.
“Five dollars,” she gasped, pushing a wrinkled bill across the counter as the boy and girl wandered toward the candy. “Mark, we don’t have money for treats. We have to get to St. Mary’s.”
“Nothing’s going over that mountain, ma’am,” Burt announced. “Road’s closed.”
“Closed?” she moaned. “It can’t be. Not tonight.”
“You can stay here,” Burt added sympathetically. “This young fellow is.” He nodded toward me, but I looked away. “I’m Burt. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Melanie Parkes,” the lady muttered. Although she looked a bit haggard, she was pretty. But there was also a shade of hardness about her eyes and mouth.
“I’ve got to make it to St. Mary’s Cross,” she said. “I have a job starting the day after Christmas. I have to move into my apartment before then.”
“Are you having car trouble?” Burt asked.
“It just has to get me to St. Mary’s. After that I don’t care.”
For the next 20 minutes Burt puttered about his store and Melanie, her two kids, and I browsed up and down the aisles and watched the snow bury the world outside.
Retreating to the couch in the waiting area, I slumped down and closed my eyes. I was haunted by the memory of my Christmas a year ago. I’d spent it alone, suffocating on solitude while everyone else was with family.
I’d been determined to avoid another Christmas alone, so when Jace Peters called me and invited me to spend Christmas in St. Mary’s, I jumped at the chance. I had just finished a job in Colorado and was going to start another one in Las Vegas the Monday after New Year’s, so I had some free time.
Someone sat on the couch next to me. “It’s Christmas tomorrow,” a boy’s voice spoke.
“Mark, shhhhhh. The man’s resting.”
My eyes opened a crack. Melanie sat in the nearest booth with her little girl, peeling the plastic wrap from a hoagie sandwich. Mark didn’t move. “He’s not bothering anything,” I murmured.
For a long time Mark sat next to me without speaking. I pretended to sleep to discourage conversation. Finally I sat up and glared toward the window.
“This year I don’t think I’m getting anything for Christmas,” Mark whispered so his mom and Tracie couldn’t hear. “Ever since Dad left us last summer, it’s been pretty tough. Mom says things will get better, but she doesn’t want me to plan on anything. She says Santa won’t know where we are since we’re moving around a lot.” He thought a moment and added, “But I don’t believe in Santa. My friend Brandon explained all that Santa stuff to me last summer.”
Mark had big brown eyes that peeked out from under his thick, ruffled mop of long hair. I looked away because he reminded me too much of my youngest brother, Tanner. I wondered what Tanner was doing tonight. I wasn’t in the habit of feeling sorry for anybody, but I felt a twinge of pain for this little guy, who was bracing himself for Christmas morning instead of being wild with anticipation.
“A guy can be wrong about something like Santa,” I remarked.
“You don’t have to try to make me feel good,” he said, sounding older than his years. “Mom talked to me. But I’m okay. Where’s your family?”
“I don’t have a family.” The words were out before I even had a chance to think about them. I’d grown accustomed to telling people that lie, but I felt bad about repeating it to Mark. “Let’s just say I don’t have a family anymore,” I muttered.
A worm of guilt twisted inside me as a picture of the family flashed in my mind. They would be kneeling around the kitchen table about now. It wouldn’t matter who prayed. Whoever did would make the plea: “And, Heavenly Father, please bless C. J. wherever he is and help him to know we care.”
“You’re not getting anything for Christmas either?” Mark asked. The question took me off guard. I thought of my self-purchased Christmas out in the truck. I’d bought a top-of-the-line radio, CD, and tape player. I had picked out a new jacket, a pair of binoculars, a new watch, and several other smaller items as though things could purchase peace and ward off loneliness. Suddenly I was irritated for wasting my money.
I stood up and began thinking of home, only 180 miles away. But I couldn’t go back there, not without turning soft like Kevan. Besides, what would I say to them if I walked through the door? I shook my head, knowing I wouldn’t have to say anything. Mom, Dad, Tanner, and all the others would say everything. There would be no criticism—just open arms and welcome. But I couldn’t do that.
It was the waiting that was driving me crazy. I glanced outside again and my gaze went to Melanie’s car. I turned back to her where she sat in the booth with Tracie dozing in her arms. “You want me to take a look at your car?” I offered. “I’m a pretty good mechanic.”
Melanie smiled. “Thanks, but I don’t think anybody can do much with it. It’s been choking and jerking for days now. And I don’t have any money to fix it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t need much,” I grinned. “And I work cheap. Give me your keys and I’ll have a look.”
Mark followed me outside. Five minutes was enough to confirm Melanie’s suspicions. “It needs a new air filter. The fuel filter and pump need changing. The carburetor could use some work. I’ve got a tool chest in my truck but no parts. I could do something if that store across the street were open and …”
“The guy that owns that parts store is my neighbor,” Burt spoke up. “He owes me a favor or two.” He reached for the phone.
“No,” Melanie called out, “I don’t have any money.”
I smiled and shrugged. “It’ll only cost a few bucks. I’ll cover you. It’ll be my Christmas present to you.”
Melanie protested, but Burt ignored her and called his friend. I ended up buying the filters and pump, four quarts of oil, solution to clean the carburetor, and new spark plugs. I worked for the next two hours. When I was finished, I was surprised by the way the car sounded, even though my hands were numb and I was wet clear through. But there was a strange warmth too, reminding me of another time and place.
“Christmas is the Savior’s season,” Dad used to say. “It’s not so much about bright lights and tinsel as it is about helping folks out. That’s what the Savior would do. It’s the service that softens men’s hearts and opens their eyes to Christ.”
“It doesn’t sound like the same car,” Burt commented, grinning at Melanie. “You might make it to St. Mary’s after all.”
Melanie had tears in her eyes. “How can I ever thank you?” she choked. “I’ll pay you every penny as soon as I get a few things squared away.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Shoot, I’d have gone crazy sitting around in here with nothing to do. Forget it.”
“I guess you’re our Santa,” she said.
It was midnight and the road was still closed. Mark and his sister were sacked out on the sofa, and Melanie had rigged a makeshift bed in the booth.
I couldn’t rid my mind of Melanie’s forlorn remark that I was the only Santa they’d have this Christmas. I puzzled over their predicament.
Soon the coat, the CD player, the binoculars, and the watch were arranged neatly on the table with all the other items and a scrawled note: “To Melanie, Mark, and Tracie.”
As I stared at the small collection of gifts, I thought of home. “There ought to be a tree,” I commented softly to Burt.
“The store down the street has one. Maybe they’d let you borrow theirs,” Burt said.
I didn’t even wait to think about it. I just headed that way. When I entered the convenience store, there were a half-dozen truckers standing around complaining about the weather. I spotted a small, four-foot artificial tree in the corner. Next to it was a giant three-foot-tall white Christmas bear. I thought of Tracie.
“Um, what’s the chance of borrowing the Christmas tree for an hour?” I hesitated as I spoke to the cashier.
“The tree’s not for sale,” the man responded.
I wet my lips and glanced about self-consciously as several of the truckers stopped talking and listened. “I just want to take it down the street.” The cashier shook his head. In desperation I pressed, “It’s not for me. It’s for a lady and her little boy and girl. They’re stuck here until the road opens.” The man still shook his head. “I just want to give them a little Christmas,” I burst out. “I thought the tree …”
“It’s not for sale,” the man growled.
“He just wants to borrow it,” a big trucker snarled. “It’s Christmas, man.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Maybe I’ll just take it,” the trucker threatened. “What would you do then?”
“Yeah, just take it,” another trucker called out, laughing.
“Take the bear too,” a third trucker said, chuckling. “The little girl will like it. I’ll even help pay for it.”
“I’ll sell the bear,” the cashier volunteered, attempting cooperation in the face of this sudden support for me.
“I’ll throw a few bucks in to buy a little girl the bear,” a trucker said.
I stood there in shock as these rough, grumpy men bought the bear and a couple of bags filled with soft drinks and treats. They then took up a collection of money. Soon they were laughing and goading each other into contributing more until I had a plastic bag with about a hundred dollars. Caught up in the Christmas euphoria, I put in another 50 of my own. Even the cashier pulled out a five and tossed it into the bag.
Two of the truckers helped me carry the bear, the tree, and the bags of treats back to Burt’s place. Melanie and her kids were still asleep when we crept in. Burt helped us set up the tree and arrange the gifts. “Everybody’s got to have a Christmas,” he whispered, winking.
I was almost too excited to sleep, anxiously anticipating Melanie and her kids’ surprise, but I eventually dozed off. The next thing I knew there were squeals of surprise and wonder. I jerked awake, and there was Mark staring at me through the binoculars.
“I don’t understand,” Melanie said. Tracie, clutching the bear, picked up the sack of money and flung it into Melanie’s lap. “But where? And how?”
I felt a lump in my throat. “And you said there wasn’t a Santa Claus,” I grumbled at Mark, unable to keep the smile from my lips. “Even in a blizzard he found you.”
“I guess a guy can be wrong,” he answered sincerely.
I stood and ruffled his hair and couldn’t prevent the mental picture of what was going to happen in a few hours with my own brothers and sisters. Suddenly more than anything I wanted to be there. I wanted to feel all of that again. “How are you going to get all this loot into that car? Your mom will have to leave you and your little sister behind.”
For the next 15 minutes the kids went crazy. Mark insisted that Melanie try on the jacket, Tracie hugged the giant bear, and everybody ate candy and drank soda. That’s when the snowplow pulled up. The driver stomped in for a drink and announced, “The road over the mountain is open. You have to take it slow, though. If anybody’s going, I’m heading that way.”
There was a mad scramble to get everything crammed into Melanie’s car. Burt assured me that he’d return the tree to the store. Melanie walked over to me as I started brushing the snow from my windshield. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she accused, her eyes brimmed with tears. “It was Christmas enough when you fixed the car. But then all this?”
I coughed. “You’re as bad as Mark,” I said. “You should believe in Santa. Sometimes good things just happen.”
“This wasn’t Santa Claus. This was better than Santa Claus. This is what Christmas is all about.” She reached up and put her arms around my neck and then kissed me once on the cheek. “That’s for your mom. She’d do it if she were here. You’re the greatest guy, and I don’t even know your name or where you’re from. All I know is that you’re God’s gift to me and my family on this very special Christmas.”
“Are you going to follow us?” Mark asked me. “We’ll see each other in St. Mary’s, won’t we?”
I studied Mark and then glanced at his mom. I looked toward the road leading to St. Mary’s Cross and then glanced back the other way. With the roads bad, it would be at least four hours, maybe more. It would mean saying I was sorry and turning soft, just like Kevan, but that didn’t matter any more. I had softened, and it felt good.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to St. Mary’s,” I answered. “I guess I’m going the other way.”
“The other way?” Mark questioned, surprised. “Why?”
“I’m going home. A guy ought to go home for Christmas.”
“But you said you didn’t have a home.”
I smiled. “And you said that sometimes a guy can be wrong.” I gave him a thumbs-up sign and added, “Take care of your mom and Tracie, Mark. And you have a merry Christmas.” And then I climbed into my truck and headed home.

I rounded the corner just in time to see the double-decker bus pulling up to my bus stop. I ran full speed, dodging puddles and pedestrians, and leaped onto the bus just as it began pulling away.
Buses in Manchester, England, were always crowded at this time of night, but I didn’t mind. As a student at the Royal Northern College of Music, I didn’t have very much free time to meet the British people, so I looked forward to my crowded bus rides as opportunities to make new friends.
I finally found a seat next to a lovely young woman who was deeply involved in a pamphlet. I sat down quietly, trying not to disturb her, but I couldn’t help peeking over her shoulder to see what she was reading. It was a religious pamphlet that bore the heading, “Believe in Christ and Be Saved!” Further down the page I read the words, “We are saved by faith alone.” I looked up to find the young woman smiling at me curiously. “Oh, excuse me,” I said, “but I couldn’t help noticing your pamphlet. Are you interested in religion?”
“Oh, no!” she said in a strong, content voice. “I’m already saved! I’m just reading this for fun. And what about you?” she asked. “Are you saved?”
I had never been asked the question in that way before, and I stammered with my answer, “Well, I … uh, I’m … I’m trying! I am a Christian.”
“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” she shouted in a loud voice, drawing the attention of the bus driver and several fellow passengers. Then, a little more softly, she asked, “What is your church?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m a Mormon.”
“Ooh! Oh, no!” she whispered, leaning away from me with fear in her eyes. “Oh, I know about Mormons! You’re not Christian.”
“Yes, we are!” I said.
“No,” she said again. “No! I remember two Mormons knocked on my door once and told me that they had a message for me about Jesus Christ. I let them in to talk about Christ, and all we talked about was some man named Joseph Smith. I don’t believe in him, and they didn’t tell me about Christ. Your church isn’t Christian.”
She seemed so set in her opinions that I didn’t know what to say. Then I heard myself talking about Joseph Smith and explaining why he was so important to the restoration of the true gospel. I told her about continuing revelation and bore my testimony of a living prophet on the earth today.
She listened politely for some time, then apologized as she stood up, “I’m sorry, but this is my stop. It’s been nice talking to you, but I still say Mormons aren’t Christian.” With that, she got off the bus and left me staring openmouthed after her.
I worried all the way home, and for the rest of the evening I couldn’t stop thinking of the young woman and her incorrect belief that Latter-day Saints didn’t believe in Christ. What could I say, if I ever met her again, to convince her that I did have a testimony of Christ and that I believed that I belonged to his church?
I turned to my scriptures, hoping to find some kind of answer or at least some comfort. I picked up my Book of Mormon, and in 2 Nephi I began to read the beautiful and plain words testifying of the Savior.
“And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins” (2 Ne. 25:26).
Since I had been studying in England, I had told many people on my bus about the Church. I had talked about Utah and Brigham Young University, about pioneers and prophets, about football teams and families, about developing talents and storing food. I had talked about Joseph Smith and the restoration of the gospel, and about missions and the scriptures. But had I ever “talked of Christ”?
In my prayers that night I gave sincere thanks for Jesus Christ, the reason this gospel and church are true, and the source we can look to for a remission of our sins. I also prayed that I would see again the young lady I had talked with on the bus, so that I could tell her about the most important part of my testimony, my belief in Christ.
I did see her again, the very next day on the same bus. She seemed happy to see me, and we chatted lightly about the weather and my classes. As we got closer to her stop, I turned nervously and said, “I forgot to tell you something about my church yesterday.”
I began to talk of Christ. The words were not eloquent or powerful, but I bore my testimony of Jesus Christ as our Savior and as the head of our church. “My church teaches its members many things,” I said. “Sometimes we get so caught up in these wonderful truths that we forget the most important truth we have, that Jesus is our Savior and is at the center of our church. I’m sorry I didn’t talk about him sooner.”
I talked about the scripture in 2 Nephi and told her that I knew the Book of Mormon was another testament of Christ.
The bus had stopped and people were pressing toward the doors. Without a word or glance for me, she rose and joined them. But as she got off the bus, she looked up at my window and called, “Thank you!”
I never saw her again, and I don’t think she ran home to call the elders and ask to be baptized. But she did leave that bus knowing that I believed in Jesus Christ and that I knew The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is his church and worships him.
How grateful I am for the powerful words of Nephi that reminded me of what it is we always ought to be teaching our brothers and sisters. In talking about the many wonderful blessings of our church, I hope I never again miss the opportunity to show, through words and actions, that we center our belief in Christ.

After learning about the new Duty to God booklet in a fireside last year, Aleks Miller—deacons quorum president of the North Shore Ward, Vancouver British Columbia Stake—was eager to get started. He and his father set up a schedule to meet each Sunday to work on a section of the booklet together.
“My dad and I, every week, sit down and look through a section of the book,” says Aleks. “We start with a prayer, and then we learn the stuff and read the scriptures. We answer the questions in the section and then write down how we can implement what we’ve learned.” Aleks often shares with his mother what he and his father are working on. “I talked with my mom about the sacrament and the meaning of the sacrament prayers and wrote down some ideas about how I, as a deacon, could help make the sacrament more meaningful for her.”
After only a few weeks of these Duty-to-God-with-Dad meetings, Aleks noticed it was making a difference in his life. “It makes me feel really good,” he says. Sitting down with his father is not always the first thing Aleks wants to do on a Sunday afternoon, “but once we start learning and reading together, I’m a lot happier and I feel better about doing it.”
Aleks has set new goals and is gaining a greater understanding of the gospel as he studies and learns with his father. “One of the sections in Duty to God suggested we study five topics in For the Strength of Youth and then write down a goal for each one so that you can do better,” explains Aleks. “I chose honesty. So one of my goals was to let my parents know when I do something wrong instead of just keeping it to myself.”
Another topic Aleks chose was education. “My goal was to go an entire month in school with no messing around in class and finishing all my work so I wouldn’t have any homework. It’s going pretty well, and now I have a lot of extra time.”
Now Aleks is encouraging all the deacons in his quorum to work on fulfilling their duty to God. And he offers the same advice to any other young men who are thinking about opening their booklets and getting down to work: “Just do it,” he says. “If you can’t seem to get started on your own, do it like I do and ask your dad to do it with you.”

“Recently I was able to travel with more than 100 other young men and young women from the Hamburg Germany Stake to the Frankfurt Germany Temple to do baptisms for the dead and to attend a youth conference. The trip, however, didn’t start out exactly as I had thought it would.
“We stayed in a youth hostel in Bad Homburg. The hostel is a really old building with dim rooms and old furniture. Some of the youth in our group, who had expected the comforts of home, were disappointed by their first impressions and wanted to go home.
“Our feelings began to improve, however, as we became involved in the activities and workshops of the conference. Each morning we had a devotional in which many of our personal questions were answered. And one evening we had a fireside with Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Seventy, who is a member of our Area Presidency.
“During the rest of the trip, I didn’t hear anything else about going home. As we became more unified in our purpose, the worldly environment as well as the just-for-fun activities became less and less important. I frequently had the feeling that a lot of us had come on the temple trip actually hungry for spiritual experiences. Many of us had those righteous desires fulfilled by our experiences in the temple. Tears of gratitude were shed, and friendships became stronger. Nowhere on this earth have I felt closer to Heavenly Father than in the baptistry in the temple. How marvelous it will be when I can go to the temple and receive my own endowment and enter the celestial room!
“At youth conference and in the temple, we felt the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. When we returned home, we took many memories with us—not of our less-than-ideal accommodations, but of the Spirit we had felt in our hearts.”—Julia Hardell, Hamburg Germany Stake

His courageous and daring faith is shown in another incident. He was called to serve a mission in England. After a difficult journey from Far West, Elder Taylor arrived in New York with only one cent in his pocket. But he was the last man to plead poverty, and in answer to questions if he had money, he said he did. So the next day Elder Parley P. Pratt (the man who baptized him) approached him:
“Brother Taylor, I hear you have plenty of money?”
“Yes, Brother Pratt, that’s true.” “Well,” said Elder Pratt “I’m about to publish my ‘Voice of Warning’ and ‘Millennial Poems;’ I am very much in need of money, and if you could furnish me two or three hundred dollars I should be very much obliged.”
“Well, Brother Parley, you are welcome to anything I have, if it will be of service to you.” At that he put his hand in his pocket and gave Elder Pratt the penny. A good laugh followed and then Elder Pratt said, “But I thought you gave it out that you had plenty of money.” “Yes, and so I have,” replied Elder Taylor. “I am well clothed, you furnish me plenty to eat and drink and good lodging; with all these things and a penny over, as I owe nothing, is that not plenty?”
That evening at a council meeting of some of the brethren preparing to go to England, Elder Pratt proposed that the brethren assist Elder Taylor with means to pay his passage, since Wilford Woodruff was waiting for Elder Taylor to go with him. At the close of the meeting, Elder Taylor objected and said if they had anything they should give it to Parley Pratt because he had a family to support and needed money for publishing. Wilford Woodruff, a great man of faith himself, expressed regret at Elder Taylor’s position. Then said Elder Taylor: “Well, Brother Woodruff, if you think it best for me to go, I will accompany you.” “But where will you get the money?” asked Elder Woodruff. “Oh, there will be no difficulty about that. Go and take a passage for me on your vessel, and I will furnish you the means.” Elder Woodruff did as he was asked—and then from various persons who were moved upon by the Spirit of the Lord, voluntary donations, unasked for by Elder Taylor, came into him, sufficient for him to not only pay his passage but that of another elder.

Whitney’s parents have searched for other ways to help their daughters fulfill their Personal Progress goals. One day at church in the Glines (Utah) Fourth Ward, the Waltons listened to a ward member tell of her troubles in keeping up her yard and flowerbeds. Whitney’s dad, David Walton, suggested that Kaylen, 14, might plan a Personal Progress project in Good Works that would help this ward member. Kaylen thought it was a great idea.
“My dad and I went over and planned with her what we could do,” Kaylen said. “We put down black plastic and had rocks brought in. We planted new flowers. My mom and sisters helped. And her neighbor and home teachers came also. She was so appreciative of what we did. I baked cookies to thank everyone who helped.”
The Walton girls have found that it’s more fun to plan projects in which the family can help. Now that their sister Kelsey has turned 12 and is in Young Women, everyone in the family is looking for more ideas for doing Personal Progress projects as a family.

Betsy Ross isn’t the only one who celebrated the red, white, and blue birth of the United States with a needle and thread and devoted hours of service to a worthy project. Two Laurel classes in different states decided that their special Bicentennial activities would include original quilts.
The nimble thimbles of the Mapleton [Utah] Fourth Ward recruited the boys as well as other young women and went to work on five baby quilts for the state training school for the handicapped. The deacons showed everyone that their square knots weren’t restricted to Scout outings, and the girls showed off their stitching finesse after years of home economics classes.
The finished quilts were presented to the school’s children, and their grins were as big as the young people’s. The Mapleton youth knew that red, white, and blue would continue its popularity with at least one group for years to come.

Brother Garner coaches the Alta High soccer team, but a leg injury sidelined Dene for his entire freshman soccer season. As soon as the leg was healed, the two of them were back practicing field goals, kicking late into the night until the goal posts were nothing but silhouettes against the lingering brightness of the summer sky, or even ghostly white prongs in the darkness. All summer long they worked, kicking and kicking and kicking the five old balls the coach had loaned to them.
Dene improved steadily, and during his sophomore year he kicked a 46-yarder. He kicked eight field goals and 15 PATs to become the season high scorer with 39 points.
Dene refuses to take all the credit for this success himself. The blockers that protect him get a big share, and his center Tony Johnson and holder Chuck Cutler each get a whopping portion. In fact, Dene insisted that the New Era mention them by name. “I work with a good holder and a good center,” he says. “I tell them exactly how I want the ball, and that’s the way they give it to me. They’re both team players.”
The season was no sooner over than he got out his soccer boots and began getting ready for the Alta soccer season. Dene knew that he would get no special treatment because his father was the coach. He would be the first to be called into line if the team was playing badly. “He knows that if he’s not performing, he’ll come off the field,” Brother Garner says. The season ended in disappointment, with the team missing a berth in the post-season playoffs, but Dene still reveled in the plain joy of playing soccer, his first love, working his left-footed wizardry like an echo of Moses Wood himself. In 12 games that season he scored 8 goals and racked up 13 assists.
But the day he hung up his boots, it was back to field goal practice again. Dene isn’t satisfied to merely be on the team. He has set a high goal for himself—to kick a 65-yarder, which would merely be the longest field goal ever kicked in a football game. To reach that goal he knows he must work long, hard hours. In addition to weight training and calisthenics, he must kick field goals five or six nights a week.
In a typical practice session Dene first stretches well to avoid injury. Then he starts out with from five to thirty PATs. He moves back five yards at a time, kicking from the middle of the field and both hash marks. He always pauses for a few kicks at the 37-yard hash marks in honor of the Bingham victory. He usually winds up the practice with some 50-yarders, having put up some 50 to 75 kicks.
Brother Garner is a hawk-eyed analyst of his son’s field goal kicking technique. “If he’s kicking the ball everywhere but where it should be, I’ll say, ‘You’re losing your style,’” Brother Garner explains. “I’ll say, ‘You’re trying to put too much into the kick and losing your style because of it,’ or ‘You’re dropping your shoulder or leaning too far over the ball.’ He accepts my advice. We’ve never had any bother.
“At first he had the bad habit of taking his eye off the ball. He wanted to see it go over the posts. That’s not your privilege when you’re a kicker. Your job is to keep your eye on the ball, clear the ball, and follow through. If you start lifting your head, you’re going to miskick the ball.
“When you’re attempting a goal, you haven’t time to think of the applause you’re going to get afterwards but must concentrate on the job at hand. If you’re thinking about the praise you’re going to get afterward, you’ll miss the kick and get nothing.” Dene has taken this advice to heart. When kicking, he is a study in concentration, even though he knows that several thousand pounds of armored muscle and bone are coming his way with very hostile intent.
It’s nice having one whole coach to yourself, especially if he’s your dad. It provides services you couldn’t expect from ordinary coaches. For example, Dene was really shaken when he had a kick blocked in one game. Brother Garner took him back out on the field after the game, while the stands were still emptying, and had him kick ball after ball from the same spot. He hit 48 before he missed one. Brother Garner then explained that it wasn’t his fault if a kick was blocked occasionally, and Dene went away with his confidence restored.
But Brother Garner didn’t leave it at that. He did something positive to help overcome the problem. He built a ten-foot-high barrier for Dene to kick over. As a result, Dene has learned to chip PATs or short field goals so high that Goliath would have a hard time blocking them.
Spending so many hours together in practice and games has strengthened the bonds between Dene and his father. “There are many things in life you can talk about on the football field a lot easier than in a father’s interview,” Brother Garner says. Of course, he has the father’s interview with all his children as well. “Besides becoming good at a game, Dene is learning gospel principles as we talk,” Brother Garner continues. “We communicate better and we’re overcoming barriers.”
Dene has two sets of proud grandparents in England who keep scrapbooks of his achievements and are always eager for news of his progress. His Grandfather and Grandmother Wood recently came to the states for a long vacation. They were able to see Dene play both football and soccer, and Dene was able to hear some stories of the old days again.
His granddad is both a cheerleader and a critic. “I’ve always believed in telling the truth,” he says. “When he deserves it, I praise him, and when he deserves it, I kick him in the pants.” It is a spring afternoon and Dene, his mother and father and grandmother and grandfather are sitting out on the front lawn. His grandfather smiles. “Wasn’t that a marvelous goal last night?” he asks. “Sometimes I tell him that he’s rubbish, but when he scores a goal like that, what more can you say? I’m proud of him, of course. He likes sports, and to me you can’t go wrong that way. A bit of sport and you’re on the right road. My daughter always writes to us in England and gives us an account of what he’s doing, and I share it with everybody. It gives me a tremendous amount of pleasure to see him excel.” He looks Dene over appraisingly and then adds, “He’s a fine looking lad, isn’t he?”
Dene goes into the house and proudly comes out with a treasured championship medal from his grandfather’s soccer days. As first grandson, he has received it as a birthright.
“I’ve always been proud of him,” his Grandmother Wood says. “He was our first grandson, and with me having three girls, it was really something that was delightful to have someone to carry on grandpa’s participation in sports. When Dene turned out to enjoy playing football, well of course it was just the thing. I knew grandpa would be delighted, which of course he was. I think sports give young men a good backing for life, a wider scope of give and take. If you’re a sportsman, you can both give it and take it, can’t you? And a team sport teaches you to play as a team and not be selfish. I’m proud of all my grandchildren.”
The talk turns to soccer strategy. Brother Garner and Grandfather Wood are both masters in the art. Both can “read” a soccer game like a book, and their advice to young soccer players is so much alike that it seems to be one person speaking. “If you want to play soccer, you’ve got to keep your eye on the ball and control it. If you bring it down in good control, you can spray your passes wherever you like. There should be none of this long kicking. You’ve got to control the ball. The moment you take your eye off the ball is the moment you lose it. You can watch the ball and still see your own foot and your opponent as well. And remember, it doesn’t matter who scores as long as the ball is in the net. A pass is entirely better than somebody blazing over the top of the net because he doesn’t have an angle to shoot at. If you pass to a man who scores a goal, that’s just as good as scoring yourself. When a team scores a goal, equal praise is due to every player—to the goalkeeper who pushed it out at just the right time, to the fullback who moved it down to the halfback, to the halfback who pushed it to the wing, to the wing who crossed it to the forward, and to the forward who just had to stick his foot out and pop it in. Young players must learn to hit the open man and then move to an open space for a return pass. A good player won’t follow the ball. He’ll see the players setting up and then go to where the ball is going to be, not where it is.”
Then there was talk of the family in England, where sport is also a family affair. Both the Garner and Wood sides of the family are prospering it seems. Both have sent young men to the continent to represent Yorkshire in rugby.
Finally, Dene’s mother Anne, as mothers will, offers some insight into another side of his character. “He’s good with other kids,” she says. “He gets along with everybody. He’s so generous and kind natured. At Christmas he spent all the money he had earned at his job, after tithing, for presents for the family—things he knew we needed. Giving seems to give him more pleasure than anything else. When he was just a little boy, if somebody gave him a sweet, he always asked for another one for his sister Lesa. He likes to listen and doesn’t say very much. He doesn’t show his emotions, but he feels things very deeply. I’m very proud of him. The first time he blessed the sacrament, it was such a special time. I wanted to run down and hug him and kiss him just like he was still my baby, but I realize that he’s grown into a young man.”
Indeed he has, and his two little brothers aren’t far behind him. Craig, 10, plays a fine center half in recreational league soccer and can already kick short field goals with deadly accuracy on the football field. Matthew, 7, is not far behind. Meanwhile, Dene’s sister Lesa, 15, plays on the ward softball team and on the volleyball team that won the stake championship, as well as being a high school cheerleader. Mom isn’t left out either. With her husband she coaches the recreational league team that Craig plays on and has a fine grasp of soccer strategy.
Of course, the family realizes that goals on the sports field are not the only goals that count. Dene serves as priests quorum secretary and is a few merit badges away from his Eagle Scout award. He is a member of a very Mormon family.
“I’m glad I’ve got the Church,” Dene says simply, “and I’m very proud of my ancestors. All my life I’ve listened to stories about their accomplishments, and I want to make them proud of me too. I don’t ever want to disappoint them.” It has been 17 years since a proud young father in Yorkshire blessed his little son to walk tall, but the promise is bearing fruit because of a proud heritage and because that father gave more than a blessing. He gave an example.