Gospel Story Finder

Many of my memories of being a five-year-old consist of volleyball nets, floor polish on gym floors, referee whistles, and roughly scribbled rosters. My dad coached a team of young volleyball players in our ward. I was his “assistant.”
My dad taught the players principles of hard work, team spirit, honesty, trust in self and in others, goal setting, perseverance, and sacrifice. There were prayers before games, 5:00 A.M. practices on Saturdays, and ice cream socials at our house.
One of the most important lessons I learned from my dad and his players was that of honesty. When a player touched the net inadvertently or mishandled a pass, my dad taught that it was important for the player to reveal his error with a raised hand. That lesson would make a lasting impression, not only on the members of the team, but also on a five-year-old “assistant coach.”
Our team had struggled in the beginning. But when the championships were held, we were there to compete. When it was time for the final match, the four years the team had spent playing together paid off. Just one match stood in the way of our winning the championship.
There was a spirited atmosphere at the championship match. Crowds of people came to watch the competition. I took my place next to Dad when the horn sounded to begin play.
I don’t remember much of that match, but I do remember the end of the final game. The crowd cheered as my dad’s team scored the final point. Participants and spectators flooded the floor. Brent, a big, formidable player on our team, had made the final point with a decisive spike. So powerful was his contact with the ball that even the experienced referee didn’t notice that Brent’s finger had brushed the net. It was a penalty that easily could have been forgotten. But amid the excitement, Brent slowly raised his arm into the air.
The teams reassembled, the crowd took their seats, and the game continued. Shortly thereafter, the game ended, and my dad’s team captured the championship they had been working at for four years. They could feel good not only about winning, but also about doing it honestly.
Many years have passed since my days of chasing volleyballs for my father and his players. But the memory of a coach teaching the value of honesty to his team still remains firmly planted in my memory. From my low vantage point on the floor that day, most people seemed tall. But the way I—and everyone else—saw it, Brent stood the tallest.

In some parts of the world, Latter-day Saints are few and far between. Thomas Eberhardt is one of only seven Latter-day Saints living in Muehlheim, Germany, a town of 3,000 people. Because the majority of Thomas’s friends aren’t LDS, and because beer is such a common drink in Germany, he’s had many opportunities to say no.
“In Germany, they drink beer everywhere for every occasion. As soon as you enter someone’s house, they pour you a glass of beer.
“First, I thank them for offering. Then I tell them I’d rather not drink beer and explain why. I’ll ask them if they’ve ever heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They’ll answer no, so I explain a little about the Church and the Word of Wisdom. My friends then respect my beliefs, but I have to always be positive, not offensive.
“Soon after I was baptized,” says Thomas, “I was drafted into the German army. In Germany, all 19-year-old men must serve at least 15 months in the army. We soldiers lived in large communities, and I could not avoid being in situations that conflicted with the teachings and commandments I had recently gained a testimony of.
“It wasn’t long before I was offered cigarettes. I always tried to be polite, thank them for their offer, and then tell them I did not smoke. My fellow soldiers accepted it with no problem.
“However, I was invited to a friend’s birthday party, and at the party I was offered beer. I thanked them for their offer and told them I didn’t drink. My fellow soldiers got more pushy as the party went on. I finally could find no other way than to explain to them why I didn’t drink.
“I stood up and said to them all, ‘Thank you very much for your wonderful invitation to be here at this birthday party. Now I want to tell you all that I cannot drink beer or alcohol, and I want to tell you why. As you have probably heard, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Lord has commanded us not to drink alcohol, and that is the reason why I don’t drink.’
“After that, I had no more problems with being offered beer.”

The crew has arrived at the studio ready for another taping. With an air of knowing exactly what needs to be done, they quickly arrange the furniture on the set. Chris and Allen pull cables out of the way of their cameras. Martin clips the tiny microphones to their guests’ lapels. Mike is seated at the switching board, giving instructions over his headset.
Suddenly someone yells, “Quiet.” Bill counts down with the fingers of one hand. “Five … four … three … two … we’re on the air.”

The choir’s effectiveness as missionaries for the Church can be attested to by their August 1985 trip to Japan. Choir members made a commitment to do more personalized missionary work, and distributed more than a thousand Japanese copies of the Book of Mormon. In addition, they distributed more than 3,000 brochures about the choir, and approximately 3,200 Articles of Faith cards.
Within two months of the choir’s visit, Elder William H. Bradford, Area Administrator in Japan, “told us that several baptisms had been traced directly to the copies of the Book of Mormon that had been distributed by choir members,” related Brother Ottley. “We may never know the total number of people we influence through our music or through the personal contacts we make.
“While in Japan, I met and talked with one lady who had been studying the gospel for months but committed to baptism that very night at the concert. That’s the most gratifying part of our work. While we like to do things that are musically viable and important, if we can touch someone’s heart and spirit through our music and cause them to feel about the gospel of Jesus Christ the way we do, then we are doing what we are supposed to be doing.”
As an example, on the 1985 trip, Marilyn Smith was introduced to a Japanese woman who attributed her membership in the Church and the mission she just completed to the spirit she felt when Marilyn sang a solo during the choir’s previous trip to Japan.

Our youngest son was called to serve as a missionary in the France Paris Mission. In preparation to serve, we went with him to purchase the usual shirts, suits, ties, and socks, and an overcoat. Unfortunately, the overcoat he wanted was not immediately in stock in the size he needed. However, the store clerk indicated that the coat would become available in a few weeks and would be delivered to the missionary training center in Provo prior to our son’s departure for France. We paid for the coat and thought nothing more of it.
Our son entered the missionary training center in June, and the overcoat was delivered just days before his scheduled departure in August. He did not try on the coat but hurriedly packed it in his luggage with his clothing and other items.
As winter approached in Paris, where our son was serving, he wrote to us that he had pulled out the overcoat and tried it on but found that it was far too small. We therefore had to deposit extra funds in his bank account so that he could buy another coat in Paris, which he did. With some irritation, I wrote to him and told him to give the first coat away, inasmuch as he couldn’t use it.
We later received this email from him: “It is very, very cold here. … The wind seems to go right through us, although my new coat is great and quite heavy. … I gave my old one to [another missionary in our apartment] who said that he had been praying for a way to get a better coat. He is a convert of several years and he has only his mom … and the missionary who baptized him who are supporting him on his mission and so the coat was an answer to a prayer, so I felt very happy about that.”6
Heavenly Father knew that this missionary, who was serving in France some 6,200 miles (10,000 km) away from home, would urgently need a new overcoat for a cold winter in Paris but that this missionary would not have the means to buy one. Heavenly Father also knew that our son would receive from the clothing store in Provo, Utah, an overcoat that would be far too small. He knew that these two missionaries would be serving together in Paris and that the coat would be an answer to the humble and earnest prayer of a missionary who had an immediate need.

It all started with a dream to help critically ill children in London’s Royal Marsden Hospital. With the intent of giving service in a way that could make a real difference, 50 young LDS teens from the Staines England Stake set out on an incredible service project that resulted in what some called a miracle.
They planned and produced an evening of entertainment, the “MGM Spectacular.” The initials stand for Marsden’s Glorious Musical. The miraculous part of the project was the fact that in addition to raising money for the hospital, the LDS teens helped the young patients participate and perform in the production. For many of these children, this theatrical experience was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Sarah Burlinson of the Tunbridge Wells Ward, Kent England Stake, said, “The children really looked happy, and I know that they enjoyed it as well.”
The show was intended as a family event. Besides the LDS youth, the critically ill outpatients and their brothers and sisters performed in song and dance. The LDS teens wanted to offer these children a chance to forget their difficulties for a day and feel the joy of being involved in service. The money raised was used to buy needed equipment for their own hospital. And they threw themselves into the project with energy. Catherine Wittle of the Guilford Ward said, “The sick kids were a great example to us. They were so determined to do well.”
The combination of dedicated LDS youth with enthusiastic children made for a remarkable evening. The project was linked with a charity called Kids Count. The group also received help from London’s Capital Radio.
But the performance was preceded by 18 months of hard work. To earn the money necessary to hire the hall, create the costumes, and print the tickets and programmes, the stake youth held car washes, sponsored hikes and bake sales, and held a summer festival. At times it was discouraging, especially after well-made plans fell through, but then the phrase, “The show must go on,” was heard around the stake.
Everyone understood that the proceeds of this show were to serve an important purpose. “The show was a lot of fun to put together and perform,” said Alison Youngberg of the Addlestone Branch, “but the best part was knowing that we were raising money that would save the children’s lives.”
On the night of the performance, the show was a great success. The near-capacity audience was thoroughly entertained. Standing on stage that evening, Amber Travers of the Kingston Ward said, “When we all sang the closing song on stage, there was a really good feeling, a feeling of total unity and friendliness.”
A cheque for nearly £2000 (about $3,214) was donated. Beth Sepion, representing the hospital, said that the show was the most touching and innovative way she had ever seen to raise money. For the Staines Stake youth, it was a chance to learn how much fun service can be and how great things can come from that which is small.

When it was time for me to go on a mission, I was very excited to serve the Lord. Just before I was to leave, however, I found out that I had bone cancer. The chance of living long enough to serve a mission wasn’t very high. I had faith that the Lord would provide a way if he wanted me to go. My father gave me a blessing in which I was told that I would serve my mission in Mexico, serve in the Church all my life, and have a family. My right arm had to be amputated above the elbow, but my life was spared, and the promises I was given have all been fulfilled.

My third example is more modern. In Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith, Brigham Young University—Hawaii president Eric B. Shumway shares something he experienced as a young missionary in Tonga. He was invited to the evening meal of a faithful Tongan family who were living in extreme poverty. Brother Shumway writes:

“Now the Kinikini family had no plantation and no animals on Tongatapu, except for a small flock of ducks that eventually dwindled to one little duckling. When I sat down on the floor in the family circle that night, four young children watched their mother put pieces of boiled breadfruit before each one of us. Then, before me, she put a freshly boiled duckling. The sight and the aroma of this delicacy made a visible impression on the children who were sitting quietly with their hands clasped in their lap. It was clear that the duckling was for me.

“‘I’ll not eat this by myself,’ I said to [Brother] Tevita Muli. ‘We will all share.’

“Before I could start dividing it, Tevita Muli quickly interrupted, ‘No, you will eat it by yourself. It is yours!’

“‘But your children?’ I protested.

“‘They do not want to touch it,’ he continued. ‘You honor them by eating it yourself. Some day they will be proud to tell their children they went without kiki (meat), so that a servant of the Lord might eat and be filled’” ([1991], 10).

Carol Lyman of the Cedar 13th Ward, Cedar City Utah West Stake, told of an event that occurred when the family went to watch the oldest son, Jason, at the Cub Scout Olympics. Two-year-old Sam had been playing near an irrigation ditch, had slipped, and had fallen into the water. His six-year-old sister, Angela, immediately screamed for her mother, then grabbed her little brother, whose head was still above the water, and pulled him to safety. The rescue saved Sam from being trapped in a covered culvert extending more than 100 yards.

Illustration by Adam Howling
“Hey, Trace, where did Mom go tonight?” I called out as I walked through the dirty kitchen. It looked like a tornado had blown through—dirty dishes were all over the place.
“I don’t know. She and Dad went to a dinner party with some friends,” replied the youngest of my 11 brothers and sisters as he watched a basketball game.
“So, is this food up for grabs?” I asked, hoping to find something in the pots and pans.
Wesley, number 10 of the 11, came bounding down the old, battered stairs, and as he ran to see the latest basketball score, he said, “Mom made it for us and left for the party. She said she’ll be back late and to not make too much of a mess.”
“Too late for that,” I mumbled. “Man. Good thing it’s not my night to clean up.”
The Christmas season was in full swing, and having our whole family in town made for a heavy amount of stress that seemed to wind up in Mom’s shoulder muscles. That’s when the idea came to me. It had been a while since I’d done anything but dirty the house—so why not surprise Mom and make it less dirty for a change?
After having a bite to eat, I tried for a miracle. “Wes, Trace, what do you think about cleaning this place up for Mom?”
“You can do what you want. I’m watching the game,” Trace said. He sounded bugged by the mere thought of trading dishes for the game.
“I knew it was pointless to ask you two,” I grumbled, feeling annoyed. The giant mound of dirty dishes was daunting, but someone had to do the job.
Usually when Mom asks me to clean the kitchen I whine for at least five minutes before grudgingly carrying out her wish. I typically react to her pleas for help with pride and selfishness. So this time, at first I started cleaning because I was looking for her praise. But soon I felt a joy that I can’t explain in doing the work without being asked.
As I began to slosh dishes around in the sink and squeeze the pineapple-scented dish soap into the steaming water, something unexpected began to happen.
Slowly, as if trying to hide the fact that he was even thinking of helping, Wesley wandered in and said, “I’ll dry if you wash.” Not wanting to scare him off, I nodded without looking at him.
“OK,” I said, “but the element of surprise is everything, so let’s move fast.”
Two minutes later, Trace walked sheepishly into the kitchen and said, “I’ll wipe the counters and sweep, but that’s it. And if I miss anything cool in the game, I’m going to be mad.”
“No prob,” I answered. “The faster we go, the faster we’ll be done. If Mom could only see us now, I think she’d have a heart attack.”
“Yeah,” they both said in unison.
“I was just thinking. What if we did the math?” Wes said. “There are 365 days in a year, times 13 of us, and then add three meals a day. I can’t even work those numbers. I’m just glad I’m not Mom.”
“It’s 14,235,” declared Trace triumphantly.
“Oh, and then times it by each utensil and cup on the table. I’m beginning to feel depressed. I don’t even know how Mom handles us all.”
“Hurry, here they come!” Trace yelled just as we caught sight of the car’s headlights. “Quick, hide!” I ran to my position at the top of the stairs, just out of eyesight, listening intently for Mom’s response to the sparkling countertops. As I waited, I sat thinking about what had just happened. We’d sacrificed half an hour that would have been wasted in front of the TV. How simple it was to give so little and have it mean so much.
The hum of the car’s motor cut out. The car doors opened and thumped shut. As the kitchen door swung open with a burst of icy winter air, we heard these rewarding words, “Oh! Heavenly angels have been at work!”

A hailstorm had flattened Richard Ballantyne’s first wheat crop in the Salt Lake Valley, leaving just a few precious stalks to be gathered in the fall. He and his wife Huldah and their baby had come too late in the season the year before to plant any crops, so they were counting on this year’s wheat harvest to help them through the winter.
In the midst of his discouragement, Richard had an unusual impression. His mind drifted back to his homeland in Scotland where he was converted to the Church. He thought of the sooty ragamuffins who played on Sunday in the streets of the little village of Fawns. Richard had organized a small Sunday School there for these boys and girls and had taught them about Jesus.
Now, in this new land and in this desert country that had been so hard to tame, Richard thought of the pioneer children. He loved the gospel and he loved to teach boys and girls. In his own words Richard Ballantyne expressed his feelings this way:
“I felt that the gospel was too precious to myself to be withheld from the children; they ought to have the privileges of gospel teaching, and that was the main purpose: to teach them the gospel.”
Richard told his bishop that he would like to start a Sunday School. The bishop and the General Authorities of the Church all encouraged him in his plans. Loading everything they owned into two wagons, Richard and his family moved out of the Old Fort to a building lot one block west and three blocks south of the proposed Salt Lake Temple site. They built a single room to be used as a “summer kitchen” and lived in one covered wagon. Their other wagon was used for storage.
Any time that wasn’t needed to provide food and clothing for his family, Richard spent working on the addition to his little one-room home that was to be used for a meetinghouse. He went to Millcreek Canyon, cut down trees, and hauled the logs to a mill to be sawed into lumber. From a quarry in Red Butte Canyon, he brought sandstone for the foundation and sills. Adobe bricks for the walls were obtained from a brickyard west of the city.
The Sunday School room was twenty feet long and eighteen feet wide and had plastered walls inside and adobe walls outside, plank flooring, and a roof of logs and boards covered with several inches of dirt. The room was lighted by two windows in front and a window and half-glass door on the south side. Heat came from a large fireplace, and the benches were made of slabbed timber.
Sister Ballantyne chose the music for the Sunday School, made suggestions on the lessons, and helped give the room a cozy and welcome atmosphere.
Outside, Richard planted cottonwood trees for shade and attractive shrubs and vines. He also built a pole fence around the house. By the time winter came, the building was completed and the bearded Scotsman invited the children in the neighborhood to his new home for Sunday School.
At eight o’clock Sunday morning, December 9, 1849, about thirty children between the ages of eight and thirteen stamped the snow off their shoes and trooped into Sunday School where a warm fire and Richard Ballantyne greeted them. With shining eyes he called the class to order. After a song, he gave a sincere prayer and dedicated the room to teaching children the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Once I went camping on the beach with my family, a few friends, and my dog, Max. We swam and played all day. Then we watched fireworks when it got dark. We all had a fantastic time.
When the fireworks ended, I looked for Max. But he was gone! I panicked and yelled that Max was missing. As tears poured down my face, we all looked for him in the woods. I felt a small voice tell me to pray, so I did. But my whole body felt limp like noodles, and I was scared for Max.
We didn’t find him, so we hiked back to our tent. I kept praying in my head, but I started to lose hope. I cried myself to sleep.
A few hours later, my parents shook me awake. Max was sitting right next to me! My parents had heard the sound of Max’s collar jingling outside our tent. I held him tightly and quietly thanked God for answering my prayers.

A few years ago I applied for a job at a local zoo, thinking it would be a great adventure. When I was offered the job, I took it, even though it meant I would have to work every Sunday. For the next several months, I did not attend church, and I had no contact with ward members. I hadn’t completely gone off the path of righteousness; I wasn’t drinking or experimenting with drugs, like some of my friends at work, and my moral standards were intact. Still, deep down, I wasn’t really happy, and I didn’t feel close to Heavenly Father.
In addition, my grades were slipping, and I was difficult to get along with. My friends at the zoo seemed to like me, but they wanted me to participate with them in things I knew were wrong.
In the midst of my problems my mother told me that my old choir teacher had been sustained as the Young Women president. The next week, the phone calls began. The new Young Women president was like a recruiter for the army. She called me for every activity my class was having and for every service project they did. After several weeks of excuses, I finally agreed to dinner with my class. As we drove to the restaurant, the girls in my class talked about boys and the coming school year. Our leader often joined in their conversation. I rode along with them in silence.
As I watched their happy faces, I felt pain—the kind of pain you feel when you are missing out on something great. By the time the activity was over and we were back at my house, I was close to tears. Those girls had something in their lives that I wanted. They knew who they were and where they were going. They were close to Heavenly Father. I knew he heard their prayers. My leader seemed to know what I was feeling and reminded me I was always welcome at church and she would always be there for me.
That night I knelt by my bed and poured out my soul to my Father in Heaven—something I hadn’t done in a long time. I realized how much I had missed him and how, little by little, the distance between us had grown because of the choices I had made. More than anything, I wanted another chance. I wanted to fill the emptiness within my soul. I wanted to find the kind of friends who lasted forever. I wanted to come back to church.
After that experience, I realized that there were people who cared about me. I saw the way to come back. It wasn’t easy, but I returned to church activity. Since then, the gospel has enriched my life and given me hope. The best thing I ever did was to come back to the Church.

“I want a Saturday chore,” Johnny said to his mother. “You and Daddy have chores, and Sarah and Joe have chores. I want one too.”
Mother smiled. “Why don’t you watch what everybody does this Saturday. Maybe that will help you think of something that you can do.”
On Saturday morning Johnny watched Joe carry large piles of dirty clothes to the washing machine. Joe left a trial of socks and shirts behind him and had to go back and pick them up.
Then Johnny went outside, where Daddy was mowing the grass. Every once in a while Daddy stopped to carry the grass clippings to the vegetable garden.
Next Johnny went to the garden. Sarah was pulling out the weeds. She walked back and forth, carrying the weeds to the compost heap.
When Mother returned from the grocery store, Johnny watched her carry grocery bags from the car into the house.
At lunchtime Mother asked Johnny, “Did you think of a Saturday chore?”
“You’ll see next Saturday,” Johnny told her with a happy smile.
The next week Johnny got his red wagon and pulled it behind Joe, picking up the socks and shirts that were dropped.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Joe.
Johnny took his wagon outside. When Daddy’s lawn mower bag was full, Johnny piled the sweet-smelling clippings into his wagon and pulled them to the garden.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Daddy.
Then Johnny’s wagon rattled back and forth, carrying Sarah’s wilting weeds to the compost heap.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Sarah.
When Mother came home, Johnny used his wagon to carry the bags of groceries to the house.
“Thanks, Johnny,” said Mother.
Johnny and his wagon were busy hauling things all morning. At lunchtime, Mother smiled at Johnny and said, “You found a good Saturday chore.”
“Yes,” he said proudly, “Johnny’s Delivery Service. It’s a ‘Saturday Special’!”

“Come on, guys,” Brother Larmouth said, breaking into our discussion of the basketball game our team had lost the night before. “We have a service project to think about.”
Brother Larmouth leaned forward in his dark suit, placed his forearms on his knees, and held his black pocket calendar in front of him. Brother Larmouth was vice president of one of the banks in town and everything he did was always precise, proper, and meticulous. He studied his calendar a moment and then asked, “Well, men, what’s it going to be?”
The room went quiet. I always hated this part of our planning session. Service projects never were my first love. I didn’t mind doing them, but coming up with the idea was always a royal pain. They were always so much the same.
“Sister Seymour might need some help,” Brother Larmouth suggested after observing our sudden silence.
“Yeah, that sounds all right,” Chris Frei mumbled without conviction.
“She can always use some help.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. “The widows get all the breaks,” I muttered jokingly. “Let’s skip them this month.”
“Any suggestions, Kyle?” Brother Larmouth asked, glancing over at me and adjusting the tie that didn’t need adjusting.
I thought for a minute. “How about picking out a good widower?”
Brad and Chris began to smile while Brother Larmouth shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“We could activate Willard Weatherford,” I suggested, fighting not to smile.
“Kyle, can we get back to our planning?”
“What’s wrong with Brother Weatherford?” I asked.
“Kyle, I’ve lived in the 12th Ward since I was a kid. To my knowledge Brother Weatherford has been inside this church twice during that time. Once for his wife’s funeral and the other time for a friend’s. He smokes. He cusses. For years he wouldn’t even let the home teachers inside his house. He’s been a prospective elder since I went on my mission.”
“Well, I say it’s about time we got him out to church.”
“Kyle, can we wrap this up in the next few minutes?”
“So we just write him off?”
“Kyle, he wrote himself off a long time ago.”
Because our stomachs were growling, Sister Seymour finally ended up as our service project for the month, but as I left the church and headed for home in the crisp January air, I couldn’t help thinking of Willard Weatherford and wondering what it was like to be written off by everyone.
Willard lived just five houses down from me in a modest, red brick home with a large garage to the south. He had been an auto mechanic for years, so he’d set up an auto shop in his garage to tinker in his spare time. He was a stocky, grizzly old guy with gray, short-cropped hair, a round head, and flat nose. He rarely spoke or smiled, always looking like he’d just bitten the heads off a handful of nails.
Before I went into the house that Sunday afternoon, I glanced down the street toward Brother Weatherford’s place where a few patches of old snow lingered on his lawn. His old Ford truck was parked in front and the living room drapes were pulled closed.
Mom called me in to dinner and her fried chicken, hot rolls, mashed potatoes, and cherry cheese cake made me forget all about Willard.
Four days later a winter storm moved in and dumped seven inches of snow overnight. Dad woke me up in the morning, pushed a snow shovel into my hands, and pointed me to the driveway, reminding me that I would have to hurry to make it to school on time. I grumbled most of the time but worked fast to get out of the cold. I was about to hurry into the warmth of the house to eat breakfast when I glanced down the street in Brother Weatherford’s direction. The house was dark; the snow in the driveway, undisturbed. For a moment I pondered. Then I did one of the craziest things I’d ever done in my life. I walked down the street and began pushing the snow from Brother Weatherford’s driveway.
“What you doing, boy?” a voice growled behind me when I was about half finished with the driveway.
Startled, I turned to see Willard Weatherford standing at the top of the driveway wearing a faded, grease-spotted parka. His hands were stuffed into the pockets, and his head was scrunched into the coat’s collar.
I shrugged. “Just pushing a little snow to stay in shape.” I banged the shovel on the cement and stomped my feet.
“I do my own driveway. I can’t pay you, if that’s what you’re planning.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” I answered undaunted, returning to my shoveling.
He watched for a moment and then turned and walked into the house. I finished the driveway. Then, just to be ornery, I shoveled his sidewalk too. I suppose I was curious about him, wondered what made him tick.
“Hey, boy,” Brother Weatherford called to me from the front door as I was about to head for home. He came down the steps in a T-shirt and held three dollar bills in his hand. “This is all the change I have,” he mumbled. “I usually do my own work.”
I looked at the three dollars. “I didn’t do it for money.”
He seemed puzzled. “You Tom Jordan’s boy?”
I nodded.
“He put you up to this?”
I shook my head and muttered something about being late for school.
Three other times I cleaned off Brother Weatherford’s walk and driveway. Each time I finished he came out with a few one dollar bills and handed them to me. Each time I refused.
The last time I cleaned off his walk was the end of March after a wet snow dumped two or three inches. He came out with a 20 dollar bill.
“Take it,” he insisted, thrusting it towards me.
I laughed, shaking my head and shouldering my shovel. “I’m still trying to get myself in shape.”
Who makes you do this?” he demanded.
We stared at each other for several seconds without speaking. It was a question I had asked myself. Part of the reason went back to the fact that everyone had just crossed him off as one more negative Church statistic. Ever since that first morning I’d felt sorry for Willard Weatherford, living alone in his house, just waiting for life to run out on him. Everybody deserved more than that out of life. Chances were that the next time he went to church might be to attend his own funeral. “I guess I just figured you—” I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip. “I better get going,” I mumbled. “School, you know.”
Willard pulled out a cigarette, put it in the corner of his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, and as he exhaled he muttered, almost as though he didn’t want me to hear, “Well, thanks.”
One Saturday morning in late April the Young Men and Young Women planned a cleanup day in Sister Seymour’s yard. Brad Hunt and Chris Frei stopped by so we could walk over together. On the way I spotted Willard Weatherford in his backyard putting up a fence.
“Sister Seymour’s going to have more people than she needs,” I remarked, stopping.
“You skip out on another service project,” Chris grinned, “and Brother Larmouth will have the bishop all over you.”
“Nobody’s skipping out. We’re just changing projects. We can call Sister Seymour’s to let them know we can’t make it. Brother Weatherford needs a hand.”
“Old man Weatherford?” Brad groaned. “He wouldn’t let you help him even if you wanted to.”
I started into Willard’s yard.
“You’re not serious?” Brad called after me.
I just kept walking.
Brad and Chris hesitated a moment, but their curiosity got the better of them and they soon followed.
“Well, what do we do?” I asked jovially.
Willard looked up from the posthole he was digging. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing first at me and then at Chris and Brad. “I can’t pay you anything,” he muttered.
I grabbed a shovel. “What do you want us to do?”
Things were awkward for a moment, but then Willard saw that we weren’t going to leave, so he grumbled some instructions to us and we got to work. Brad and Chris thought I was crazy at first, but they didn’t hold back. It was a bigger project than any of us had anticipated, but we stayed with it.
Willard chain-smoked most of the day and occasionally grunted instructions. Several times he told us we should go, that we’d done all that a person could expect us to do. But we stayed till the end, which was about three in the afternoon.
As we were helping Willard put the tools away, Brad announced, “Well, I better get home. I need to do some work on my car.”
“When did that old bomb of yours start working?” Chris asked.
“I didn’t say that it was working. I said that I had to work on it.”
“What kind of car do you have?” Willard asked.
“A ’67 Mercury,” Brad said sheepishly.
“The one his dad dated his mom in,” Chris kidded.
“Maybe I could look at it sometime.”
“It’s not a bad car,” Brad said.
“Yeah,” I said, “everything works but the engine.”
That evening Willard dropped by Brad’s place and towed the Mercury back to his garage.
The following day in quorum meeting, Brother Larmouth mentioned that he was sorry the three of us hadn’t been able to make it to Sister Seymour’s for the service project.
“We found another project that was more urgent,” I explained.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. We were helping Brother Weatherford.”
The rest of the quorum began to snicker—except for Brad and Chris. I looked around without smiling. Back in January when I had first brought Willard’s name up, I would have appreciated the chuckles because Willard was just a joke then, but the last three months had made him a person, and finally a friend. I knew then that I hadn’t skipped Sister Seymour’s service project just to do my own thing. I had been at Willard’s place because I really wanted to be there.
A week later Willard called and asked if I’d bring Chris and Brad over to his place. I was shocked. The last person I had expected to call me on the phone was Willard.
When the three of us arrived, Willard was in the garage puttering about. Brad’s car was parked in the middle of the garage. Willard reached into his pocket, pulled out Brad’s keys and tossed them to him. “See what you think.”
Brad caught the keys. “Does it work?” he asked.
Willard shrugged and turned away, going to his workbench and pushing a set of wrenches about. “Try it,” was all he said.
Slowly, Brad put the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and began to purr.
“I don’t believe it,” Chris gasped.
“What’d you do to it?” Brad called out, stepping from the car and letting the engine idle.
Willard turned around, his face expressionless, but his eyes beamed with pleasure. “Don’t ever give up on a car like that.”
“What do I owe you? I mean—how much did all this cost?”
“Didn’t cost me a thing. Some of the wrecking yards around here owe me some favors. They coughed up the parts.”
After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s. We worked in his garage, sipped sodas on his front lawn, talked baseball. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he took a drag he was throwing away 30 minutes of his life.
He chuckled and wagged his head. “I’ve been at it too long to kick it now.” But after that we noticed that when we walked up, he would flip his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his shop, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What’s on your mind, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I chucked my smokes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can handle it.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself into exhaustion.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and pulled him through. It was almost ten when we left him, but he’d made it. As far as we knew, he never took another smoke.
“Hey, Willard, we’ve got a favor to ask,” I mentioned one afternoon as we were changing the oil in Brad’s car. “We’re in charge of a dinner over at the church this weekend.” I shrugged and felt my cheeks color. “The kids in the ward are putting on a dinner for some senior citizens. Now I don’t mean that we think you’re a senior citizen or anything like that,” I quickly added, “but we wanted you there. How about it?”
Willard looked up. His eyes went to each one of us, and then he stared down into the Mercury’s engine. For a long time he didn’t speak. Slowly he pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. A wan smile tugged at his lips. “The last time I was in church was when Mary died. That’s been better than three years. And it was a lot longer before that. There’ve been times when I wanted to go back, but I couldn’t come up with a good enough excuse. And there’s nobody there I know.”
“You’ve got an excuse now. We’re having barbecued chicken. And you know us. We’ll be there,” I pointed out.
“Why would you want me to go to a nice, fancy dinner with you?” he asked without looking at us.
For a moment I didn’t answer, pondering the question. “Because you’re our friend,” I answered simply.
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I could. People would stare. They’d wonder why—”
“You’ll be with us,” Brad spoke up. “The whole time. Honest.”
We all waited, holding our breath. Willard thought for a long time. Finally his face softened into a smile and he said, “Well, I’ll think about it.”
The night of the dinner I was nervous. Brad had promised to pick up Willard while Chris and I helped get things ready at the church.
“Did you invite anyone tonight?” Brother Larmouth asked as I was carrying food from the kitchen to the serving table in the cultural hall.
“Willard Weatherford.”
Brother Larmouth sighed. “When are you going to get off this Willard Weatherford kick?” He smiled and shook his head. “The day you get old Willard inside this church I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest steak you’ve ever had in your life.”
Just then Chris and Brad came through the doors on the far side of the cultural hall with Willard between them. Brother Larmouth had his back to them so he didn’t see them approach until they were right there. When he turned around, he almost dropped his jaw.
“Brother Larmouth,” I started out, “I’d like you to meet a good friend of ours, Brother Weatherford.”
For a moment Brother Larmouth could hardly speak. Then he held out his hand and greeted Willard. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he stammered. “The guys here have talked about you a lot.” He looked at the three of us and then back to Willard. “I guess I can believe everything they’ve told me.”
Willard nodded his head. “They’re good boys. I figure you can believe what they say.”
As Brad and Chris led Willard away, Brother Larmouth turned to me and muttered, “I would have never believed it. I guess I owe you a steak.”
I shook my head and swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Forget it.” I smiled. “Some things you don’t do for a steak.”

“Conner, it’s time to get up,” Mom said, gently shaking him. Conner moved slowly at first. Then he remembered.
“Today’s Sunday!” he shouted as he jumped out of bed. He raced to put on his Sunday clothes and hurried down to breakfast. He didn’t even slow down to play the game on the back of the cereal box.
What is he doing today that is so special? Mom wondered.
Conner did have something special to do. He had waited all week for Sunday to come.
Last week in his Primary class, Sister Plummer had said, “When I was about ten, I discovered something that helped me to be more reverent. If you would like to know my secret, listen for the words ‘always remember’ in sacrament meeting next week, then always remember what comes after those words.”
Conner had decided that he would listen. He wanted to know Sister Plummer’s secret.
At church, he heard Bishop Sheppard say, “Remember to come to the ward picnic.” Conner knew that that wasn’t Sister Plummer’s “always remember.”
He listened as the congregation began to sing the sacrament hymn. He wondered if Sister Plummer’s special words might be in the hymn. He pointed at each word and found himself singing along. But he didn’t find the special words.
Conner bowed his head and listened carefully as his best friend’s big brother began the sacramental prayer. Toward the end of the prayer, he heard “always remember.” He knew what Sister Plummer’s secret was! He knew who he was always to remember. But can I “always remember” Jesus? he wondered.
Conner folded his arms and sat reverently. When a deacon stumbled down the stairs coming from the stand, he wanted to poke his little sister and say, “Sara, did you see that?”
But he didn’t because he remembered.
After the sacrament, the first speaker was Sister Swanson. She smiled a lot and was easy to listen to. He had no trouble remembering while she was speaking.
“Good morning, brothers and sisters!” Brother Swanson said. He was a big man with a jolly voice. But the words Brother Swanson spoke were almost as large as he was. Conner didn’t understand and soon lost interest. His fingers began to fumble around in his pockets. He found a rubber band and started to twist it. Suddenly he remembered. The rubber band went back into his pocket, and he looked up at Brother Swanson and listened for words he knew.
A little girl in front of him was chewing bubble gum and blew a little bubble. It made a tiny pop. Conner watched as she began blowing another. It grew bigger and bigger and bigger.
Then Conner remembered. When the big bubble popped, he didn’t see the little girl’s face covered in pink. So he didn’t laugh like some people around him did.
Not long after the bubbles, the Johnsons’ baby rolled under the wooden bench and pulled playfully at Conner’s leg. The baby said, “Connn, Connn …”
Conner reached down to play with her, but he stopped himself just in time. He had remembered.
“Sorry, Conner,” Sister Johnson whispered as she struggled to grab the wriggly baby girl.
Conner didn’t hear or see them leave. His big blue eyes were watching Brother Swanson’s fill with tears. His ears were hearing the speaker’s voice soften to a near whisper as he spoke of his love for the Savior. Conner felt warm and tingly inside.
After the meeting, Mother said, “Conner, you were so reverent today. How did you do it?”
Conner smiled. “Every time I thought about something else, I always remembered someone.”
“Whom did you always remember?”
“I always remembered Jesus,” Conner said, “and it felt good!”

I thought other youth would be interested in hearing about the Punta Arenas Branch, southernmost branch of the Church in the world, I believe. When Isaiah said, “… utter it even to the end of the earth,” he must have been referring to Punta Arenas, Chile! We’re on the Straights of Magellan, facing Tierra del Fuego. The wildlife and beauty of the Patagonia is outstanding: sharp green mountains, grazed by guanacos; blue waters filled with trout and salmon; and birdlife ranging from parrots to ostriches, ducks, swans, flamingos, and an occasional penguin.
Our branch is at the tender age of four years and has a membership of two hundred Saints. Jaime, our MIA president, and Carlos, an MIA officer, both youth, have been working all year to save enough money to cover their traveling expenses to the international youth conference to be held in Arica, Chile, at the northern end of the country. It’s been a long, hard job, involving window cleaning, cakes sales, and cleaning houses, but they have finally made it. That’s what it means to be a Latter-day Saint down here.
Elder Gary WeldChile Mission

But Arthur’s Seat has been the site of some lesser-known important events. On May 3, 1840, Orson Pratt arrived in Scotland as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He organized the first Scottish branch of the Church in Paisley. Then, after laboring in several other cities, Elder Pratt made his way to Edinburgh, where he found it very difficult to get the people to listen to the message of the restored gospel.
Sometimes when things seemed difficult, he would climb to the top of Arthur’s Seat. There, looking out across the city of Edinburgh, he could see the high peaks of mountains on the horizon and the Firth of Forth stretching to join the North Sea. Below, the tracks of one of Scotland’s first railroad lines ran through one of the earliest railroad tunnels. The echo of rifle practice may have risen up to greet Elder Pratt from Hunter’s Bog, while the ruins of St. Anthony’s chapel silently blended into the background on a lower ridge where sheep grazed. Holyrood Palace, the royal residence, lay at the foot of the hill, and across the way Edinburgh Castle guarded the top of another hill. On top of Arthur’s Seat, Elder Pratt prayed that the people would be receptive to the gospel. He then went down into the city and preached for endless hours, trying to establish the gospel in this important city of Edinburgh.
In one of his prayers, Elder Pratt pleaded with the Lord to help him find two hundred converts. After working very hard for ten months, Elder Pratt left Edinburgh having seen more than two hundred people enter into the covenant of baptism.

I appreciate being taught by the example of my mother and father. Mother, for fifteen years, was a Relief Society president. After I received my driver’s license, she had me drive her to deliver the welfare supplies and care for the needy. Father would always have me polish the sacrament trays when I was a deacon, and we would bring them home and wash the sacrament cloths and honor the priesthood. When he was in the bishopric, he took care of the outside of the building; and we, as Aaronic Priesthood boys, assisted him.

I had put my trust in those large hands many times. My thoughts returned to the day that I was stuck halfway down a turret at Caernarfon Castle. The turret, like the rest of the castle, was dark and made of huge granite blocks. The stairs spiraled upwards and were worn from centuries of footsteps. Tourists milled around the ancient landmark. Laughs, shreaks, and voices speaking several languages echoed off the damp, cold walls. Climbing up the turret had seemed relatively easy. I kept to the outside wall where the stairs were wide and headed toward the light at the top. The route down, however, meant teetering on the sliver of stone step in the center of the tower while hordes of huge adults streamed by me, flailing cameras and bags that hit me as they passed. Instead of heading toward the light above I was going down into a pit of darkness. I was terrified.
I could hear people above me beginning their descent. I knew that I would cause a huge traffic jam unless I moved, but I was frozen. “Dad,” I whispered. “Dad.” The sound bounced back hauntingly. I heard footsteps, then a strong voice that I recognized. “Sian, take one step down; just one.”
“No,” I gasped, “I’ll fall.”
“It’s okay,” came the reply. “I’m right in front of you.”
I looked down, my stomach churning. I saw his hand reach out around the central pillar. I took a deep breath and stepped down.
“Good girl. Now one more,” came the encouraging voice. I kept my eyes on my feet and my hand on the clammy stone pillar as Dad coaxed me onward.
Suddenly there was light and green grass and safety. I ran through the archway into the castle’s courtyard. I was down. I was free. I looked for my father. He was standing at the archway watching me, smiling at my excitement and conquest.