Gospel Story Finder

One evening on board ship, while sailing from Yokohama, Japan, to Seattle, Washington, after the end of World War II, I began talking to the officer in the bunk next to me about the Book of Mormon. He was not a member of the Church, but he lived in the Worland, Wyoming, area, and so he knew quite a bit about the Mormons. We had a lengthy but interesting discussion.
The next morning the officer in the bunk above me, who had listened the night before but hadn’t joined in the discussion, came to me and said, “Where can I get a copy of that Book of Mormon you were talking about last night?”
I said, “Give me your address, and I’ll send you a copy just as soon as I return to Salt Lake City.”
I sent it along with a few tracts and had his name referred to the missionaries, that he might be contacted.

“Telephone for you, Debra.”
“Got it downstairs.”
“Please hang up up there, Mom,” she thought. “This could be important.”
The Publications Dance was exactly a week away, and she had really been working on Ralph lately. Maybe, just maybe …
“Hello, Debra? This is Rick Meyers.”
“Oh … uh, hi.”
“You know who I am, don’t you? We’re in the same history lecture.”
She knew who he was all right. He had about the worst case of acne in the whole school.
“Yeah, sure. How are you?”
“Great. Listen, the reason I’m calling is about the Publications Dance next Friday night. Would you like to go?”
“Uh … gee … well … I’m really not sure. I mean, I’d like to, but my dad said something about some kind of a family activity that weekend, and I really ought to check with him first.”
“Oh, sure, I understand. Would you like me to call back this evening when he’s home from work?”
“Yeah. Okay. Anytime after dinner. That would be okay. Uh, thanks for calling, Rick.”
“Talk to you later. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Oh, groan! Rick Meyers! What to do now? He was a nice enough guy. He wasn’t a juvenile delinquent or anything, but she didn’t want to be seen with the worst case of adolescent acne in the school. She would only have to be seen with someone like that a couple of times, and it would be social suicide. People would think she liked him, and she’d never get anyone else to ask her out.
But there were other problems. If she told Rick no and then someone else called, she couldn’t very well turn around and say yes. Maybe Rick would be there with someone else, or maybe someone would tell him. And she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She just didn’t want to go to the dance with him. Everyone would be at the dance. That’s all anyone had talked about in the cafeteria annex for a week or more.
Oh, rats! Where did a girl go for advice at a time like this? To her mother? Her dad? The bishop? Come to think of it, the bishop had said something about this very situation at a fireside one night. He had said, “You owe any decent young man who asks you out the courtesy of consideration. You should look beneath the surface when choosing your friends.” He had said that. Those very words. So, there it was. Like it or not. When Rick called back she’d have to tell him yes.
For the rest of the week Debra avoided the cafeteria annex. She made up an excuse about a big exam and spent her lunch hours in the library. A couple of times she saw Rick in the halls, but she always managed to duck somewhere so she wouldn’t have to talk to him, or heaven forbid, be seen walking down the hall with him.
She decided not to make a new dress. Who cares? The dirndl skirt and blouse would be fine. When she finally mentioned the date to her parents, she left out the acne. Her mom thought a bad complexion was about the worst thing in the world. She was always pointing out girls downtown or in the doctor’s office or somewhere and saying, “Aren’t you lucky your skin doesn’t look like that?” She could imagine the look her mother would have on her face when she opened the front door Friday night and saw Rick standing there.
Friday night arrived, just as she had suspected it would. Debra didn’t particularly care if she looked devastating or not, but she managed to be a little late getting ready anyway. She found Dad and Rick chatting quite pleasantly when she walked into the front room. Mom had straightened things up and had lit a fire in the fireplace.
“Ready to go?”
“Uh huh. I guess you’ve met my parents.”
“Yes. And it’s been nice talking to you, sir,” he said, shaking hands with her father and nodding to her mother. They said good night and stepped outside.
It was nice out. The sky was still azure, and there was a fair sprinkling of stars already. Rick’s car was empty. He hadn’t said anything about doubling with anyone, but she had been hoping there would be someone else along. Probably the boys weren’t any more enthusiastic about double dating with him than the girls were about going out with him.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Rick broke in.
“Hungry?” Now? at 7:30? It was standard procedure to go somewhere after the dance. Not before. Either to the Pizza Hut or to Sneldons for ice cream.
“I probably should have warned you in advance so you’d save your appetite. My Mom’s cooked up a whole bunch of Tahitian food, and my brother and his family are coming over.”
“Tahitian food?”
“Yeah. It’s the best. And Mom really knows how to cook it. She learned when we were in Tahiti.”
“You were in Tahiti? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, we were for three years. My parents presided over the mission there.”
“Your parents did? I thought mission presidents were always old and retired.”
“Well, a lot of them are. I guess my folks are pretty old compared to yours. I’m the baby of our family.”
“So, you’ve been in Tahiti for the last three years?”
“Just about. We only came home this summer.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Well, that was a problem. The closest good schools were in Auckland, New Zealand.”
“Boarding schools?”
“Yep.”
“And how did you like it? I’ve always thought it would be fun to live away from home.”
“It was. It was a lot of fun, and I made some very good friends, but I really missed my folks. They’re the greatest.”
They really were. His mother was warm and welcoming. His father was a real tease. His older brother, Bob, was there with his wife and two little boys who plainly adored their uncle Rick. Debra noticed Bob’s complexion was a little rugged, too, like maybe he’d had skin problems when he was younger. His wife was cute though. She looked like she might have been a cheerleader somewhere. They were a jolly group. They laughed, and joked, and horsed around with the kids, and ate, and ate, and ate, until Debra started worrying about the snaps holding on her waistband. She was amazed when Rick said, “Hey, we’d better get going, or there won’t be any music left.”
Surprisingly enough, Rick’s dancing wasn’t half bad. And he had so many interesting things to talk about. She never had to worry about what to say next, and when they occasionally did slip into a few minutes of silence, it didn’t seem awkward. She didn’t find herself plotting endlessly to keep things bubbling along. It had always seemed very important to bubble when she was on a date.
They talked about the places they had been, and about families, and about the Church. Debra had a straight A average in seminary, but Rick knew things about the gospel she had never heard of. They were in the middle of a great discussion on free agency when Rick interrupted with, “I guess this is the last dance. Want me to get your coat now and avoid the rush?”
“No, let’s dance. I don’t mind waiting.” She closed her eyes for a second and then looked up at him. He still had about the worst case of acne she had ever seen. But he did have nice eyes. And a very nice smile. And she couldn’t remember when she had had more fun on a date.

It was 113 degrees at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and some of the Scouts were starting to see that they would learn a lesson the hard way before the day was over. Our Scoutmaster had warned us to get up early, get organized, and be on our way before the sun got a head start on us. But we had lazed around, and so now we were struggling slowly upward in the hot sun. Many of the Scouts were guzzling their canteen water, too—another thing our Scoutmaster had warned us about. Before we climbed out of the canyon, some of those canteens would be bone dry.
I was pleased when I arrived at the top of the trail with water left to share. So was our leader. He turned to me and said, “I knew I could count on you, Kent.” I’d been through enough adventures with our Scoutmaster to learn to do what he suggests, things like “Drink plenty of water, but take it one swallow at a time,” or, “Always suck on something so your mouth won’t get so dry.”
With our Scoutmaster we have hiked the back country and the mountains. We have also discovered the hills in our own backyards. Every once in a while, I’ll look up at the mountains behind my house and say, “Wow! I was actually up there! I know what it looks like.”
That night at our usual chat around the campfire, he told us other stories from the mountains—stories about Enos wrestling before God, about Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, about Nephi’s broken bow, about Christ teaching the Nephites in the tops of the hills. Then he talked about missions in life and missionary service, and he told each of us he expected us to go on a mission. (Every once in a while a returned missionary speaks in Church and thanks him for the same kind of encouragement he’s giving us now.)
On the trail, our Scoutmaster points things out to us—different kinds of plants and trees, how to avoid stinging nettle, how to judge geological formations to find spring water, how watersheds are organized, or which side of the mountain has more vegetation. Sometimes he stops us on a plateau or a knoll and says, “Look, guys. The Creator’s system works.” Things like that really help us see.
We went on a hike with our Scoutmaster last summer, and he reserved one night for each of us to be alone and talk to our Father in Heaven. He told us we could pray to him, just like Joseph Smith did, and get an answer. The next morning we were back on the trail again, with our Scoutmaster urging us over “just one more hill,” and “just around the next bend,” and repeating his slogans like, “When you see a man on a mountaintop, remember he didn’t fall there,” or, “Make your mind tell your body what to do. Don’t let your body tell your mind what to do.”
One of the best things about our Scoutmaster is that he’s not afraid to let us see him make a mistake or two. It lets us know he understands when we flub it. One time we lined two maps up crookedly and ended up climbing the mountain next to King’s Peak. We still laugh about that, and we named the mountain “Troop 112’s Mistake”.
But the thing I appreciate the most about our Scoutmaster is that he’s my dad. For more than 10 years now I’ve been sharing him with three older brothers, a younger sister, and a troop of Scouts. But that’s not hard to do because my dad has always saved part of himself for me. That’s why he’s the best Scoutmaster I know.

Let us go back to the year 1805, on the 23rd day of December, in the town of Sharon, Vermont. Will you accompany me as we look back on those dramatic events taking place on that day? As Joseph Smith Sr. and his wife, Lucy Mack, proudly looked down upon the little baby who had come into their home, I’m certain they were pleased and most grateful. A choice spirit had come to dwell in its earthly tabernacle.
Some have asked, “Did he have an unusual childhood or boyhood?” “Was the Prophet Joseph different from me or my brothers?” I think we could gain insight into the childhood of the Prophet by reading the words of his mother. She said, “I am aware that some of my readers will be disappointed, for … it is thought by some that I shall be likely to tell many very remarkable incidents which attended his childhood; but, as nothing occurred during his early life except those trivial circumstances which are common to that state of human existence, I pass them in silence.”1 This is all we have from the boy’s mother concerning his early childhood activities.
During his early youth, however, ill health and ill fortune seemed to pursue the family. When young Joseph was seven years old, he and his brothers and sisters were stricken with typhus fever. The others recovered readily, but Joseph was left with a painful sore on his leg. The doctors, doing the best they could under the conditions of the time, treated him—and yet the sore persisted. Finally the doctors were afraid they were going to have to amputate his leg.
Thankfully, however, one day the doctors came unexpectedly to the home and told the family they were going to try a new operation to remove a piece of the bone, hoping this would permit the sore to heal. They had brought with them some cord and planned to tie Joseph to the bed because they had no anesthetic, nothing to dull the pain, when they cut into his leg to remove the piece of bone.
Young Joseph, however, responded, “I will not be bound, for I can bear the operation much better if I have my liberty.”
The doctors then said, “Will you take some wine? … You must take something, or you can never endure the severe operation.”
Again the boy prophet said, “No, … but I will tell you what I will do—I will have my father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms, and then I will do whatever is necessary in order to have the bone taken out.”
So Joseph Smith Sr. held the boy in his arms, and the doctors opened the leg and removed the diseased piece of bone. Although he was lame for some time afterward, Joseph was healed.2 At seven years of age, the Prophet Joseph Smith taught us courage—by example.
When Joseph was in his 11th year, his family, which now consisted of 11 souls, left Vermont and moved to Palmyra, New York. Four years later they moved to Manchester, located in the same county. It was here that Joseph described the great religious revival that seemed everywhere present and of prime concern to every heart.
These are his words: “So great were the confusion and strife among the different denominations, that it was impossible for a person young as I was, and so unacquainted with men and things, to come to any certain conclusion who was right and who was wrong. …
“While I was laboring under the extreme difficulties caused by the contests of these parties of religionists, I was one day reading the Epistle of James, first chapter and fifth verse, which reads: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him” (JS—H 1:8, 11).
The Prophet said that after reading this verse he knew for a certainty he must either put the Lord to the test and ask Him or perhaps choose to remain in darkness forever. He declared that as he retired to the grove to pray, this was the first time he had attempted to pray vocally to his Heavenly Father. But he had read the scripture, he had understood the scripture, he had trusted in God his Eternal Father; and now he knelt and prayed, knowing that God would give him the enlightenment which he so earnestly sought. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us the principle of faith—by example.
Can you imagine the ridicule, the scorn, the mocking that all of his young friends, his older friends, and his foes alike must have heaped upon him as he mentioned that he had seen a vision?
I suppose it became almost unbearable for the boy, and yet he was honest with himself, for these are his words: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it” (JS—H 1:25).
The Prophet Joseph Smith taught honesty—by example.
The Prophet Joseph was truly blessed with the ability to inspire faith. One bright morning Joseph walked up to John E. Page and said, “Brother John, the Lord is calling you on a mission to Canada.”
John E. Page was rather astonished and said, “Why, Brother Joseph, I can’t go on a mission to Canada. I don’t even have a coat to wear.”
The Prophet Joseph took his own coat from his back, handed it to John Page, and said, “Here, John, wear this, and the Lord will bless you.” Brother Page took the coat, went to Canada, and in two years walked 5,000 miles and baptized 600 souls, because he trusted in the words of a prophet of God.3
The Prophet Joseph believed in missionary work. While he and Sidney Rigdon were proselyting at Perrysburg, New York, October 12, 1833, having been long absent from their families and feeling concerned for them, they received the following revelation:
“Verily, thus saith the Lord unto you, my friends Sidney and Joseph, your families are well; they are in mine hands, and I will do with them as seemeth me good; for in me there is all power. …
“Therefore, verily I say unto you, lift up your voices unto this people” (D&C 100:1, 5).
Joseph and Sidney continued their missionary labors.
Joseph Smith not only inspired men to volunteer for missions, but he also taught the importance of missionary work—by example.
I think one of the sweetest lessons taught by the Prophet, and yet one of the saddest, occurred close to the time of his death. He was required to leave his plan and vision of the Rocky Mountains and give himself up to face a court of supposed justice.
These are his words: “I am going like a lamb to the slaughter; but I am calm as a summer’s morning; I have a conscience void of offense towards God, and towards all men” (D&C 135:4). That statement of the Prophet teaches us obedience to law and the importance of having a clear conscience toward God and toward our fellowmen. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught these principles—by example.
There was to be one great final lesson before his mortal life ended. He was incarcerated in Carthage Jail with his brother Hyrum, with John Taylor, and with Willard Richards. The angry mob stormed the jail; they came up the stairway, blasphemous in their cursing, heavily armed, and began to fire at will. Hyrum was hit and died. John Taylor took several balls of fire within his bosom. The Prophet Joseph, with his pistol in hand, was attempting to defend his life and that of his brethren, and yet he could tell from the pounding on the door that this mob would storm that door and would kill John Taylor and Willard Richards in an attempt to kill him.
And so his last great act here upon the earth was to leave the door and lead Willard Richards to safety, throw the gun on the floor, and go to the window, that they might see him, that the attention of this ruthless mob might be focused upon him rather than the others. Joseph Smith gave his life. Willard Richards was spared, and John Taylor recovered from his wounds. “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). The Prophet Joseph Smith taught us love—by example.
I pray we may learn from his example, that we might incorporate into our lives the great principles he so beautifully taught.

What started out as a simple conversation about temple work and a desire to see the different temples in the area turned into a full-scale youth conference for the young men and women of the Salt Lake Valley First Ward (Deaf). They decided not only to visit but also to perform baptisms for the dead at several temples in their area.
Over the summer, the youth were able to do work for 1,196 souls; many of them were names provided by ward members or even family names the youth had researched. “Every time you visit the temple you can feel the Spirit,” said Austin Duran, 14. “As you visit the temple more, your spirit becomes stronger and you become attached to the temple and want to go all of the time.”
Many of the youth have gained a new perspective on the importance of the temple as a result of their temple service youth conference. “I have a new standard,” explained Riley Case, 13. “Now every time I think of something I should or shouldn’t do, I decide if that will help me go to the temple or not.”

This monumental effort to build the House of the Lord occurred while enemies from Missouri and elsewhere continually threatened Joseph's life. When mobsters from Missouri or wherever pursued the Prophet Joseph, he sought refuge in one place or another. In Nauvoo, we are told that occasionally it was up through a trap door into the small attic of the home of Bishop Edward Hunter. Joseph Smith was over six feet tall, and while he was in that cramped and life-threatening situation, his mind was occupied with things more important to him than his personal safety. Without even being able to stand up for hours on end, it was there in that uncomfortable setting, he wrote letters of inspiration, one of which became section 128 in the Doctrine and Covenants. Listen to what was pressing on his mind at the time: I now resume the subject of the baptism for the dead, as that subject seems to occupy my mind, and press itself upon my feelings the strongest, since I have been pursued by my enemies.[6] Rather than to his own comfort and safety, his thoughts turned to the sacred ordinance work that would occur in the temple. Rather than being discouraged or depressed, he wrote positive, optimistic and even lyrical lines such as these:

Now what do we hear in the gospel which we have received? A voice of gladness! A voice of mercy from heaven; and a voice of truth out of the earth; glad tidings for the dead; glad tidings of great joy. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those that bring glad tidings of good things, and that say unto Zion: Behold, thy God reigneth! As the dews of Carmel, so shall the knowledge of God descend upon them!
Brethren, shall we not go on in so great a cause? Go forward and not backward. Courage, brethren; and on, on to the victory![7]

The words from Jacob 5:62, “Wherefore let us go to and labor with our might” described Bishop Musaka’s efforts as well. He drove to the Church on the weekends, rolled up his sleeves and labored diligently. He knew his members, understood their needs, and worked alongside them. As the bishop is also president of the priests quorum, he made sure that the priests were not left behind, and he invited them to work.

Brother Bonabol was among those who took heed of the bishop’s call. He took the responsibility to ensure there was food enough to provide for the members. He saw it as his priesthood duty, and he fulfilled it with honor.

Sister Omondi used to exercise every morning, running from her home to Uthiru. Then she thought there was something more she could do. She contacted Brother Vidonyi, who informed her there was work to be done in the shamba. That is how her morning run was alternated with work at the shamba.

Ward members who previously worked there had little training in planting, so Sister Omondi taught them how to dig and plough. She explained her experience this way: “I doubted if the groundnuts (peanuts) would grow, but they did and despite growing the potatoes in the wrong format, they caught root.” Sister Omondi’s main responsibility was to water the plants and she learned her duty and acted in her appointed office with strict obedience.

As much as it was a learning opportunity for Brother Omondi, he also taught others. The soil at the church was not foreign to him and he understood what would flourish best in the shamba.

Sister Mahindi was concerned about her daughter’s illness but she trusted that she could take her mind off of that. She felt that by busily working at the shamba, things would get better—and they did. She gained comfort and peace as her daughter recovered.

Bishop Mukasa made it possible for the members to irrigate the plants. He made sure there were enough pipes to use as they still waited for the water sprinklers. He described, “As the plants need water to be nourished, the members also need nourishment from the holy scriptures.” The plants couldn’t go a day without water, just as members shouldn’t go a day without studying their scriptures.

Missionaries also managed to bring investigators to come work in the shamba. What a privilege those investigators were given to receive the restored gospel at the same time they received food from the garden in which they had worked.

Finally, the day came when the rewards were quite visible and abundant. The Mountain View Ward members’ hard work proved itself. There was an abundance of food, ranging from bananas to mboga to beans and they are about to harvest the maize. It was clear that the members’ aim wasn’t for instant gratification. They understood that in all harvests, some blessings don’t come until later, so they chose to be patient with the sweet potatoes and cassava.

As I worked in the shamba and saw it progress, I noted the change in myself. If the plant tamed by the Master came out as He desired, can I also involve the Lord and allow Him to guide me to reach my potential and live within my privileges? My lesson from the shamba is a resounding, “Yes!”

During the next few months, I spent a lot of time at home and had plenty of time to think. I grieved for the loss of the person I thought I would be in my later years. I grieved for the future that my wife and I had previously envisioned. I endured days of discouragement. I prayed a lot as my symptoms grew worse. My need to find positive ways of coping increased.
Then the Lord provided an unexpected source of support. My wife and I were called to be our ward’s welfare and self-reliance specialists. As part of our calling, we facilitated a group meeting on emotional resilience. I had not thought about needing the class personally. However, by the end of the first meeting, I thought, “Wow! This is for me!” We talked about avoiding negative thought patterns, being positive, controlling our feelings. It gave me some practical tools that, over time, helped me—and my wife as well—to develop a healthy attitude toward my disease.

Jim Ivins started something new when he retired as an attorney. He began landscaping not only his own yard but many of his children’s yards as well. He recalls: “I thought about what I wanted to leave them as a legacy. When my wife passed away, it occurred to me that this is something I could do for them. I didn’t just move rocks, but instead I studied landscape designs and experimented with different approaches. When my grandchildren visit or I go see them, we don’t just talk; we study different designs and work together on them.”

Every December, the youth of the Holladay 24th Ward, Holladay Utah North Stake, put on an amazing Christmas party. They decorate with beautiful lights, have a delicious dinner, make Christmas goodies, and receive hundreds of gifts.
Sound fun? It is, because none of it is for the teens themselves. They give it all away.
For nine years, the youth have put on a Christmas party at their ward building for elementary school students—about 50 children each year—from local low-income areas. The event includes a variety of themed rooms designed to make the children’s Christmas unforgettable.
In the Bethlehem room, children learn about the birth of the Savior as they dress up and act out the Nativity while reading the story from Luke.
In the Santa Claus room, they get their picture taken while receiving their own fleece blankets made by the youth. The children also choose a box full of home-baked treats to give to their families. Their teenage “buddy” for the evening also reads them their favorite Christmas story.
And then there’s a stop at the North Pole Diner for a scrumptious Christmas dinner.
As wonderful as each of these rooms is, they’re not what make this party so extraordinary. The big event happens in the cultural hall. When the children enter this area, their eyes get really big, and exclamations of “Wow!” fill the air. Some of the little ones even jump up and down with anticipation. For there before them is a “store,” just like the big stores downtown, full of hundreds of donated gifts.
But, like the youth of the ward who choose to give their Christmas party away each year, the children aren’t excited to pick these gifts for themselves. They are overjoyed because this is the first time for most of them to be able to get Christmas gifts for their family. “The best part of Christmas is giving, and this gives the kids the chance to experience the joy of giving themselves,” says Tiffany Thompson, 15.
At the end of the evening, adult volunteers from the ward drive the children home with bags full of gifts, treats, and a ham and other food items their parents can use to make a wonderful Christmas dinner. “It touches your heart to see kids who otherwise would not have anything to give to their families be able to give them so much,” says Valen Campbell, 17, who co-chaired this year’s party.
The giving doesn’t stop there. Even after the hundreds of hours of combined effort involved in putting on this service activity, youth of the ward say they are the ones who receive. “The children serve us, because they teach us about being selfless,” says 17-year-old Whitney Drage, the event’s other co-chair. “If there are gifts left over at the end, we let the children pick a gift for themselves. One year a little 8-year-old girl asked me, ‘Instead of getting a gift for myself, could I just choose another one for my sister?’”
Becca Nelson, 14, adds, “It brings us the true meaning of Christmas: Christlike service. These kids are such an example of that. They hardly want anything for themselves, only for their families.”
The project also brings unity to the youth, the ward, and even the community. Ward members and members of other faiths help serve the Christmas dinner, donate food and gifts, and transport the children to and from the party. “It brings everyone closer because it takes everyone to make it work,” says Valen.
Perhaps these are the reasons the youth keep putting on this party year after year. “We had one year when we thought we’d do something else, but there was a ‘revolt,’” Bishop Gerreld Pulsipher says with a smile. “The youth and ward really look forward to giving this service.”
George Theodore, the counselor and social worker at the children’s school, adds, “This will be a Christmas these kids will never forget. When you’re not used to having something so special, the memory always stays in your heart. I think these kids will in turn give to others someday when they have a little extra to give.”

Do you remember starting at some school? Each of us could tell a story. I grew up in Princeton, New Jersey. I can remember how my cousins helped me. When I moved from New Jersey to Salt Lake City to go to public school, my cousins from the West said the kids would stone me with my New Jersey accent. I got rid of it quickly, out of fear. I remember terror as I walked up to the junior high school on the first day.

A few years later—I don’t know how it happened—but after basketball season I left high school and went without my high school classmates to the University of Utah. I can remember those first days—the Physics Department and the Mathematics Department didn’t seem very friendly to me. I remember my fear.

I went from there to the United States Air Force and somehow decided that physics would not be my life’s work. I thought I needed something else for education so I tried a place I had heard of called the Harvard Graduate School of Business. I was so naïve I didn’t know it might be hard to be admitted. I know now that it was a miracle that I was accepted.

I can remember parting from my father on a street corner in New York City. For some reason he was there for scientific meetings. I was on my way to the Harvard Business School in my Ivy League suit, or so I thought. That suit was later borrowed by my roommate, who had been a Harvard undergraduate. He wore it to a costume party as a gangster suit, which offended me some. He wore a black shirt and a white tie with it.

When I parted from dad in my new suit, it was one of those great moments in life when I was going off to school. I looked back at him. Later he said to me that I looked forlorn, but I remember feeling sorry for him. To him I was a frightened student. I didn’t know what a balance sheet was. I didn’t know what a pro-forma cash flow looked like. I was a physics student about to be lost in the Harvard Business School.

From there I went to Stanford University. Kathy was nice enough to marry me. Her first adventures in cooking for us were to find some morning menu that I could keep down on my nervous stomach as I went off to meet those apparently confident Stanford students. I wondered how I could teach them, until I found out that they were scared, too.

Athena Dayley, a senior at the American High School, is often the translator for the Young Women. She finds it challenging but fun. “It is so neat to be able to talk to someone in another language,” Athena says, “but translating at church is really hard, and I get flustered at times and can’t remember what is being said or comprehend the meaning of what I’m translating. All I’m doing is parroting words.”
But the youth have discovered that sometimes spiritual moments transcend the language barrier.
“I seldom cry at movies,” Athena says, “but at girls’ camp the Spirit was so strong that even if I couldn’t understand the words, I couldn’t help but have tears in my eyes.”

In the private sanctuary of one’s own conscience lies that spirit, that determination, to cast off the old person and to measure up to the stature of true potential. But the way is rugged and the course is strenuous. So discovered John Helander from Göteborg, Sweden. John is 26 years of age and is handicapped, in that it is difficult for him to coordinate his motions.

At a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, John took part in an 800-meter running race. He had no chance to win. Rather, his was the opportunity to be humiliated, mocked, derided, scorned. Perhaps John remembered another who lived long ago and far away. Wasn’t He mocked? Wasn’t He derided? Wasn’t He scorned? But He prevailed. He won His race. Maybe John could win his.

What a race it was! Struggling, surging, pressing, the runners bolted far beyond John. There was wonderment among the spectators. Who is this runner who lags so far behind? The participants on their second lap of this two-lap race passed John while he was but halfway through the first lap. Tension mounted as the runners pressed toward the tape. Who would win? Who would place second? Then came the final burst of speed; the tape was broken. The crowd cheered; the winner was proclaimed.

The race was over—or was it? Who is this contestant who continues to run when the race is ended? He crosses the finish line on but his first lap. Doesn’t the foolish lad know he has lost? Ever onward he struggles, the only participant now on the track. This is his race. This must be his victory. No one among the vast throng of spectators leaves. Every eye is on this valiant runner. He makes the final turn and moves toward the finish line. There is awe; there is admiration. Every spectator sees himself running his own race of life.

As John approaches the finish line, the audience, as one, rises to its feet. There is a loud applause of acclaim. Stumbling, falling, exhausted but victorious, John Helander breaks the newly tightened tape. Officials are human beings, too. The cheering echoes for miles. And just maybe, if the ear is carefully attuned, that Great Scorekeeper—even the Lord—can be heard to say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

Vanessa—The idea of talking about the Wheel of Wellness came to us after a conversation we had with Nate’s Uncle Lew and Aunt Julie. They had served together in young single adult ward and stake leadership callings for ten years and maybe even more, and so, as soon as we were called, we drove to their house to ask for advice. We were afraid! We were like nervous, new, clueless parents again and we didn’t want to mess things up! The students in our ward were much like you here today, and they were very much like some of our own children, facing many of the same challenges and storms. So, should we recite the Quigley Creed with them or sing “Bless This House???”

Nate—As we sat down on Uncle Lew and Aunt Julie’s couch, we had our notebooks out and we were ready to write down all the tips and advice we could glean from these wise veterans. First they told us how much we were going to love the members of our ward - and they were right. But then my Uncle Lew was quiet for a moment…and then he said a funny unexpected thing. His first piece of advice for us was this: “Every time you get the chance, ask them when they last ate a vegetable.” We didn’t know it then, but wow, there was some profound wisdom in that one simple question!

Nikki and Breck Fullmer quarreled constantly. Most of their fights were about Nikki borrowing Breck’s T-shirts, and Nikki enduring Breck’s music. Nikki and Breck were both looking for a way out of their conflicts when they decided to participate in their stake’s “Time Alone” experiment.

Nikki knew her brother gulped gallons of soda pop every week, so she invited him to go get a drink with her. He thought it was a fine arrangement, since she was buying. After the soda they talked and drove around for an hour. After just one rendezvous Nikki said, “He’s at a stage where he’ll do just about anything to be cool. And now he thinks it’s cool to be with me.”

Following my marriage to a wonderful companion, our home was blessed with the arrival of children. In the space of a few years we found ourselves the parents of ten children—all girls but eight. We knew as our children grew older they would need to assist with family finances. This became evident when our four older children expressed a desire to learn to ski. One Christmas we bought four pairs of used wooden skis and some poles, and we acquired some used boots. On Christmas morning our children were delighted to receive their skis, and they accepted the responsibility for most of their future expenses.

Juliana was a little bit scared to give a talk in Primary.
Grandma gave Juliana a hug. “Heavenly Father will help you,” she whispered.
When it was her turn, Juliana saw her friends, her teacher, and Grandma and Grandpa all smiling at her. Then she gave her talk.
“I am a child of God. I show that I love Heavenly Father by learning about Jesus, saying my prayers, and helping my family. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me too. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
After Primary, Juliana gave Grandma a big hug. “I wasn’t scared,” she said. “I knew that Heavenly Father was helping me.”

Relaxed in their shirtsleeves on a warm spring day in 1897, the McKay brothers, David O. and Thomas E., sat at a table in their rented cottage, reading their mail.
For David O., this was a time of triumphant climax in his college career and of great expectations for a new world to conquer. His hopes and spirits were high.
After three years in the university’s normal school, he felt ready to resume his chosen career as a teacher, a career he had interrupted to complete his own schooling. Before coming to the university, he had graduated from the Weber Stake Academy in Ogden, Utah, and had returned to his beloved Huntsville, as principal and teacher in the town’s little school.
A year of teaching whetted his appetite for more training, and he again became a student, enrolling at the university. In those three years of college, he displayed qualities that would help carry him to the pinnacle of leadership in the Church.
He was elected president of his class and played on the university’s football team.
A highly prized employment opportunity had been offered him in Salt Lake County, through the recommendation of the university’s teacher training director.
Most important of all, he had found the most wonderful girl in the world, Emma Ray Riggs, and she was willing to become Mrs. McKay. The future, indeed, seemed full of promise for David O. McKay.
Then he read the letter. In a moment, all his hopes seemed dashed. He was called to serve for two years in the British Mission. Swallowing disappointment, he accepted the call. It proved to be a marvelous time of spiritual growth.
He never regretted his decision. Teaching opportunities and Emma Ray awaited him on his return.

The apartment room was cluttered with memories—autographed photos of famous musicians, Russian paintings, programs from concerts whose music had long ago evaporated into the air. By the window a slender young woman stood playing the violin, tossing off difficult runs like so many spring flowers. Her teacher, an older gentleman, was hammering out the accompaniment on a grand piano, listening intently to her every note, calling out instructions in a heavy Russian accent. The music seemed to burst from the room into a thousand fragrant blossoms.
Her teacher stopped abruptly. “No! No! Go a little deeper into your soul!” he pleaded. “That’s the German style you’re playing. In Russia and America we do it this way.” He picked up his violin from the piano and demonstrated. “Put more of nature’s tranquility into your playing. And don’t slide to the note.”
She started playing again, bow moving effortlessly across the strings, eyes carefully measuring the page of notes and lines before her that she somehow magically translated into music. Too soon the piece was finished, and she turned to her teacher.
“Generally speaking,” he said, “I would say that was excellent. You have a cool head and a warm heart, which make you a fine violinist. You have talent.”
On that sweet note, Lois Watkins finished her lesson with Raphael Bronstein, one of Russia’s finest violinists who now teaches talented young musicians at the Manhattan School of Music in New York City. So she packed up her violin, said thank you and good-bye, and started threading the busy west side streets of Manhattan leading back to her apartment.
Whether taking or teaching lessons, conducting, performing with the National Orchestra, or playing jobs around the New York City area, Lois Watkins is up to her violin in music, and she loves it. To her, music is a way of sharing—and just as important, a road to excellence.
“When I perform, I just want people to enjoy the music, and forget about their problems. I try to keep in mind what the composer wanted and also to incorporate what I think the music conveys,” said Lois. “In order to do this well, I have to be the best musician I can—and that takes work. But the results are worth it. When you know you’ve played well, there’s nothing like it. It gives you confidence, makes you respect yourself, and you enjoy giving your music to other people. It’s creating something, and that’s very satisfying.”
Lois grew up in a home where making music was almost as popular as talking or eating. All ten of the Watkins family are excellent musicians, and often enjoy musical sessions together. Lois’s musical philosophy was shaped in that home environment.
“A good musician will create a feeling in the listener,” said Lois. “If you go to a concert and hear a lot of fast notes and nice music, you are not necessarily touched. If it doesn’t make you thoughtful, or angry, or make you feel love or compassion or somehow more sensitive to life, I don’t think the performer has been successful.
“Because so many feelings are generated by music, we need to be choosy about what we listen to. Some music is definitely not good for us. I feel that if it puts you in a train of thought that is not conducive to gospel standards, then it’s wrong for you,” she added.
Lois rents a room on the west side of Manhattan from two elderly sisters. The apartment is close to the Manhattan School of Music where she takes classes, so she can easily walk to school. Her mother attended school in that same building years before when it housed the Julliard School of Music. Lois’s parents met and married in New York City and now live in Pelham, New York, about an hour away from New York City by train. Each Wednesday Lois takes the train to Bronxville, not far from home, where she teaches violin to aspiring musicians in the fourth and sixth grades.
“It’s fun to teach when the students practice and really enjoy the lessons. I have some good students. And when you teach, it helps your own playing because you learn to analyze problems and overcome them. I’ll probably always teach a little, but mostly I want to perform and conduct. That’s what I’ve put most of my efforts into,” Lois added.
“Conducting is my main interest, not just being a violinist. For two summers I attended a conducting school in Hancock, Maine. I was the youngest person there. I’ve conducted a lot of major orchestral works and have done some conducting here in New York City. It’s difficult to break into, though, and not many major music schools have conducting as a major, so I’ve decided to concentrate mostly on my violin while I’m here taking classes. One of the best ways to learn to be a good conductor is to play in various orchestras and observe conductors. I’ve played under some of the finest conductors, like Aaron Copland, Seiji Ozawa, and Zubin Mehta.”
She’s also spent summer at outstanding schools and music camps like Tanglewood (where she received the award for the outstanding chamber music musician), Saratoga (where young musicians are taught by the members of the Philadelphia Orchestra), and the Meadowmount School of Strings, taught by many members of the Julliard faculty. Competition for participating in these schools is very tough. “I’ve been very lucky,” said Lois.
But it wasn’t simply luck that put Lois where she is now in the world of music. A lot of hard work was part of her formula for excelling.
“I started playing the piano at age four and the violin at seven,” said Lois. “I also picked up trumpet and French horn, which I still play occasionally. At the beginning I didn’t like the violin because it didn’t sound very good when I played it. The violin is a hard instrument to coordinate, because your left hand is in an awkward position, and you have to vibrate it. Even the bow is awkward to hold at first. It takes time to develop your muscles for playing. It’s easy to sound bad on the violin at first.
“But you have to have patience and plug away until you can start making it sound half decent. Sticking with something you don’t like at first teaches you self-discipline. You’re not going to enjoy every teacher you get in school, every assignment you have, every job you get in life, but there are benefits to sticking things out.
“I started out practicing for half an hour at the beginning, then 45 minutes, then an hour, and eventually an hour and a half. My parents really encouraged me. By high school I was practicing two hours a day, which really isn’t a lot. I practiced regularly, though, and if I wanted to go out and play with friends, I had to practice first to make sure it would get done.
“It was tough when I was younger to learn that self-discipline. But then I got to the point where I made practicing high priority and did it on my own. It was good for me because it helped me to regulate my time and learn how to get things done,” she said.
Today Lois usually plays the violin about eight hours a day, divided between practicing, lessons, orchestras, and playing odd jobs like weddings and musicals. And she thoroughly enjoys that schedule.
One of the highlights of her week is practicing with the National Orchestra, whose purpose is to prepare musicians for professional orchestras. Young musicians from around the world compete for acceptance by the orchestra. If you survive the string of intensive auditions and are accepted, you’re given the opportunity to work in a professional kind of situation.
“You sign a three-year contract with the orchestra and receive a salary,” said Lois. “We practice three times a week and give four concerts each year at Carnegie Hall with guest conductors and soloists. We go through a lot of orchestral music, which is great preparation for eventually joining another symphony.”
In addition to the enjoyment she receives from daily participation in the music world, one of her most rewarding experiences is sharing her music in church meetings. It puts her talent in perspective, she said.
“You can almost bear your testimony through music. I’m asked to play a lot in Church meetings, and that’s a very satisfying aspect of music. Church members really appreciate music because it’s such a spiritual part of the meeting. People are really touched by music. I dedicate what I play to my Heavenly Father, because it’s not really my music that touches people, it’s a gift from him.
“When I play for church, I always try to create a setting that’s conducive to worship. I never pick fast, showy pieces. I think the piece should be melodious, not too long (about three or four minutes), and not boring. I try to play pieces that will put the listeners in a worshipful mood and try to choose something that’s not too far from their musical experience.
“Music plays such an important part in the quality of our services that we need to give our very best. It’s important for people in the Church to develop really excellent musical talent. No musician should take performing in church lightly, whether he or she’s an accompanist, director, choir member, or soloist,” she said.
Lois started to gather the books and music she needs for her National Orchestra rehearsal downtown at Lincoln Center, where the New York City Opera, Metropolitan Opera, and New York City Ballet perform, along with many of the world’s finest musicians. She’s going to do some studying at the music library at the center, too, so plans to get there about two hours before rehearsal time. Just across the street from the center is the Church’s visitors’ center and the chapel for the Manhattan Wards.
“I love the excitement of being in New York City, which is an excellent training ground for musicians. It’s a terrific place for me to be learning more about my profession—I’m getting good training and experience. I can’t help but improve my music!”
And she ran off to catch her bus.

I have seen some of that in practice lately. A woman whom I had not met before came to my home and recounted her heartbreak at a marriage ruined by deceit and cruelty. She grieved for her young adult children, who were confused and wounded. She had served as a ward Relief Society president three times and as a stake Relief Society president. That service had shown her both irrefutable evidence of God’s goodness and mercy, and some of the difficult and painful realities that many suffer; even so, she was surprised at how unprepared she felt to face her own tragedy. At last she said, “All I can do now is cling to my faith in God and pray that my love of Christ and for my children will help me survive.” For the present, her pain had clouded her ability to see her own courage and resolve. In the midst of such trouble, she was steadfast in Christ, and her intent was charity. I knew she and her children still had much to endure and to work through, but the words from Moroni echoed for us both that “whoso is found possessed of [charity] at the last day, it shall be well with [her” (Moro. 7:47). Through her excruciating experience of sifting for the true nature of love, she was literally offering what God requires of each of us, a broken heart and a contrite spirit. Her offering was also building in her strength and peace.