Gospel Story Finder

The other day I was playing outside with my younger brother. As I was walking on the grass outside our apartment, I spotted something pink and shiny. I picked it up and saw that it was a pen with pictures of naked women on it. I remembered the story about pornography in the March 2004 Friend that my mom read to us during family home evening just two weeks ago. I immediately threw the pen over the fence and ran upstairs to tell my mom what happened. My mom asked me to show her where the pen was so that she could throw it away where no one else might find it. I felt good inside and knew that the Holy Ghost helped me to choose the right.

It’s Friday night. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of Brazil teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis, with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, luminous building, occasionally checking their watches as they talk quietly into the night. They’re not staying up late to go to a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re eagerly awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple has been the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors have been open all night every Friday and until late Saturday in order to accommodate the busloads of Church members from outlying areas who are able to travel to the temple only on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.” He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites the example of a group of youth and their leaders who traveled by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Youth from this stake brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday to Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to perform the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually be baptized for only four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple and have ridden on a bus for days to get to São Paulo.
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totaled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased more than tenfold since then, and for some time the temple has been consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst in bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Brazil Stake watch intently as workers in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” Fabio says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of the Porto Alegre Brazil Temple rise out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, age 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estância Velha Ward adds, “And now that we have to go only 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent a growing excitement all across Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated soon in the northern city of Recife. As the Church builds temples in Brazil, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy of going to the temple can be anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time television. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a weeklong festival Brazil is famous for, immodesty and immorality parade in the streets.
But Latter-day Saint youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, age 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward, Campinas Brazil Stake. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis Ward, Porto Alegre Brazil Moinhos de Vento Stake. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward, Porto Alegre Moinhos de Vento stake, was thrilled with the prize he won. Although he had been a Church member for just under a year, he won a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple by Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo temple, but he is now preparing to go in Porto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to open, they will be ready to enter.
When the angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet that Elijah the prophet would “plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (JS—H 1:39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … , especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour.
For example 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas (pictured below) and Suelen Alexandre (age 15); José Meirelles (age 18); Priscila Cavalieri (age 18); Carlita Fochetto (age 14); and Carolina (age 16), Christiane (age 15), and Carlos Rodriguez (age 12) of São Paulo volunteer in their Family History Centers for 10 to 20 hours each week. They assist Church members in their research, enter extracted names into the computer system, and search for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and have eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the Spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

It is 1869, and President Brigham Young is concerned about the young women in the Church. He is worried that some of them, including his own daughters, are too caught up in the fashions and trends of the world.
On 18 November 1869, he holds a meeting with his daughters. He asks them to set an example by spending more time learning about the gospel and gaining important life skills rather than chasing after trends.
“I desire [you] to retrench from [your] extravagance in dress, in eating, and even in speech,” President Young tells his daughters. “I should like you to get up your own fashions, and set the style for the rest of the world who desire sensible and comely fashions to follow. … There is a need for the young daughters of Israel to get a living testimony of the truth” (A Century of Sisterhood, 8).
At first this is difficult for his daughters. These girls are some of the most popular girls in the territory, and they enjoy stylish things. Now they can’t spend hours looking at clothing catalogs from back East. Instead they must sew their own simple and modest dresses, without any ruffles, that go all the way to the ground. They must spend less time socializing and more time studying the scriptures and learning the gospel.
But these girls know their father is a prophet, and they choose to follow him. They create the Young Ladies Department of the Cooperative Retrenchment Association and begin meeting often to support each other in their efforts.
It has been almost 50 years since Brigham Young first met with his daughters, and now girls throughout the world are following his counsel.

Among the lessons taught me by my father was gratitude for what it meant to be a General Authority. Some years ago Father, then over eighty years of age, was expecting a visit from a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles on a snowy winter day. Father, an artist, had painted a picture of the home of the Apostle. Rather than have the painting delivered to him, this sweet Apostle wanted to go personally to pick the painting up and thank my father for it. Knowing that Father would be concerned that everything was in readiness for the forthcoming visit, I dropped by his home. Because of the depth of the snow, snowplows had caused a snowbank in front of the walkway to the front door. Father had shoveled the walks and then labored to remove the snowbank. He returned to the house exhausted and in pain. When I arrived, he was experiencing heart pain from overexertion and stressful anxiety. My first concern was to warn him of his unwise physical efforts. Didn’t he know what the result of his labor would be?
“Robert,” he said through interrupted short breaths, “do you realize an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ is coming to my home? The walks must be clean. He should not have to come through a snowdrift.” He raised his hand, saying, “Oh, Robert, don’t ever forget or take for granted the privilege it is to know and to serve with Apostles of the Lord.”

What I didn’t have the courage to do, though, was to pray. I felt like I couldn’t face God. I thought I was angry at Him, but in reality I was just ashamed of myself. In my mind, this whole “accident” seemed to be a punishment, partly because I had stopped going to church and I hadn’t been following His commandments, but mostly because I’ve experienced same-sex attraction for as long as I can remember. I mistakenly thought He was disappointed in and ashamed of me.
I was wounded both physically and spiritually.
When I was released from the hospital, my mental health suffered. Even though I had my family and friends around me, I still felt alone. I knew I needed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in order to heal, but I struggled to make myself pray.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my breaking point and was willing to kneel down and pray for the first time in so long. I sobbed as I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I asked Him questions and told Him my concerns until I was out of breath.
Gradually, a feeling of peace filled me. And these words came to my heart and mind: “All these things will be for your good to refine your character. It was just an accident.”
Seriously?
Was this really just an accident? Not a punishment? That answer made no sense to me. But after a few days of pondering, I knew it was true. I also knew that Heavenly Father loved me. He had been calling me back to His flock for so long, and I was finally ready to return. I decided to go back to church and began an incredible, spiritually healing process with my loving bishop, who helped me fully invite the peace the Savior offers into my life.
Coming back to the Church was not easy. For so long, I had so much shame about myself. But the more I came to understand my divine identity, the less ashamed I felt. I know now that my feelings toward women don’t make me a sinner, and my amputation doesn’t limit my worth. These qualities do give me a different perspective and play a role in my spiritual growth. I also know that my perspective can bless others in the gospel. Through the Savior’s grace, I have been able to confidently accept that I am a child of God. I am loved completely. And Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were, are, and will always be ready to bless me as I turn to Them. Always.

When in 1832 Joseph Smith first narrated his vision of the Father and the Son in the woods of western, New York, he told it as a story of personal repentance and forgiveness. It is a great story, a heartening story. It begins with Joseph telling us that at about age twelve he began thinking seriously about the welfare of his soul. He says that his mind became exceedingly distressed for I become convicted of my sins . . . and I felt to mourn for my own sins and for the sins of the world. Joseph tells us that he cried unto the Lord for mercy, and that the Lord heard his cry in the wilderness. Joseph's story hinges on the Savior saying to him, Joseph my son thy sins are forgiven thee, and ends with Joseph remembering that my soul was filled with love and for many days I could rejoice with great Joy and the Lord was with me.

“Mom, Jimmy took my crayons again and broke one.” Janie bolted into the kitchen, where Mom was loading the dishwasher, and angrily stamped her foot. “I wish I didn’t have a little brother!”
“Now, honey, I know you’re upset. But is that the way to talk? I’m sure that Jimmy didn’t mean to break your crayon.”
“But I told him to leave my things alone, and he took them, anyway. I already warned him, Mom. Now I’m going to break one of his toys!”
Janie’s mom pulled out a chair for her daughter. “Let’s talk about this first. What do you think the Savior would do?”
Last week in Primary, Janie had learned that Jesus Christ told people to forgive one another and to be kind to those who hurt you. She sat down and folded her arms defiantly. “Well, He said to forgive someone who does something mean to you. I already did that. I forgave Jimmy for getting into my stuff and told him to keep out of my room forever. He didn’t Mom. He’s wrecking all my stuff, and now he has to learn a lesson.”
“Let’s get out the scriptures and see exactly what Jesus said about forgiveness.” Mom left the kitchen a moment and returned with a Bible. She thumbed through the pages, then handed the Bible to Janie, indicating a verse highlighted in yellow. “Here it is.”
Quietly Janie read the scripture, then said aloud, “It says to forgive seventy times seven. That’s way too many times. It isn’t fair at all.” Janie handed the Bible back to her mom.
“Wouldn’t you want the Savior to forgive you more than once? Think about it.” Mom put the Bible down. “Maybe you could try teaching Jimmy how to take care of things. Jesus Christ said to do good to those who offend you—even your enemies.”
Slowly Janie stood. OK, she thought. I’ll forgive him seventy times seven. But then he’s really going to get it! She went to her bedroom and sat down at her desk. On a piece of scratch paper, she multiplied seventy times seven. “Four hundred and ninety times!” she exclaimed, dismayed. She opened a notebook and wrote “Number of times I’ve forgiven Jimmy” on the top of the first page. Underneath, she made two slashes. “That’s two,” she said aloud. “Only four hundred and eighty-eight to go.”
Later that evening she found Jimmy looking at one of her favorite books. He wasn’t being very careful and had ripped a page while turning it. Angry, Janie grabbed the book and glared at him. Jimmy scuttled backward, fear in his eyes. “Don’t hit me, Janie,” he pleaded.
Remembering her resolve to forgive Jimmy, she gritted her teeth and said, “I’m not going to hit you, even though you took my book without asking.” Then, remembering she was supposed to do something nice, she added, “Do you want me to read it to you?”
Jimmy was astonished, but he smiled happily. “Oh, yes!”
After reading the book to Jimmy, Janie didn’t feel so angry. In fact, she decided to read it to him again because he seemed to enjoy it so much. Before she went to bed that night, she got out the notebook and made another slash. “That’s three,” she said.
The next day Jimmy was an even bigger pest than usual. But instead of acting in anger, Janie always did something nice for her brother and tried to teach him the right way to do things. When she got out her notebook that night before bed, she made eight more slashes. “That’s eleven,” she sighed. “Only four hundred and seventy-nine to go.”
“Jimmy! Get off my bike!” Janie shrieked the next morning. Jimmy was so startled that he toppled over onto the driveway. He was just learning how to ride a two-wheeler and wasn’t very good yet.
“You’re supposed to be riding my old bike,” Janie said, helping him up. “Why are you using my new birthday bike?”
“I can’t go very fast on that old squeaky bike,” Jimmy whined. “Please don’t be mad at me. I was trying not to hurt it.”
Janie sighed and dusted her brother off. “Well, my new bike won’t do you much good. It’s so big that you can’t reach the pedals if you sit on the seat. Let’s see if Dad can oil the other one.”
The old bike was soon oiled, and Janie and Jimmy rode together around the neighborhood.
After dinner, Janie told Jimmy, “I’m drawing a picture for Grandma. Do you want to draw one with me?” Jimmy nodded enthusiastically. I might as well ask him, Janie thought. He’d just get into my crayons, anyway.
It was Friday night, so Janie was allowed to stay up later. Her friend Kacey came over, and they played with dolls for a while. Then they decided to play a board game. Jimmy asked if he could play with them. Before Janie could answer, Mom said, “It’s time for bed, Jimmy.”
“Aw, Mom,” Jimmy complained. “It isn’t fair. I want to play too.” Frustrated, he jumped to his feet, accidentally knocking the game over.
“Jimmy,” Mom told him, “you need to apologize to your sister.”
“It’s OK, Mom,” Janie said. “He didn’t mean to.” Turning to Jimmy, she asked, “How about if Kacey and I read you a story before you go to bed?”
Happily Jimmy agreed. He listened to the story, then hugged his sister, waved good night to Kacey, and went to bed without a fuss.
Saturday was cleaning day. While organizing her desk, Janie picked up her notebook and stared at it thoughtfully. Finally she opened it and ripped out a page.
Later, as Mom picked up the trash from the bedrooms, the word Jimmy caught her eye. Curious, she took the paper from the wastepaper basket and smoothed it out. “Number of times I’ve forgiven Jimmy,” it said. A couple dozen slashes were underneath.
Just then, Janie walked into the room and saw Mom looking at the wrinkled page. Smiling sheepishly at her mother, she said, “I guess I don’t need that anymore. It’s funny, but Jimmy doesn’t seem as annoying as he used to.”

Charles Redd later wrote about the climb up Comb Ridge: “Aside from the Hole-in-the-Rock, itself, this was the steepest crossing on the journey. Here again seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they.”
“By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams. My father [L. H. Redd, Jr.] was a strong man, and reluctant to display emotion; but whenever in later years the full pathos of San Juan Hill was recalled either by himself or by someone else, the memory of such bitter struggles was too much for him and he wept” (in David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1966, pp. 138–139).

This incident was shared by Lucile F. Johnson of Orem, Utah: “There was an attractive lady whose company everyone sought and enjoyed. She was a delight to be around because she seemed to love life and people to the fullest. One day I said to her, ‘You are such a joy to all of us. What is your secret? Can you tell me?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘One word changed my life.’
“‘And what was that word?’ I queried.
“‘Malignant!’ Startled, I heard this explanation: ‘The doctor said that word to me and told me I had a limited time to live. I had a choice. I could make everyone miserable or I could try to make others happy. On my knees I realized that I had one day at a time just as everyone else has. I was able to see things I had never seen. My husband, my children, each person took on a beauty you can’t believe. I know that life is a gift whether it be a day or a year and I intend to enjoy my gift to the maximum.’”

Let me tell you about one little boy’s prayer. His name is Brayden. He was very young at the time—five or six years old. He had been reading the Book of Mormon with his family. The family would read a few verses each day and then have family prayer.

One day they read the words in Moroni 10:4:
And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.

It was Brayden’s turn to pray that day. He began his prayer in the same usual way, using the same usual words, but then he said something different. He said, “Heavenly Father, is the Book of Mormon true?” Then he paused.

He paused for so long that his father glanced over at him to see if he needed help in finishing his prayer. But he didn’t need any help. He finished by saying simply, “Thanks, Heavenly Father,” and closed his prayer. The Spirit entered that home and bore witness to the whole family of the truthfulness of the scriptures. His prayer was one of simple, beautiful faith.

Dexter likes helping his mom bake—especially cookies. He also collects rocks, runs cross-country, and plays soccer at recess—even when the playground snow is deep. Quinlan, on the other hand, spent many recesses creating a play for his third-grade classmates to perform. Still, the brothers prefer doing things together. One snowy winter they built a huge snow fort in the front yard. It had several rooms and snow benches for resting.

These funny boys are serious about choosing the right and serving others. When their grandpa had cancer, they not only prayed for his recovery but also rolled up their sleeves and took care of his garden. They grew corn, cucumbers, broccoli, chili peppers, onions, peas, tomatoes, beets, some odd-looking carrots, and three pumpkins destined to become jack-o’-lanterns. The eggplants died, but nobody minded much, because Grandpa lived.
He has promised the boys that as each of them receives his mission call, he will buy them a 10-foot submarine sandwich to share. Now they can’t see a pickle or a slice of bologna without thinking of missionary work. They are already earning money for their missions by delivering flyers. By the time Dexter and Quinlan leave, their younger brothers, Heath (1) and Bailey (3 months) will be old enough to take over the flyer deliveries.
Looking ahead, Dexter announced one day that by the time Heath was old enough to be baptized, he, Dexter, would be a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood and could baptize his little brother. At this point, Quinlan jumped in and said, “Wait a minute. That means that when Bailey is eight, I’ll be old enough to baptize him!”
Mom laughs. “So Daddy has been bumped from the baptismal schedule.” But then she adds seriously, “I love the fact that at the ages of ten and eight they are already planning to be worthy priesthood holders.”
Quinlan and Dexter are the only Latter-day Saints in their school, but that doesn’t keep them from making good friends there. “They both know how to be loyal friends,” their mom says. Both boys are enthusiastic Scouts too. Dexter is a six-star Cub, and Quinlan has already earned four of his six stars. They have both earned their Religion in Life badges.
The Manns live disciplined lives. Quinlan and Dexter do most of their playing and book writing on Friday night and Saturday because weekdays are carefully scheduled. Homework starts right after dinner and is followed by chores. These include emptying the garbage, helping to tend Heath and Bailey, helping Mom with the laundry, and cleaning their rooms.
The boys attend a French-immersion school in which 75 percent of their class work is in French. French and English are the official languages of Canada, and speaking both will help them get good jobs someday.
Although the Mann family are serious about education and the gospel, they are not overly solemn. They are a laughing, game-playing, camping-out family. North of Winnipeg there are huge lakes and vast forests where they often set up their tent. They celebrate major holidays and family milestones at big dinners with their extended families and others who have been generously “adopted.” On Canada Day (July 1), the children bash away at a piñata filled with candy.
What are the boys most thankful for? They give the same answer: their family. “I feel 100 percent good about them all,” Dexter says. He stops and reconsiders. “Sometimes 99 percent,” he admits. He is an honest boy.
In Canada people often take off their shoes when they enter a home because there is so much wet weather outside. But it could also be a reminder that the home is a sacred place where love and laughter make a refuge from the world, a place where a child might feel equally comfortable reading scriptures or writing funny stories. The Mann home is that kind of place.

As a matter of fact, Ed became involved in track in the first place by going over a roadblock. When he was in seventh grade in Ogden, Utah, he desperately wanted to be involved in sports and tried out for the junior high baseball team. He was disappointed when he didn’t make the team, but instead of giving up on sports altogether, he decide to go out for track.
Ed began running the mile, and while he beat everyone at his school, he wasn’t the best in town. He plodded along through eighth, ninth, and tenth grade winning his share of victories, but “there was no real indication that I would be that good,” he said.
“Then in the summer between my sophomore and junior year, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I finally went through puberty, but I started beating everybody in cross-country.” His times went down. His reputation went up, and it looked like he would win the state championship.
But along came another roadblock. This time it was in the form of a stress fracture in his foot— diagnosed three weeks before the state finals. The same thing happened in his senior year.
At that point, the obstacle he faced was called discouragement. “It seemed like every time I was doing really well, I would come down with an injury. I began to think that if I was going to be injured every six months and wear a cast around, I didn’t know if it was really worth it.”
But the “glimpses that I might do well,” were what got him over that roadblock. “I wasn’t ready to trash my spikes yet,” he said. “I had run well in my senior year and I had an offer to come to BYU anyway, so I thought I’d go down to Provo to see how I’d do.”
That was a wise decision. Ed gained a seed in the World Cross-Country Championships in Paris and managed to finish third. He was unaware at the time that that race would later affect his mission.
In the meantime, however, Ed had set his sights on All-America status as a freshman in college. To be All-America, you have to finish in the top six among collegiate athletes at the National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) finals. It was an ambitious goal, but Ed’s times weren’t too far off, and, if he worked hard enough, he saw no reason why he couldn’t reach it.
He came close to reaching that goal, too, but another roadblock popped up. The finals were held in Austin, Texas, right in the middle of one of the severest heat waves on record. Ed, however, was paying more attention to the race than to the heat. He was running the 10K, which is 25 laps around the track, and about halfway through, he was in the sixth position, which is exactly where he wanted to be. Suddenly, one of the runners in front of him started to wobble, then passed out on the side of the track from heat prostration.
Ed was now in the number five position. If he could hold it, he’d be an All-American in his freshman year for sure. Then, with about three laps to go, Ed felt the two runners behind him begin to gain on him. He knew he couldn’t let them pass, and he exerted all the effort he could to stay ahead. But suddenly, “everything went fuzzy around the edges, and instead of running straight, I was running to the left and to the right. I was doing what the guy in front of me had been doing before he dropped out. I guess I was feeling the effect of the heat. I don’t remember much after that, but a half a lap later I was dragged off the track by my coach and a few teammates, and I remember waking up in the training room in a tub of cold water with some ice in it. I went back to my hotel room just thinking that I blew it,” he said.
But this time there was a hand outstretched, waiting to help him over that particular barrier. “One of my coaches came by to talk,” Ed relates.
The coach was also a rancher and said, “Ed, I’ve worked a lot with runners, and I’ve worked a lot with animals, and I just want you to know that today you ran like a horse.”
“I didn’t exactly know how to take that,” Ed confided, “but then the coach explained, ‘You can take a good mule out and work with it, and it will do what you want it to until it gets tired. Then it will just sit down. And you can kick it and beat it and do whatever, but until it’s good and rested, it’s not going to budge. But you can take a good horse, and that horse will work for you until it drops over from exhaustion. Today, you ran like a horse, Ed.’
“I learned a great lesson that can be applied in jobs or studies or any aspect of life, really,” Ed relates. He realized that the endurance to follow a job through and give your all is more important than the final outcome. It’s the ultimate effort you put into anything that makes it worthwhile.
Ed would go on to become an All-American ten times before his college career was over. But that path was not to be a smooth one either. At the end of his freshman year, another opportunity arose that the world might consider a roadblock, but that Ed considers one of the greatest blessings of his life. He turned 19—time to serve a mission.
He was called to serve in Barcelona, Spain, and ran off to the mission field without giving track a second thought—except when he used his knowledge and experience to interest members of Spanish track clubs in the gospel. It was under these circumstances that he once again met up with Jorge Garcia, the winner of the world cross-country meet in Paris. Jorge listened to several discussions, and though he wasn’t baptized, “he has a positive attitude about the Church,” Ed says.
Ed did very little running on his mission, but when he returned, his career seemed to improve with each race. He applied the “patience and perseverance” he’d learned in the mission field to his running. By the time the national finals rolled around in his senior year, his times were good enough to garner his second cross-country championship and he was expected to win both the 5 and 10K events.
But a week before the national championships, something that could have proved to be the biggest roadblock of all obstructed his path. Ed’s older brother Robert was killed in a boating accident.
“It’s tough to deal with death,” Ed commented. “Even for us, with the knowledge we have of what lies hereafter, it’s still hard. Knowing that we’re not going to be able to see that loved one or be with them or share their many talents is a loss, no matter how strong a testimony you have. You just have to pull together as a family. And the knowledge that someday you will be together again, even though you won’t see them for a long time, helps.
“The only thing that kept me going through it was that I knew deep down inside that my brother would be disappointed if I didn’t run,” Ed added.
Ed did run, and finished the NCAA finals first in both events.
Since his collegiate running career ended, Ed graduated with honors from BYU in psychology and is certified to teach high school. He minored in Spanish and coaching. His education continues as he works on his masters in health promotion and corporate fitness. He plans on getting his PhD.
He also plans to continue winning races for about the next ten years. When not in class, Ed is working out twice a day. Most of his weekends are spent running races all over the country, and during the summer he spends several weeks running in Europe. He takes advantage of trips to do missionary work, trying to fulfill his father’s challenge of giving away a Book of Mormon every time he travels.
Ed took advantage of a track opportunity to place a Book of Mormon in some of the most prominent hands in the world. He and fellow LDS runner Farley Gerber were competing in the World University Games in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. They were excited to see that Prince Charles and Lady Diana were there as dignitaries, and even more excited to learn that the royal couple would be greeting the athletes individually. Ed and Farley decided it wouldn’t hurt to present them with a copy of the Book of Mormon, so they wrote their testimonies in one and presented it to the prince when it was their turn to shake his hand.
“He was very cordial about the whole thing,” Ed recalls. “He said, ‘Oh, you chaps are Mormons, are you? So that’s what keeps you going.’ When he walked off, he tucked the Book of Mormon in the crook of his arm, and seeing him carrying it, if you didn’t know who he was you might have thought he was a representative of the Church,” Ed recalled.
Ed’s road for the next ten years seems clear. Among his goals are competition in at least two Olympics, and racing in a host of track events along the way. He never knows when roadblocks will obstruct his path, and really doesn’t think much about the ones behind him. In the meantime, he heeds his own advice to just keep trying. “In my career,” he says, “it seems that any successes that I have achieved have been through consistent training and have been very slow in coming. Most improvement has come on a long-term basis.”
Roadblocks, victories, whatever crosses his path, Ed is conditioned to take it in stride.

It was my very first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house—at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went someplace. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”

Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either—just a ball, and it wasn’t even brand-new. I didn’t tell Aaron that because he liked the ball just fine.

Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby back then. I told him about the lights and the decorations and about Jesus in the manger and about the presents and the stockings and Santa Claus. Aaron doesn’t talk much, but he listens a lot. I really like Aaron because he’s a good listener.

Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he’d whisper, “Alma, tell me again,” and I’d have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.

The thing Aaron liked most to hear about was the Christmas tree. He’d make me tell him about it all the time. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me that we couldn’t afford to have a tree.

I was in trouble then, because it was getting really close to Christmas, and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Well, on Sunday my Primary teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.

On the way home I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.

I looked and looked, and I almost decided that there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Brother Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy. It had lots of branches, and it was kind of blue and green. I knew that that was the tree I was going to get for Aaron.

That night in bed I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.

The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an ax and one of Dad’s saws. Dad had two axes, but one was too big for me. The other one was still kind of big, but I was the man of the house and I figured I could use it.

We put the ax and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a little while he climbed into the wagon and rode.

Brother and Sister Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Brother Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. Brother Hubbard was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree and I didn’t know how else to get him one.

I got right to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although he was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard because the branches prickled my hands and face.

As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the ax out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The ax was too big, even though it was Dad’s little one. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked some bark off, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying, though, until I dropped the ax on my foot. Then I just had to cry because the ax was heavy and my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me, though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.

I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot, and I scratched my face on some branches. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said that he was cold and wanted to go home and that we could get Mom to come back and help us. Yet I was the man of the family, and this was my job.

While we were both crying, Brother and Sister Hubbard drove up in their car. They didn’t know what we were doing at first, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Brother Hubbard’s a nice man. He’s old—kind of like a grandpa—and he’s my best friend, next to Aaron.

“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he said when he walked over to us. Sister Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Brother Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying too.

“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house, and we don’t even have to buy it. Do you want to help us?”

Brother Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money, but my Primary teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”

Brother Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.

“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Brother Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Brother Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Brother Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron couldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. Tommy—he’s my friend at school—says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”

I don’t know why I started to bawl, but I did, I guess my foot still hurt. Brother Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”

I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was OK. I just nodded my head. I was afraid I’d start to cry again.

When Brother Hubbard had finished cutting down the tree, he said, “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or a mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”

“He does?” I asked.

“Sure. And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”

Brother Hubbard dragged the tree home for us, and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.

On Christmas Eve Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see Him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Brother Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruit cake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Brother Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Brother Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Brother Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa Claus would come. I was afraid Tommy was right and that Brother Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.

I guess Brother Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled. “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”

Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”

Finally I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.

“Santa Claus!”

“Santa Claus? Who said?”

“I can hear him, Alma! I can hear him! He’s out by the Christmas tree!”

“Go back to bed, Aaron,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Go back to bed.”

I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. Before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”

I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move; all I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I could tell. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.

“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t mind me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go.

All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Brother Hubbard, but Brother Hubbard is skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”

Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t go to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything.

I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Brother Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree. That was one of my very best Christmases.

Let me give you an example. Back in the 1980s, our young business was struggling. Earnings had plummeted in the recession. Jon decided to sell 40 percent of the company. He found a buyer, and after tough negotiations, the two fixed a price and shook hands on the deal. Six months went by while the necessary papers, contracts, and terms were completed to provide a legally binding arrangement.
During that period the market turned. Our company’s earnings climbed; sales exceeded all previous levels. Wall Street analysts advised that the 40 percent agreed to earlier was now worth five times the original amount, and the lawyers took the position that the oral agreement was not binding, since no papers had been signed.
The buyers, realizing the dramatic growth of the company, expected to pay a much higher price. There was no question that we needed that extra capital as the company expanded.
But Jon was a man of his word, and his handshake was no casual commitment. He informed the buyers of his decision to honor the original agreement and shocked the chemical industry. He would lose millions in the deal, but to him, a deal was a deal. His handshake was his bond.

The TET offensive was at its height in Vietnam when I received orders to report to Korea. I was to become Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U. S. Army and for the United Nations Forces. I had been at my new assignment only a month when a male nurse, no older than many of the other young soldiers I deal with daily, arrived at the same command.
My surprise came when he asked to see me alone one day and said, “Colonel, as near as I can see, there are only six ‘straight arrows’ in this entire command (‘straight arrow’ was a term the soldiers used to mean a man who maintained his chastity while in the service). You are the one I admire most. I desire very much to go back home to my wife and family pure, but I’m afraid I don’t have the courage and stamina to do it. Are you going to remain a straight arrow? How are you going to do it?”
I was a bit surprised by the abruptness of his inquiry, but I knew the answer. I had faced the same decision and found my own answer long before I had arrived in the Far East. I told him I would remain a straight arrow throughout my tour in Korea and forever. I said I didn’t know how strong I was because I didn’t allow myself to get in a position where I could be tempted. I also told him I didn’t anesthetize my conscience by drinking.
Then I bore my testimony about Church-related activities during my off-duty hours, noting that they provided a wholesome means for keeping me occupied.
As our conversation progressed, I realized that this young man deeply loved his wife. I told him that if he lost his virtue, it would somehow be conveyed in the next letter he wrote to her and that a great wall would begin to rise between them. He acknowledged that he knew this to be true, and we both realized that we had seen it occur in the lives of our unchaste friends. We then made a contract. He promised to maintain his chastity as long as I maintained mine. We attempted to involve others in a similar agreement, but no one wanted to join us.
About two months later, my friend returned to my office. “Well, Colonel,” he said, “there are now only four straight arrows left in this outfit.” Shortly after that he came again to tell me that the number was down to three. When I had just four months remaining to finish my duty in Korea, he came in one day and said, “It’s down to you and me.” I asked him if he was going to make it. His reply? “Absolutely.”
When the time came for me to return to the United States, my friend faced one more month before he could rejoin his wife. We had often discussed the gospel and our friendship was a sturdy bond. We both wept as I bid him farewell. He assured me that he would do nothing during his last month that would jeopardize in any way the happiness he had worked for until now, not when he was so close to reaching his goal.
Even though that young man was not a member of the Church, he understood some vital lessons of life. He knew that it is necessary to set a goal in order to obtain it. Returning home clean and pure would require struggle, and he was willing to put forth the necessary effort. He also was humble enough to let someone else know about his objective so that he would have a person to turn to who could strengthen him during a moment of weakness.
The Savior would like to have a similar relationship with those he loves. He wants us to set our goals high, founded on his commandments. We can work with him by planning in advance what we hope to achieve and reviewing our goals with him regularly in prayer. Many of the other soldiers in our outfit thought about remaining straight arrows. However, this young fellow and I were the only two who succeeded, and there was a reason why. The others succumbed in a moment of weakness. We accomplished our goal by planning what we would do in advance.

Retired couple, Peter and Phyllis McLennan are helping Tasmanian communities and families by cleaning, painting and restoring markers in cemeteries in the state’s northeast.
Awarded the Australian Citizen of the Year award by the Dorset Area Council, this Scottsdale couple tells how a local cemetery with hundreds of unmarked graves sparked a desire to honor the pioneers who gave life to this Tasmanian community.
The McLennans often visited the cemetery in Scottsdale where Peter’s ancestors are buried. They discovered, through plot maps dating back to the 1850s, hundreds of infants’ unmarked graves in the grassy areas between headstones.
“We thought of the pioneers who had settled their community, forging the path for others to follow. They had no doctors, no services. It was normal for a family to have four or five children who didn’t live more than a year or two,” Peter laments. Yet, here they lay without so much as a marker to be remembered by. “We thought it was sad that these people weren’t recognized.”
The McLennans approached the council, who, in time, saw the validity of the project. “It’s something we do together,” explains Phyllis. With a grant, the McLennans proceeded to create plaques for these plots to mark the graves.
They begin with a concrete paver, onto which is mounted a stainless-steel plaque with the name, birthdate, and death date of the deceased. The pavers are then recessed in the lawn so gardeners can mow over the top. Roger McLennan (Peter’s brother) of the Historical Society comes up with the birth and death certificates to verify the dates.
The McLennans also use their own funds to restore headstones in need of cleaning and repairs. After receiving permission from relatives, they have a system to brighten the lettering to make it legible.
ABC Television recently interviewed the couple about their service to the community.
Phyllis and Peter have worked on this project in six different cemeteries for two years and will continue to volunteer their time and means to this work. “There are a couple more cemeteries further out that need work on headstones.”
Both at age 76, Peter and Phyllis have been members of the Church for nearly 48 years. Phyllis serves as the organist in the Tamar Ward of the Devonport Stake.
“We are very close,” says Peter. “We’ve been told we’re joined at the hip. Not that we have to keep an eye on each other!”
When asked what this project has meant to them, Peter says that they “had the ability, time, and means to do something lasting and important.”

Emma Orrilla Perry Merrill, a widow, had a child in the school at which she herself was the teacher. During a recess her son was playing with the other children in the newly-dug basement of Thatcher Church. One of the children led a donkey over the bank causing it to cave in. Her son was buried under the avalanche. Some of the children ran immediately to tell her, and she came running and screaming.

“When I reached the cave-in I started digging frantically with my bare hands. I dug my fingers into the quick but kept digging. Finally I found one of his hands and followed it to his head. I uncovered his head just in time, for when I got him out he was black and blue with suffocation.”7

This hardy sister, incidentally, lived to be ninety-two.

When President M. Russell Ballard set me apart as the new president of the Provo Utah YSA First Stake, he provided a simple and specific assignment: “Go visit your leaders and members in their homes and apartments!” That was it; he gave no other training or assignments.
Coordinating our efforts with our bishops, we started on Tuesday, two days after our stake conference. As we ministered in our stake, we made mistakes, missed opportunities, and often thought, “I could have said that better” or “I wish we had asked a better question.”
Brigham Young University President Kevin J Worthen observed that “failing is a critical component of our eternal progress—our quest for perfection. And because of the Atonement we can—if we respond to failures in the right way—be blessed with a new kind of learning that allows our failures to become part of the perfecting process.”4
This was our experience as we learned to minister to the leaders and members of the stake and to others we met. As we continued ministering, the Lord began to put more and more people in our path.
On one occasion, one of my counselors, J. B. Haws, and I were walking between apartment complexes when we met a young man in the parking lot. We stopped to say hello and found out that he was moving out of our stake. We talked for a moment and discovered that he was a returned missionary facing questions about his faith. My counselor is a master teacher who connects with people easily. Answering questions like these was natural and normal for J. B. I could see in this young man’s eye a light that may have been missing for some time reappear as they talked.
It was obvious that J. B. was interested in him and in his questions and concerns. The young man opened himself up because J. B. showed compassion. My counselor’s “bowels were filled” with love, and he had a desire to understand this young man without judging him. J. B. asked if we could visit him once he settled into his new apartment. The young man nodded, mobile numbers were exchanged, and a promise to follow up with him was made.
Before we left, we asked if there was anything we could do to help. He said, “Stopping to say hello was one of the most important things you could have done for me today.” Later that evening, I thought to myself, “If J. B. and I had not been out ministering, we may never have met this young man.”
It seems the Lord knew that we would be ministering that evening, so He placed this young man in our path—trusting we would see him and minister to him.
When we desire to minister to all as we go about our daily lives, the Lord will place people in our paths because He trusts us that we will look up from our mobile phones, take a moment to smile at a stranger, or ask a question from someone we have met in the market or wherever we find ourselves at school, work, or church.
Image from Getty Images
Looking back on the Savior’s example in 3 Nephi, I discovered an important principle about ministering. As you will remember:
“It came to pass that when he had thus spoken, all the multitude, with one accord, did go forth with their sick and their afflicted, and their lame, and with their blind, and their dumb, and with all them that were afflicted in any manner; and he did heal them every one as they were brought forth unto him.
“And they did all, both they who had been healed and they who were whole, bow down at his feet, and did worship him; and as many as could come for the multitude did kiss his feet, insomuch that they did bathe his feet with their tears” (3 Nephi 17:9–10; emphasis added).
Notice that those ministering brothers and sisters who helped bring those they knew and loved closer to Jesus Christ also found themselves at the Savior’s feet, bowing, worshipping, and kissing and bathing His feet with their tears.
As we minister to all, we will see Christ healing emotional, spiritual, and physical wounds. And as we invite others to “come and see” and “come and help” in natural and normal ways, we will find our own wounds being healed too.

Now Eli is doing what he has wanted to do for a long time—he is teaching and coaching in a local high school. Teachers aren’t famous for their high salaries, and sometimes the money is a little short. But Eli smiles about it: “The paychecks now, in spite of being low, are more than we were making when we were students. We’re happy to have more than we had before. Occasionally I think we could have a brand-new car or a nice house, but I have never had any serious doubts about the decision.”
He gathers his family around the room as he talks about the decision that has made such a difference in their lives. His daughter Hannah plays on the floor while his wife, Jennifer, holds the baby, Sarah. They don’t have the new house, car, and retirement fund, but they’re happy. Eli has come a long way from the boy who sometimes sneaked in to watch football on Sundays. Now he is a father who, like his own father and like Alma long ago, is determined to teach his children the commandments “as they are written” and to help them be covenant people of the Lord.

“We didn’t have many modern conveniences. We had kerosene lamps, and rest room facilities were about fifty paces from the back door. In back of the house was a cellar where Mother stored all her canned fruits and vegetables. We had a vegetable garden, a berry patch, and fruit trees.
“I remember that my father once said to me, ‘You know, it would help if you weeded the garden.’ I thought I would surprise him and do it, but I hoed down all of the potatoes he had planted, thinking they were weeds! That was about the extent of that.”