Gospel Story Finder

In 1989, Robert M. and Lola Walker, a missionary couple in Ghana, were transferred to Ivory Coast. They could speak no French, so they were instructed to hire a translator and seek help from American families living there.
The Walkers accepted their assignment with some trepidation but with faith that the Lord would help them meet their new responsibility. At Church meetings in Abidjan, the Walkers initially understood only what the Spirit helped them understand. During one meeting, a young man approached them and asked in fluent English if he could help. That young man, Adolphe Mande Gueu, was the first of four translators the Walkers hired, taught, and baptized during their 14 months in Ivory Coast.
Before his baptism, Adolphe quickly became acquainted with the gospel through his translation of lessons and talks. His translation work for the Walkers prepared him to understand and gain a testimony of the Book of Mormon, which he read in three days. He says the Holy Ghost bore such a strong witness to him of the book’s truthfulness that he read it almost nonstop.
“This book testifies to me that your message comes from God,” Brother Gueu told the Walkers, “and my family and I must be a part of the gospel.”
Brother and Sister Gueu, along with their four children, have been stalwarts in the Church ever since their baptism in 1988. He was a branch president and later became the first teacher for the Church Educational System in Ivory Coast. Today he is the regional director for CES. Sister Gueu also has served in many callings, including president of the district Young Women organization.

Elder F. Burton Howard of the Seventy acquaints us with a strong testimony of the converting power of the Book of Mormon: Sister Celia Cruz Ayala of the Puerto Rico San Juan Mission decided to give the Book of Mormon to a friend. She wrapped it in attractive paper and set out to deliver her present.

On the way she was attacked by a bandit who stole her purse and with it the wrapped copy of the Book of Mormon. A few days later she received this letter:

“Mrs. Cruz:
“Forgive me, forgive me. You will never know how sorry I am for attacking you. But because of it, my life has changed and will continue to change. That book [the Book of Mormon] has helped me in my life. The dream of that man of God has shaken me. … I am returning your five pesos for I can’t spend them. I want you to know that you seemed to have a radiance about you. That light seemed to stop me [from harming you, so] I ran away instead.
“I want you to know that you will see me again, but when you do, you won’t recognize me, for I will be your brother. … Here, where I live, I have to find the Lord and go to the church you belong to.
“The message you wrote in that book brought tears to my eyes. Since Wednesday night I have not been able to stop reading it. I have prayed and asked God to forgive me, [and] I ask you to forgive me. … I thought your wrapped gift was something I could sell. [Instead,] it has made me want to make my life over. Forgive me, forgive me, I beg you.
“Your absent friend.”

Such is the conversion power of the Book of Mormon.

There was a very popular book series I started reading. At first I liked it, but then it started getting scary and yucky. I felt uncomfortable. I did not feel the Holy Ghost. As I started the second book, it was the same and getting worse.
I talked with my mom about Article of Faith 13. These books weren’t like the article of faith, and I want to live like it says. Finally I stopped reading the books. I felt a lot better right away. I want to feel like that all the time, and I know I can if I use Article of Faith 13 as my guide.
Brooke B., age 10, Utah, USA

The summer wind rustled the long grass as it gusted across the vast, rolling plains of northern Montana, whistling by the gray, unpainted, weather-worn boards of the small house. The house sat almost alone out there in that great expanse of land with the mighty Missouri River gliding by in the middle of its journey to its rendezvous with the Mississippi River. Occasionally one of the loose boards on the house would rattle a bit as a particularly strong gust would hit it, and the flapping could be heard inside.
It was Sunday, but except for a few rather puny creations of man, the great, sweeping plains and grass looked much as they had for many hundreds of Sundays, and other days of the week as well. There was a certain feeling of changelessness to this immense land.
Inside the lone, sparsely furnished house, propped up on the old chipped and rusted hospital bed to which he was confined, was old Pointing Iron, once a great warrior of the proud and magnificent Sioux nation. Now he was confined by age and frailty to this small, one-room wooden shack.
His eyes wandered around the walls of the room, not noticing the pasteboard that served not only as a covering for the walls but as the wallpaper as well. It was the same in most of the Indian homes on the reservation. Instead, he would let his gaze roam around the walls, stopping to gaze upon some old, faded picture or memento out of his past, and memories of long ago events would flood back into his alert mind. Pointing Iron didn’t know how old he was, nor did anyone else who knew him, but his memory went back to many of the happy times of his people. He had seen many snows in his lifetime.
Brother Pointing Iron hadn’t forgotten what day it was, and he looked forward with anticipation to the time when the sun would approach midday. As midday drew near, he reached out his once powerful arms and attempted to straighten the blanket and the worn quilt that covered his weakened body. Then his gnarled hands went up to the two straight braids of beautiful gray hair that hung well below his shoulders. It was important that they fall neatly in place and that his head be held proud and erect, however hard it might be to hold it there.
He waited now for what he knew was to come. Shortly there was a sharp knocking, and as the door creaked open, two young men in dark suits entered, glad to be sheltered from the wind.
Brother Pointing Iron anxiously reached out his hand and warmly shook the hands of the two missionaries who had come on a special errand to his humble home. Not many words were exchanged, as Pointing Iron could speak very little English and the elders knew almost nothing of the Sioux tongue, but there was a communion of the spirit that all of them felt.
The elders did, however, have a hymn book in the Sioux language, so while one of them selected some music, the other moved an old, rough, wooden chair, held together mostly by wire, into the center of the room. He then very carefully unfolded two clean, freshly pressed handkerchiefs and laid them on the seat of the chair. A small, clean plate was produced and placed on the handkerchiefs. On the plate he put a small morsel of bread and beside it a small glass of clear well water. Now all was in readiness for the meeting to begin.
The elder had opened the hymn book to page 25, and the three of them sang, as best they could, “Sweet Hour of Prayer,” after which one of the missionaries offered the invocation. Then the senior companion knelt and repeated the blessing on the bread. As the plate was handed to Brother Pointing Iron, his trembling hand reached out and picked up the small piece of bread, which represented to him the sacrificed body of his beloved Savior, and the tears flowed slowly down his wrinkled, weather-beaten cheeks.
After the water had been blessed and given to Pointing Iron, the elders once again opened the hymn book, and they all joined in singing, “Israel, Israel, God Is Calling.” Then the junior companion offered the benediction. The chair was cleared off and put back in its place by the wall, and the meeting was over. Once again Pointing Iron’s covenants had been renewed. The elders lingered, reluctant to leave that special spirit they felt so strongly in that old wooden shack on the Montana plains.
Finally they shook the hand of their loved brother and said their good-byes. They stepped once again out into the brisk prairie wind, but somehow the wind didn’t seem to be so much of a bother to them anymore.
This was a cherished weekly Sabbath day assignment and they gladly carried it out until the brave old warrior, Pointing Iron, left this mortal life and was placed to rest in the great old Indian cemetery at Chicken Hill.

The Appleton District of the Milwaukee Wisconsin Mission held a fun youth conference right in their own backyard. They planned to sail and swim in Lake Michigan.
The unpredictable weather served up two beautifully sunny days. Following the theme of the conference, “Chart Your Course,” the leaders cast the youth adrift, in theory only, in groups of six with a survival kit. Each group was to decide which items were necessary for survival. The exercise was used to foster a discussion of our journey through mortality and what things are necessary for a safe return to our Father in Heaven.
Workshops in aerobics and a Coast Guard presentation in boating safety were held prior to an afternoon swim in the lake. That evening, garbed in pirate costumes, the group had a banquet and dance.
The following morning, breakfast was prepared for the group by the Young Men. After additional workshops on spiritual survival and an emergency course in human relations, the young people were invited on board a sailboat built by a member of the district.
One of the special experiences of the conference was the participation by one young man who was battling a serious illness. Although he had difficulty participating in some of the activities, the others helped him enjoy the conference.
The group returned exuberant and pleasantly tired for an evening testimony meeting. They bore testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and the appreciation for meeting together with other young members of the Church.

Many times the most beautiful examples of obedience and service are given by ordinary people who live close to us. Sister Ana Rita de Jesus, an elderly widow, lived in Anápolis, Brazil. She could not read or write. The missionaries would go to her home every week to read the scriptures to her. She was loving and kind. Every Sunday she asked the missionaries to help her fill out a tithing slip. Sometimes her tithing and offerings were not more than a few cents, but she knew the law and wanted to obey it. After paying her tithing, she would walk into the room where the sacrament meeting was held in a rented house and would place a flower on the pulpit. In doing so, she served her brothers and sisters, bringing beauty to the place where we worshiped the Lord. That sister, in a very simple way, taught us obedience and service. She knew that obeying the commandments is the best preparation to serve.

One of the first steps in building a new temple is a special meeting called a “groundbreaking.” Elder Neil L. Andersen and Sister Kathy Andersen traveled to Ivory Coast for the groundbreaking for a new temple.
Elder Andersen gave a prayer to dedicate the land for the new temple. He and Sister Andersen gave talks in French, the official language there. Sister Andersen said it makes her happy that Jesus lets us go inside His house, the temple. We receive blessings there that we can’t receive anywhere else on earth.
Children used gold-colored shovels to help “break the ground” for the temple. Then construction could begin! It will take about two years to build the temple.
Right now members in Ivory Coast have to travel 12 hours to the closest temple, in the country of Ghana. In a few years, children who are old enough to do temple baptisms will be able to go to a beautiful temple in their own country!
“Let us devote ourselves … to better shaping our character and souls to be ready to enter the dedicated temple. Let us be more true to following the Savior.”
—Elder Neil L. Andersen

I really enjoy reading the New Era. Recently I have been having problems. I knew I would have to tell my bishop in order to truly repent. I just couldn’t muster up the strength to confess my sins to him. Then I got the October 1989 issue. It talked about the problem I had in the Question and Answer section. After reading it I realized that I was not alone. That very day I went to my bishop and talked to him. It was hard, but your article gave me the strength. Thanks to the authors and the kids who told of their experiences. I know that you were truly inspired.
Name withheld

Initially, I hesitated to re-engage with the Church, but I overcame my doubts with my ward’s genuine love and support. I especially appreciated my brothers and sisters in the gospel who ministered to me with love. Their teachings awakened a testimony within me that I now share with others. I have shared the knowledge of the gospel with my friends, and they have been baptized and now serve in the Church and the temple. I believe the greatest gift one can give another person is a testimony of Jesus Christ because it brings light into our lives.

You will remember a tender story told by President James E. Faust. “As a small boy on the farm … , I remember my grandmother … cooking our delicious meals on a hot woodstove. When the wood box next to the stove became empty, Grandmother would silently pick up the box, go out to refill it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and bring the heavily laden box back into the house.”
President Faust’s voice then filled with emotion as he continued: “I was so insensitive … I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen wood box. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my [sin of] omission for all of my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.”25
More than 65 years had passed. If President Faust still remembered and regretted not helping his grandmother after all those years, should we be surprised with some of the things we still remember and regret?

Somehow I had always imagined that the night before my wedding day would be spent sitting out under a star-filled sky with my “intended” sharing a private, quiet, romantic moment. Apple blossoms would be floating in a cool evening breeze, and an orchestra would be playing romantic melodies magically in the distance.
But things just weren’t working out the way I had planned. My “intended” was miles away getting a good night’s sleep before our bright and early 8:00 A.M. wedding in the Salt Lake Temple the next morning.
It was getting pretty late, and I still hadn’t been able to get anything ready. I hadn’t even been able to get into the bathroom yet. The hot water had run out long ago. The hot water always runs out after my sister Linda takes her 45-minute shower.
Mom and dad were on the phone calling all the people we had forgotten to invite to the reception. I couldn’t even get into my bedroom to get packed. One of my married sisters and her husband and children were camping out in my bedroom for the night.
I walked downstairs to try to find someplace where I could be alone. After all, I was getting married in the morning. I had a lot to think about. I walked into the family room, but my sister Joy was still there working on the last of the 14 bridesmaid dresses. I hadn’t asked a lot of friends to be bridesmaids. We just had 14 sisters in our two families.
Suddenly I heard the water from the upstairs bathroom turn off. I dashed up the stairs and down the hall to be sure to get into the bathroom before anybody else. Just as I reached the door, my sister Diane slipped in front of me. She turned and smiled as she closed the bathroom door behind her.
When I turned around to walk back down the hall, Dawnene, another sister, drooped by me dragging her sleeping bag. She was obviously mad.
“Lisa and Lori won’t quit playing around so I can get some sleep,” she pouted. “Mary and Sandy are in my room. So where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Try the backyard,” I answered.
“That’s where Lisa and Lori are,” Dawnene frowned.
“Well, try the front yard,” I said again.
“Grant’s out there!” she answered. “He said if one more person steps on him, they’ll be sorry.”
“What about the kitchen?” I asked.
“Aunt Sara said it’s already too crowded in there!”
“Well, you’ll just have to figure it out for yourself,” I answered as I walked back down the hall stepping on suitcases and bodies.
Finally I walked out onto the balcony. Lisa and Lori were laughing and throwing pillows at each other in the backyard. When they saw me on the balcony, they stopped and ran over to me. “Come sleep with us,” they coaxed.
“I’ve got to get married in the morning, and I have a lot to do to get ready,” I answered.
“Come on!” they continued to coax.
“Well I can’t get into the shower anyway,” I thought as I climbed over the balcony and slid down a pole into the backyard.
Lisa and Lori, the twins, were the youngest in the family.
“We’ve already got you a sleeping bag,” they said.
I crawled into the sleeping bag between them just as Lori threw a pillow into my face. Laughing, I rolled over and tickled them both until we all fell back laughing and exhausted.
I suddenly noticed what a beautiful night it was. The lights from the house slowly went out one by one, and it grew quiet. The warm June evening air and the black sky hanging low with stars seemed to peacefully surround us.
When I looked at Lisa and Lori, they were crying. All of our years together started to flood back into my mind. I remembered how soft and warm their small infant bodies felt as I rocked them to sleep when they were babies. I remembered the night Lori had screamed all night as her leg swelled in her cast. I remembered the day Lisa got the rubber plug stuck in her nose. I remembered our private funeral on the grassy bank by the canal after our cat had died. I remembered it all as I put my arms around them.
There were no apple blossoms or orchestras playing magically in the distance that night. But the sky was filled with stars that illuminated the silhouette of us three huddled together in the cool evening breeze.

“Two or three nights a week I would wake up, frightened, unable to go back to sleep. Eventually, I began to fear sleep itself,” says Jan Sara of South Jordan, Utah. “Well-meaning friends offered suggestions, but nothing helped. Every night I asked Heavenly Father to help me have a good night’s sleep, but every night I would awaken in fear. I began to wonder what was wrong with me.
“One night as I knelt to pray, instead of asking Heavenly Father to help me sleep, I asked him what I could do to get rid of my terrible dreams. A strong feeling came to me to read the scriptures before I went to sleep. I got out my Book of Mormon and turned to Alma 37:37: ‘Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings … ; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep.’ Since that night, I have changed my scripture reading time from morning to just before I go to bed. The peaceful feelings that come to me as I ponder the Book of Mormon help me to sleep, and the nightmares have ended.”

As the Ellsworth Company started its third month of travel, food supplies began to dwindle. During this part of the journey, the pioneers were blessed to come across many buffalo on the Plains. The pioneers replenished their food supplies by shooting a few buffalo, cooking and eating the fresh meat, and then drying some meat for the days ahead. Buffalo chips were used, in the absence of wood, to build fires for warmth and for cooking. The pioneers spent many hours repairing the handcarts that often carried up to 500 pounds of goods over hard roads, through numerous streams and rivers, and up sandy bluffs from Florence, Nebraska, to the Salt Lake Valley. Meanwhile, the Saints already in the valley were organizing to help the approaching companies. Food was sent in wagons to Deer Creek to help the pioneers on the last leg of their journey.
1
Crossed Prairie Creek twice—second time brethren had to carry handcarts across (16 miles)
2
Forded two creeks; saw many buffalo; camped at Wood River (18 miles)
3
Sunday—rested and mended handcarts; ate shellfish from river (no miles)
4
Roads good; camped near Platte River (18 miles)
5
Roads pretty good; wood plentiful; water merely sufficient (16 miles)
6
Saw thousands of buffalo—killed four, which furnished camp with good supply of meat (12 miles)
7
No water found all day; at night dug for water, which was sufficient but very thick (25 miles)
8
Traveled without finding water; Brother Sanders somehow left behind; men unsuccessfully searched for him (13 miles)
9
Found Brother Sanders five miles ahead of camp; brought him to camp on a mule (13 miles)
10
Sunday—many ill; camped in excellent place near cold spring (14 miles)
11
Four men sent to shoot two buffalo; one milk cow died (17 miles)
12
Dried buffalo meat and repaired handcarts (no miles)
13
Roads difficult to travel, owing to rainfall last night (12 miles)
14
Travel hard; one handcart broke down (18 miles)
15
Forded five creeks; camped by Rattlesnake Creek, 352 miles from Florence (14 miles)
16
Camped on east bank of Wolf Creek; buffalo chips not plentiful; good grazing for cattle (17 miles)
17
Sunday—Brother Peter Stalley died; camped opposite Ash Hollow (12 miles)
18
Forded Hustle Creek; camped on banks of Platte River (19 miles)
19
Plenty of buffalo chips to burn; camped opposite Ancient Bluff Ruins (20 miles)
20
Started out at 7:30 A.M.; crossed sandy bluffs; camped by Platte River (20 miles)
21
Tolerably good road; camped two miles past Chimney Rock (16 miles)
22
Delayed in travels for three hours by thunderstorm; camped on Platte River half a mile from Spring Creek (21 miles)
23
Captain Ellsworth shot a buffalo, which was very thankfully received (16 miles)
24
Sunday—at evening meeting, Brother Ellsworth admonished those who had robbed handcarts or wagons to repent (no miles)
25
Saw many Indians; plenty of wood—quite a treat after burning buffalo chips (19 miles)
26
Forded North Fork of Platte River; camped three miles from Fort Laramie (17 miles)
27
Bacon and meal porridge for supper—best supper for many weeks (21 miles)
28
Camped near Horseshoe Creek, 4:30 P.M.; washed clothes and mended handcarts (15 miles)
29
Forded Platte River and camped where wood was plentiful and feed fair (25 miles)
30
Met two Californians, who said wagons from Salt Lake were waiting to meets Ellsworth Company at Deer Creek (19 miles)
31
Sunday—Brother Stoddard died of consumption; at Deer Creek met wagons with provisions for last part of journey (24 miles)

Now, fast forward many years. We found ourselves a year ago with the same assignment, that of being chairman of the Missionary Executive Council. Christmas was approaching. Because of the pleasant experience we’d had at the MTC those many years ago, we decided to repeat the performance.
This time, there were about twice the number of missionaries. The setting was very different, for now a beautiful auditorium had been constructed for holding devotionals. There before us were more than 2,000 wonderful full-time missionaries anxious to hear the messages we would bring to them at Christmastime. Because the setting was different and required a more formal approach, we selected the message from Matthew and Luke of the birth of the Savior.
The book of Matthew tells the remarkable account of how he wanted to be certain that everyone understood the fact that the Savior came to earth through the lineage of David the King just as the Old Testament prophets had predicted. Matthew goes on to tell the wonderful story of the wise men coming from the East to pay homage to the Christ child. They brought gifts that would greatly relieve the burden of having to flee for their safety into Egypt, as Herod the King was troubled about the fact that this King of the Jews was being born.
Each of the stories was preceded by having the scripture read by our two youngest grandchildren, J.P., who was 8 years old, and Megan, who was 10 years old.
J.P. read the verses from the book of Matthew. As the story unfolds, you wonder where Matthew went for his source of material. It is obvious that this is the story of Joseph the father, of his concern for the safety of his family, and also for supplying the family with the needs that they would require as they were to make this long journey to a distant land. Our message was on the blessed role of fathers.
Megan read the beautiful account of the shepherds coming and finding the Savior’s birth taking place in a manger and the travail of Mary in bearing a child under such trying conditions. Again, it is very evident that Luke must have listened to the wondrous story told by the mother of the Savior. We elaborated on the contribution mothers have made in our lives, of nourishing, of loving, of confidence, and of giving peace and security, as only a mother can do.
Again, we decided to follow the practice of the previous experience and have dinner with the full-time missionaries. We scattered ourselves among the tables and had a glorious time listening to their stories of home and what they were going to accomplish. We felt of the spirit they had now as full-time missionaries ready to go out in the world to declare the great message of the Restoration to the peoples of the world.
Looking at the size of the cafeteria, we decided to shake hands with the missionaries as the dinner concluded. Little did we realize that they came in waves, only about a third of them could eat dinner at any one time. After shaking hands with the first wave, the second wave descended on us. We had to shake hands with them, and then the third wave descended on us. We spent most of the afternoon shaking hands and wishing the missionaries well as they went about their training in the Missionary Training Center.
It was interesting to see the reaction of our grandchildren. Megan, in naming her 12 favorite events a short time later, had the Christmas MTC experience listed second only to her last special birthday. To me that was a lesson taught by our grandchildren to their grandparents.

The Prophet Joseph Smith knew his life was in danger. Angry mobs had followed him everywhere, threatening his life and the lives of his family. Then in the fall of 1838 he had been arrested again in Far West, Missouri.
As he was tied and pushed into a canvas-covered wagon, he asked for the privilege of saying good-bye to his mother, Lucy Mack Smith, who tearfully watched him being taken away. The officers refused to let the Prophet out of the wagon, so he called out to his mother to come closer. Searching frantically, Joseph found a rip in the canvas and reached out to touch his mother’s hand for one last good-bye. Just touching her hand seemed to be important to him as the wagon quickly pulled away and Joseph Smith was taken to the Liberty Jail. There he was confined to a dark, crowded dungeon for six months.

A young mother knelt beside her three-year-old and listened to his heartfelt bedtime prayer. As he gave thanks for his big brother, for snow, for clouds, and for pizza, she tried to remember the last time she had thanked the Lord for such things. She realized that, although she always thanked our Heavenly Father for health, family, and the gospel, she had forgotten to remember the plain, the ordinary, the simple blessings of her own life. When she began expressing daily gratitude for all these blessings, she saw the world with new eyes. She found that grief and hardship became easier to bear and that she was spiritually nourished (see Lisa Ray Turner, Ensign, July 1992, pages 51–52).

Photograph courtesy of Quinn A.
Ultimate (also known as Ultimate Frisbee™) is a fast-paced sport that combines the running of soccer, the aerial passing of football, and the vertical leaps of basketball. The game is played by millions in the United States alone, with competitions held around the country.
However, don’t expect the number-one nationally ranked high school team to attend any competition held on Sunday.
Three years ago, Lone Peak High School in Utah started an Ultimate team. “Every single person on the team said we were not going to play on Sundays,” explains Quinn A., a recent graduate who’s played on the team since the first year.
Skipping Sunday competitions (and there are a lot of them) hasn’t limited the team’s success. Not only are they ranked number one, but they’re also respected throughout the sport. For example, at a major national Ultimate competition—the Chicago Invite—judges allowed Lone Peak Ultimate to play all their games on Saturday even though the event took place on Saturday and Sunday.
They also have a reputation for being one of the friendliest teams around no matter where they go. “We always come out with friends,” Quinn says. “Every single game.”
Quinn is now helping to coach the team while he prepares to serve a full-time mission.

One day Dad woke us up very early. Mom had had a bad night, and she was very, very ill. She wanted to talk to us because she knew that it was almost time for her to go back to live with Heavenly Father.
When we went into her bedroom, she reached out and touched each of us and told us how much she loved us. “Now, here’s a little testimony for you,” she said. “Even though I’ll be leaving you very soon, it’s part of Heavenly Father’s plan.”
We all wept. It didn’t seem as if there could ever be enough time to tell Mom how much we loved her.
“Sweetheart,” she said to Dad, “would you bring me the special book I have been keeping, please?”
Dad handed her a pretty journal.
“This journal is filled with lots of little things for you to remember when I’m not here to talk to you anymore. It’s full of little testimonies for you. I want you to remember how much I love the Savior. I want you to love Him that much, too, so that we can always be together.”
We opened the beautiful book. The pages were filled with memories, in Mom’s handwriting, of the joy of the days gone by. We read things like, “I saw some tiny kittens at Aunt Sis’s house. They knew their mother immediately, without even being able to see. We can learn to know the Savior like that, if we have faith.” “The garden seeds are sprouting. After the long, cold winter, it’s good to see them coming up again. It reminds me of the Resurrection, and the promise of new life.”
We closed the book before we had time to look at all the pages. Mom was closing her eyes, but she had a smile on her face. “Whenever you feel lonely for me, I want you to read this book.” She opened her eyes. “I want you to remember that the Savior loves you very much. When you pray, you will feel safe and calm and you will know that I love you still.”

Last year I reported to my doctor in Baltimore, Maryland. We had a full surgery scheduled for my right hip, which would mean a body cast for several months, perhaps even endangering my ability to attend my senior year of high school. We’d known about this for a year, since the last checkup when he made it known that my right hip was in bad shape.
When my dad and I got in the examination room, my doctor placed the X rays to the light. After looking at them, examining me, and looking back at the X rays again, he announced, rather astonished, that there seemed to be nothing wrong at all with my hip. He could see no reason to perform the extensive surgery he had planned. He said that, except for some work that needed to be done on my feet, I was in fantastic health and would need no more surgeries.
That was some kind of news to someone who had already had eight major surgeries and a handful of minor ones.
It is more than important to note that many prayers had been offered by our family and others prior to my examination, and I had many dear friends praying and fasting.
Sure enough, my hip was healed. I know that only Heavenly Father could have done what I witnessed. As a result of the many times I have had to face the reality of surgery and the consequent recovery, I have learned to pray—fervently and with real intent, exactly as Heavenly Father wishes for it to be.

I’ll never forget one high school football game against a rival school. I played the wingback position, and my assignment was to either block the linebacker or try to get open so the quarterback could throw me the ball. The reason I remember this particular game so well is because the fellow on the other side of the line—the man I was supposed to block—was a giant.

I wasn’t exactly the tallest athlete in the world. But I think this other guy may have been. I remember looking up at him, thinking he probably weighed as much as two of me. Keep in mind, when I played we didn’t have the protective gear that players have today. My helmet was made of leather, and it didn’t have a face guard.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to a sobering realization: if I ever let him catch me, I could be cheering for my team the rest of the season from a hospital bed.

Lucky for me, I was fast. And for the better part of the first half, I managed to avoid him.

Except for one play.

Our quarterback dropped back to pass. I was open. He threw the ball, and it sailed toward me.

The only problem was that I could hear a lumbering gallop behind me. In a moment of clarity, I thought that if I caught the ball there was a distinct possibility I could be eating my meals through a tube. But the ball was heading for me, and my team was depending on me. So I reached out, and—at the last instant—I looked up.

And there he was.

I remember the ball hitting my hands. I remember struggling to hang on to it. I remember the sound of the ball falling to the turf. After that, I’m not exactly sure what happened, because the giant hit me so hard I wasn’t sure what planet I was on. One thing I did remember was a deep voice coming from behind a dark haze: “Serves you right for being on the wrong team.”

William McKinley Oswald was my high school football coach. He was a great coach and had a profound influence on my life. But I think he could have learned his method of motivating players from an army drill sergeant.

That day, during his halftime speech, Coach Oswald reminded the whole team about the pass I had dropped. Then he pointed right at me and said, “How could you do that?”

He wasn’t speaking with his inside voice.

“I want to know what made you drop that pass.”

I stammered for a moment and then finally decided to tell the truth. “I took my eye off the ball,” I said.

The coach looked at me and said, “That’s right; you took your eye off the ball. Don’t ever do that again. That kind of mistake loses ball games.”

I respected Coach Oswald, and in spite of how terrible I felt, I made up my mind to do what Coach said. I vowed to never take my eye off the ball again, even if it meant getting pounded to Mongolia by the giant on the other side of the line.

We headed back onto the field and started the second half. It was a close game, and even though my team had played well, we were behind by four points late in the fourth quarter.

The quarterback called my number on the next play. I went out again, and again I was open. The ball headed toward me. But this time, the giant was in front of me and in perfect position to intercept the pass.

He reached up, but the ball sailed through his hands. I jumped high, never taking my eye off the ball, stabbed at it, and pulled it down for the game-winning touchdown.

I don’t remember much about the celebration after, but I do remember the look on Coach Oswald’s face.

“Way to keep your eye on the ball,” he said.

I think I smiled for a week.