Gospel Story Finder

I had always planned on serving a mission when I turned 20, the age of missionaries at the time. After playing two seasons of football at Utah State University, I had a difficult decision to make. I knew that, at that time, very few returned missionaries played football after their missions. I had put a lot of effort into football, and I loved the game. I decided to delay my mission a few months so I could play one more season and then serve a mission. By the end of that season, I had won the starting quarterback position for the next year.
My coach was surprised and disappointed that after all my hard work in football, I was going to leave. He encouraged me to stay and play my final season. He couldn’t understand why I would walk away from this opportunity. I listened to his comments and his logic, but I told him that I could not wait another year to go on my mission. If I did, I feared I would miss my opportunity to serve a mission. After all my hard work in football, I said good-bye to the team and left for Great Britain to serve the Lord.
I never regretted that decision. I learned so many things on my mission. To witness people embracing the gospel was an incredible experience, which shaped the rest of my life in many important ways. My mission helped make me into the person I am today and had far greater impact on me than football ever could have.
As it turns out, when I returned from my mission, I got the chance to play football again. Although it was unexpected, I played my final year and achieved more than I believe I could have done before my mission. I was given incredible opportunities that probably would not have come about had I chosen to further delay or even forego my mission.

Margarette and her older brother, Wallace, were walking to school. Rain had made the ground very muddy. The children got stuck in the mud and could not move. They began to cry.
They looked up and saw the Prophet Joseph Smith coming toward them. He lifted both children out of the mud. Then he stooped and cleaned the mud from their shoes.
The Prophet Joseph Smith wiped the tears from their faces with his handkerchief. He spoke kind and cheering words to them.
Margarette and Wallace went on their way to school, rejoicing.

The Young Women of the Mountain Home Fourth Ward, Mountain Home Idaho Stake, undertook a special service project for the mothers in the ward. On Mother’s Day the Young Women took over the entire Primary to give the leaders and teachers a chance to attend Relief Society and Sunday School.

Each girl was assigned a position, from leading sharing time and the music to teaching a class. Some of the younger girls chose to team teach. The Young Women dedicated themselves to preparing excellent lessons for the children.

In preparation for the service project, the Young Women received instruction on teaching lessons. They were anxious to put into action the things they learned.

In addition to this service project, the Young Women also set up baby-sitting services for ward temple day.

President Marion G. Romney tells of this incident which happened to him:
“I remember years ago when I was a bishop I had President Heber J. Grant talk to our ward. After the meeting I drove him home … Standing by me, he put his arm over my shoulder and said: ‘My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church and if he ever tells you to do anything, and it is wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.’ Then with a twinkle in his eye, he said, ‘But you don’t need to worry. The Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead the people astray.’” (Conference Report, October 1960, p. 78.)

In my last month, my mum went with me during the Easter break. It was a sunny day, but there were some grey clouds threatening on the horizon. We started taking the pictures and we really wanted to take advantage of my mother’s time off from work, but the grey clouds started getting closer and darker. We prayed asking Heavenly Father for help to achieve our goal. And then, in a blink of an eye, there was some wind and the clouds moved, and it was sunny again. And it happened again, so we prayed once more, and we had sun a second time. We did this three times, and we had positive results from our prayers each time. We completed our goal: we finished that section, and we ended up taking 405 pictures on that day.

Shakespeare from Miss Whitney had been a calculated accident that went awry. I had my credits for graduation. All I needed was an elective to fill space. There were a lot of classes that would have been acceptable, and I still could have maintained my GPA. With the schedule I had my senior year, I wanted something easy for the last hour of the day. Just a filler.
At Washington High I ranked fifth in a graduating class of 509. For the last three years I had been on the honor roll with straight A’s, and there were scholarships to consider. All were reasons for keeping my grades up and taking an easy class to fill in that one elective gap.
“I know what we ought to do,” my best friend Shan Stuart suggested the second day of school as we ate in the cafeteria. “Let’s take Shakespeare from Miss Whitney.”
I laughed. “Why would I want to take Shakespeare from Whitney? Or anybody else?”
Shan thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, shrugging, “I figure we need a little culture.”
Cultural refinement had never been high on Shan’s list of priorities, so immediately I was dubious. “I’ve got all the culture I can handle with chemistry and trig,” I responded dryly.
“But Shakespeare will be a snap. Read a few plays,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“What does Shakespeare have that we can’t get in wood shop?” I asked.
Shan smiled slyly. “Well …” He cleared his throat. “Penny Simms.”
“Penny …” I stopped in mid-sentence. My eyes narrowed in recollection. “She’s not the new girl, the one …”
“With the reddish blond hair,” Shan cut in dreamily, “and the blue eyes, and the smile …”
“I know who she is,” I stopped him. “If you’re dying to know her, meet her at lunch. Why sign up for a semester of Shakespeare?”
“You don’t get it, Holdaway,” Shan answered. “It’s going to be a small class. Obviously we’ll need to spend some time studying old Bill and his plays.” He grinned deviously. “A small study group of three or four after school could prove helpful. In more ways than one.”
“Just one problem. There are two of us and one of her.”
Shan shrugged and smiled, “That’s the challenge.”
“I’ll stick to wood shop.”
I don’t know how he did it, but Shan actually conned me into taking Miss Whitney’s Shakespeare class. And all because of Penny Simms.
“So what brings you to Shakespeare?” Miss Whitney asked coolly, looking down at our add cards. Shan and I stood in front of her desk, fidgeting. This was Shan’s idea, so I was determined to let him do the talking.
“Do you have a genuine interest in Shakespeare?” she asked, taking off her glasses. She had commanding blue eyes that latched onto us.
I had seen Miss Whitney around school and had always thought her to be rather plain. She was in her mid-30s, probably an inch or so taller than I am, and trim. Up close her plainness was no longer prominent. In fact, as she looked up at us, I detected a shade of beauty behind the scholarly sternness.
All during my high school career I had steered clear of her English classes because it was rumored that she didn’t give anything higher than a B, unless, of course, the student could walk on water, academically speaking. I figured that in her Shakespeare class, though, it being an elective and all, she would loosen up and I would be able to pull my A without a sweat.
“Michael and I were just talking yesterday,” Shan began. I could tell he was about to launch into one of his famous snow jobs. “We were saying how little we know about Shakespeare. We’ll be getting ready to go to college in a year, and we really aren’t familiar with one of history’s greatest writers.” He folded his arms and pursed his lips, deep in thought. “I guess what it boils down to is that we want a more balanced education.”
“How admirable,” she commented, leaning back in her chair and biting down on her glasses. “Rarely do we see that kind of intellectual drive in our students these days. It will be a privilege to have you in class,” she replaced her glasses and signed Shan’s add card. I waited for her to do the same to mine, but she handed Shan his card, and then turned to me. “And, Mr. Holdaway, what is your interest here?”
I was taken by surprise. “Well,” I laughed half-heartedly, “Shan explained it pretty good.”
“Yes, he expressed himself quite well.” She emphasized the well and I made a mental note to be more careful with my grammar when speaking to her. “I would like to know how you feel.”
I groped for words as her penetrating gaze bore into me. “I thought it would be a … well, you know,” I stammered. “A good challenging course for an elective. Some real meat and potatoes so to speak.” I forced myself to grin. She wasn’t amused. “I want to expand my knowledge and understanding,” I pushed on lamely, wondering why she didn’t just take Shan’s word for everything.
“So your main reason is learning?”
“Of course.”
“And if things become difficult?”
I was insulted by the insinuation. “I’ve handled tough classes before,” I said. “Schoolwork comes easy enough for me.”
“You’ve never taken a class from me,” she pointed out.
“I can handle the load,” I bragged, suddenly irritated.
“Then if things get tough, you won’t just back out of Shakespeare?”
“No,” I declared, “I won’t back out. I can handle any class at Washington High. Even yours.”
She smiled, actually smiled as she picked up my card, signed it, and handed it back to me. “I demand work.”
“I’ve done all right so far,” I said, still simmering. “I’m not exactly at the bottom of the class.”
“She’s as bad as everybody said,” I muttered to Shan as we walked down the hall afterward.
“Penny Simms will sweeten things up for us.”
The following day, seventh hour, Shan and I swaggered into class and dropped into the back corner seats. The class was small, only 16 of us, and within minutes we discovered that Penny Simms was noticeably absent.
Miss Whitney called the roll. Penny’s name wasn’t on it. As Miss Whitney took the absentee slip to the door, Shan raised his hand and asked, “What happened to Penny Simms?”
“Penny withdrew from class this morning,” Miss Whitney said simply.
“I can’t believe it,” Shan grumbled as we left class. “We juggle our schedules to accommodate her and she backs out on us.”
I was amused and laughed. “Maybe you should have talked to Penny to see if our change met with her approval.”
“Well, if anybody thinks I’m going to endure Miss Whitney for my cultural enjoyment, they’re crazy. I’m getting out.”
“But we just got in.”
“I’ll find a way. We have until the end of the week to change classes.”
By noon the next day Shan was out of the class.
“Did she hassle you?” I asked him.
“Didn’t say a word. Just signed the withdrawal slip and wished me luck.”
I attended Miss Whitney’s class that afternoon, but I worked on my trig all hour because I had a withdrawal slip ready for her to sign. I had almost resigned myself to the challenge of Miss Whitney, to prove to her that I wasn’t afraid of her, but I finally concluded it would be easier and safer to get out now. I had a big enough load as it was.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked as I handed her the withdrawal slip.
“My schedule is heavier than I thought,” I said without looking at her.
“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
I wet my lips, surprised by the question. “Yes.”
“I knew another young man of your faith. He wasn’t nearly as talented as you. But he was honest. Completely honest. I don’t mean to imply that Mormons have a monopoly on honesty, but this particular young man’s most striking characteristic was his honesty. That always impressed me.” She looked up at me. “You remind me of that young man.
“The other day when you and Shan came in here, you couldn’t lie to me. You were willing to remain silent and let Shan lie for you, but you wouldn’t lie.” I could feel my cheeks glow warmly, and I shuffled my feet. “Do you realize,” she continued, “that the other day when I allowed you into my class, you promised to stay?”
“I said I wanted to get into the class, but I …”
“No,” she cut in, “you promised to stay, regardless of the work.”
“Miss Whitney,” I began, feeling embarrassed and frustrated but wanting to be completely up front with her since she had dragged my religion and honesty into our discussion, “I feel dumb telling you this, but the reason Shan and I wanted to get into this class was …”
“Because of Penny Simms,” she cut in.
I shrugged, and nodded. Her face didn’t change expressions.
“The fact remains, Mr. Holdaway, you promised to stay.”
“What difference does it make to you?” I asked, irritated by her insistence.
“I don’t like students running away from my class—especially good students.” She breathed deeply and shuffled some papers on the desk. “I can promise you two things if you stay. One, you’ll learn something. And two, I’ll make the learning interesting. That’s not a bad deal.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think you understand. I have a heavy schedule. I have a straight-A average, and I want to keep my class ranking. I have to think of a scholarship.”
“And you want all of those the easiest way possible. Do you ever wonder about learning?”
“I study all the time.”
“For grades? For class rankings? For scholarships? Do you ever study for learning’s sake?” I stared at her without answering. I wasn’t sure how to answer. “When you came to me, you wanted an easy class. Well, I don’t offer one.”
I tossed the withdrawal slip in the trash can on the way out, angry and unwilling to beg her to let me out of her class. I’d handle it, I told myself.
The first two weeks of class were easy enough. Even interesting! The first play we read was Richard the Third, and I was immediately fascinated by this villain king who had so much potential and yet chose to follow a path of willful destruction.
I had been exposed to Shakespeare in other English classes, but the study of his writings had always been dry and tedious there. Miss Whitney had an intriguing way of resurrecting characters from the tombs of the written page. The playwright and the characters were like old friends of hers. I actually found my interest sparked in her class.
But even though I read my assignments and followed the discussions with quiet fascination, I contributed very little to the class. I was sure Miss Whitney wondered if I was grasping the material, but I refused to satisfy her curiosity by opening my mouth. She’d find out how much I understood when I took her first test. And I was determined to blow the top off of it.
However, at the conclusion of Richard the Third, Miss Whitney made an announcement. “I have an aversion to tests,” she said. “Tests are inadequate for measuring a person’s understanding. I prefer a good composition. At the conclusion of each play I will ask you to write a paper. If you have read and understood the play, you should do well.”
Writing had always come easy for me. I had never had a problem in my other English classes scribbling out an A paper. I was convinced that I could do the same here. The night before the paper was due, I stayed up an hour later than usual so I could finish it.
Three days later, I got my paper back, fully expecting an A. Across the top and next to the bold red C- was scrawled, “This is not writing; this is rambling. I do not want to have to search for your meaning among the heaps of hollow verbiage. I will not allow you to peddle garbage. Even if this class is an elective!”
“What’s wrong with my paper?” I demanded as the others filed out of the room.
“You can write better than that, Mr. Holdaway.”
“Some of those others had B’s on their papers. Are theirs better than mine?”
“For you that is a C paper.”
“This would get me an A in any other class,” I came back.
“Mr. Holdaway, I don’t just give a grade. You must earn it here.”
“You’re just trying to make it tough on me because I wanted out of your class, aren’t you?” I burst out. “I need an A in this class.”
“You don’t care about learning?”
“I care about my grades.”
Miss Whitney thought for a moment. “Then you will have to earn them.”
For the next five weeks I fumed and fretted about Shakespeare. I was caught. I couldn’t drop the class without losing all credit. If I stayed in the class, I would be lucky to pull a C, unless I worked hard, harder than I’d planned for this elective. During those five weeks I wrote two more papers.
The best I could do was a C+ on my last one.
“What is this?” I demanded, exasperated as I threw my paper on her desk after class.
She looked at it and answered, “It looks like a C+.”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Your ideas are clearer now, but all you’re doing is coughing up someone else’s ideas. If you want your A, tell me what you have learned, not what you’ve been told.” The words weren’t spoken in rebuke. I detected a genuine concern on her part.
At first I resented being forced to stay in the class, but as Miss Whitney walked me through the world of Shakespeare, I began to look forward to that last hour of the day. My other classes were important to me because they were my solids; I needed them and I studied them with that objective in mind. I didn’t really need Shakespeare—except for the grade—but it was an intriguing break for me. I even accepted the compositions. It became a challenge for me to write something that Miss Whitney would accept as quality work. The turning point came while we were studying Hamlet.
All my life I had heard the famous line from Hamlet, “To thine own self be true.” For one of the first times in a class discussion my hand shot up and I burst out, “But those words are a mockery coming from Polonius. He’s not true to himself. It’s pure hypocrisy.”
“Can’t a hypocrite speak the truth?” Miss Whitney questioned.
“Sure, but all these years I thought that some great, wise person spoke those words. It’s a let-down to know that they come from … from a villain.”
“But the words are true, though the villain was not,” Miss Whitney pointed out. “Do we sometimes speak words of truth while leading lives of hypocrisy?”
The question was spoken gently, but the barb penetrated. Was I like Polonius? For my composition I chose to analyze Polonius. He fascinated me because I wondered if I would catch a glimpse of myself in his character. I went back and reread the play, not for a grade but for personal understanding. After reading it three times and reviewing parts of it many more times I was ready to write.
One full weekend I wrote. Page after page of rough draft was revised, improved, and discarded. But when Monday afternoon arrived, the paper was finished.
The following Friday the papers were turned back, face down on our desks. Curiously, even nervously, I turned mine over. A!
“I’d like to know something,” I asked at the end of class. “Did I earn this?”
Miss Whitney pursed her lips. “I don’t give anything.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s your work.”
Swelling with pride, I turned to leave, holding the A paper in my hand.
“Mr. Holdaway,” she called. “I’ve read better student papers in my life.” Some of the pride I had felt wilted. I turned to face her. A faint smile touched her lips, and she added softly, “But not many, Mr. Holdaway. And not for a very long time. I knew you could write a paper like that.”
From then on I was determined that everything I did in that class would be my very best. I didn’t want Miss Whitney to see anything less than that.
Then one day I wrote a paper for my history class. As I read through my final draft the night before the paper was due, I remembered thinking that it would easily get me an A. But I knew that if I were to submit it in Miss Whitney’s class her red pen would bleed it pitifully. I’d be lucky to get a C+. The words from Hamlet rang in my mind: “To thine own self be true.”
It was almost ten. The paper was due second hour the next morning, but I was determined not to turn in an inferior effort. I knew I had the A, but the A wasn’t good enough. I had to turn in my best.
For the next few hours I struggled with a rewrite, not for points or grades but for pure satisfaction. And when I turned it in the following morning, still sleepy and worn out, I was satisfied.
As I went around to my classes at the end of the semester and picked up my grades, I was not disappointed. I had straight A’s in my first six hours.
Miss Whitney waited until the end of class before handing out grades. The bell rang before I received mine. I waited at my desk. When all the others had received their grade cards, she turned to me and asked me to come to her desk. We were alone. She had two grade cards in front of her.
“I have struggled with your grade,” she confessed, looking up at me. “You’ve improved tremendously. You’re not the same young man who walked in here at the beginning of the year. I usually grade the work at the end of the semester more heavily than that at the beginning. You struggled in the beginning weeks, but you’ve come a long way since then.”
She took a deep breath. “When I figured out your grade, it ended up being a B. A solid B, a high B, but a B nevertheless.” She wet her lips. “I have struggled with that. Had you taken an easy class you would have received your A. You would maintain your class ranking and not jeopardize your scholarship.”
She pressed her lips together. “I’m stingy with A’s. When I give them, I want them to mean a great deal. I coerced you into taking this class. I feel responsible. You’ve worked hard. I’d feel good giving you this.” She picked up the card to her left and handed it to me. It was an A. I studied it for a moment.
“And the other one?” I asked. She didn’t answer. I reached down and turned the other card over. Our eyes locked. I had wanted that A. A few weeks earlier that grade would have been the all-important thing, but the familiar phrase from Hamlet was anchored in my mind. I replaced the A card and picked up the B. “I only take what I earn,” I said. “It’s something I learned from you.”
Miss Whitney swallowed and blinked twice. I detected a faint mist in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I’ll keep the A for myself.”
I shrugged. “Thank you.” I smiled. “And you earned the A.” I started for the door; then stopped. “By the way,” I said, “I’ll be back next semester.”
“I was hoping you would,” she said softly, and I left the class with Miss Whitney’s B.

Robert Louis Stevenson captured this constant struggle between good and evil in the classic novel about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The story tells us that in the beginning “Dr. Jekyll is a highly respected London physician, a good and kindly man, who in his youth had showed inclinations toward evil which, however, he succeeded in suppressing. Interested in drugs, the doctor now chances upon one which enables him to change his external form to that of a repulsive dwarf, the very embodiment of evil, whom he calls Mr. Hyde.
“A similar dose permits him to return to the form and personality of the benevolent doctor. Many times the doctor becomes Mr. Hyde, thereby giving this side of his nature more and more power. Jekyll finds it increasingly difficult to regain his virtuous entity and also finds himself occasionally becoming Hyde without the use of the drug.”3 In the character of Mr. Hyde, he commits murder, and when the drug will no longer restore him to the kindly Dr. Jekyll, the truth is discovered and Hyde kills himself. The misuse of drugs destroyed his life. So it can be in real life.

Jacob lunged off the step. “I am Global Guard,” he hollered, arms thrown out, fists clenched, “protector of planet Earth.”
“Mr. Guard,” Jacob’s father called from the kitchen, “do you think you can stop defending Earth long enough to have your bedtime snack?”
“It’s not Mr. Guard, Dad.” Jacob flung himself onto the chair at the kitchen table. “It’s Global Guard, protector of planet Earth. If you watched the show, you’d know that.”
Jacob’s father placed a glass of milk and a plate of graham crackers in front of his son. “You watch enough Global Protector for all of us.”
“It’s not Global Protector, it’s—”
“Eat,” his father ordered, shaking his head.
Jacob popped a piece of cracker into his mouth as his mother shuffled into the kitchen, tying her bathrobe.
“How are you feeling?” Dad asked.
“About the same,” she said, slumping into a chair at the table.
“Wow, Mom,” Jacob exclaimed, staring at her, “you look sick!”
His mother nodded in agreement.
Jacob took a gulp of milk. He imagined himself as Global Guard protecting his mother from evil invaders, mutant monsters, and from any other bad guys. He was picturing himself scaring off vicious villains, when he felt a hand on his head. He glanced up.
“Are you ready for family prayer?” Dad asked.
“Yep.” Jacob pushed himself from the table, swinging his hand within inches of his father’s nose. “I have the power, Dad,” he said with a grin.
“Uh-huh,” Dad said.
Jacob followed his parents into the family room.
Dad offered the prayer. Although he tried to concentrate on the prayer, Jacob’s mind wandered to a Global battle, with himself as the hero.
The next morning, Jacob felt himself being gently shaken. It must be time to get up for school, he thought. He was going to wear his new Global Guard shirt.
“Jacob?”
Jacob’s eyes opened in surprise. It wasn’t Mom’s or Dad’s voice he heard. It was his grandmother’s.
“What are you doing here?”
His grandmother forced a smile. “It’s all right, Jacob. Your parents aren’t here right now.”
“Where are they?” Jacob kicked the blanket off his legs.
“Your mother became very ill during the night, and your father took her to the hospital. After you get dressed and have breakfast, I’ll drive you there to see her.”
At the hospital, Jacob saw that his dad looked tired and worried. Mom was lying on a hospital bed, her eyes closed. A clear fluid went through a thin tube into her arm. Dad explained to Jacob that Mom had a serious infection.
Jacob sat in silence in a large chair. He felt scared and helpless. “I wish I could do something,” he finally said in frustration. “I wish I could make her better.”
His father gave him a tired smile, then glanced at his watch. “Brother Davis ought to be here any minute. We’re going to give your mother a priesthood blessing.”
“Will the blessing help?”
“Yes, Jacob,” Dad said, “if it’s Heavenly Father’s will. The power of a priesthood blessing to help someone is very strong.”
“Power?” Jacob stared at his father.
Both turned as Brother Davis, one of the family’s home teachers, entered the room.
“Thank you for coming,” Jacob’s father said, reaching into his pocket for a vial of consecrated oil.
Jacob watched as his father poured a few drops of oil onto his mother’s head. Dad and Brother Davis then gave his mother a blessing. Jacob relaxed slightly as his mother was blessed that she would recover. As his father continued the blessing, Jacob felt calm for the first time since his grandmother had awakened him.
At home that night, Jacob and his father knelt and prayed that Mom would recover. Jacob concentrated harder than he ever had before on the words his father said.
“Dad,” Jacob said after the prayer. “Before Brother Davis came, you said something about priesthood power.”
“That’s right.” His father sank onto the couch.
“Is that like Global Guard’s power to protect people?”
“No, Jacob.” His father pulled Jacob next to him. “Global Guard is a TV show. We’re talking about something real—the priesthood. Remember, if you are worthy, you will hold the priesthood in a few years.”
“And then I’ll have the power?” Jacob asked, swinging his hand in front of his father’s face.
His father took Jacob’s hands in his. “Actually, Jacob, God has the power.”
“Oh.”
“But if you live right and have faith, you can hold His priesthood and act for Him. That’s an important thing to remember. You’re acting for God.”
After school the next day, Jacob and his father went to the hospital. When they entered his mother’s room, her eyes were open. Smiling weakly, she beckoned them to come closer. Jacob dashed to the side of her bed.
“How are you?” his father asked, taking her hand.
“The doctor said that with some rest, I’m going to be fine.”
“Dad, you were right!” Jacob exclaimed. “The power really works!”
“I know that it does, Jacob.”
“This can’t be talk about Earth Guard,” his mother said, glancing at Jacob’s father.
“Honey,” his father said, looking relaxed for the first time in two days, “you mean Global Guard—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Mom,” Jacob interrupted, pushing a chair next to his mother’s bed. “Global Guard’s only pretend.”
Then, kneeling on the chair by the bed, Jacob explained what he had learned about real power—priesthood power.

Before my basketball game on Saturday, I went outside into the front yard to practice. I missed a basket, and the ball rolled into the street. I stepped into the street to get it and had a feeling that I should step back. I did, and a speeding car raced right past me! I’m glad I obeyed the Holy Ghost, and I’m happy that I was baptized so the Holy Ghost can always be with me.Lindsey Trendler, age 9, Mesa, Arizona

When I was around 10 years old, my mum was serving as a youth teacher in Oakland California Stake’s Oakland 8th Ward. One weekday evening, we were at our chapel for ward activities. Our Primary activity finished early, so I hung out in the recreation hall with my cousins and friends while I waited for mum, who was helping to run youth night.

We played tag and hide-and-seek, but there were so many of us kids, the hall was crowded. Some of the older kids wanted to go play outside because there was a lot more space out there, and also because outside was darker than in the hall (it was after 7:00 pm by now).

I wasn’t so sure about following them. I asked if we could keep playing inside, but my friends just said, “[We’ll] be fine outside. There’s a lot of us. It’s going to be okay.” Still, I didn’t want to get in trouble, so I decided to ask my mum for permission to play outside.

“No,” was mum’s reply. Even though I was uncomfortable about following my friends, I was still disappointed not to be allowed outside. We’d been having so much fun together. “Why can’t I go?” I asked. Mum’s only reasoning was that she didn’t want me playing in the dark where she couldn’t see me.

When I reluctantly told my friends to go ahead without me, it felt right. It was like the Spirit was confirming my mum’s warning, but that moment was immediately followed by one of weakness. It was hard watching my friends file out the hall door without me, so I jumped to my feet and ran with them, determined to disobey my mum.

Just as I reached the outside door of the chapel, I felt as if a hand was holding me back. I stopped and turned around, but no one was there to have held my hand. Stunned, I let the rest of my friends leave the chapel without me, and then I went back and sat by myself outside the classroom my mum was in.

In the 10 or 15 minutes that I waited for youth night to wrap up, I reviewed in my mind what had just happened. I was still upset that I wasn’t outside playing with my friends, but I kept thinking about the uneasy feeling I’d had since it was first suggested we leave the chapel, about my mom’s instruction for me to stay inside, and, of course, about the hand that held me back.

I remembered the brief sense of peace I’d felt when I first decided to obey my mum, and I realized that as I waited for her, I could feel the Spirit again, letting me know that I’d—again—made the right choice.

To this day, I have no idea why it was so important for me to stay in the chapel that night, and it doesn’t matter. I am just grateful for the Holy Spirit who guides and comforts us, even when we don’t understand, and I’m grateful that through my obedience, the Spirit allowed us to have a nice drive home after ward activities, without a lecture from my mum.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf shared a story in general conference about a challenge from his own life that became a massive blessing for him. During the challenge, however, it was hard for President Uchtdorf to see much value in the struggle. He was 11 years old at the time and had to pedal a heavy bicycle and cart to deliver laundry for his family’s laundry business.
“Most of the time, I was not overly excited about the bike, the cart, or my job,” he said. “Sometimes the cart seemed so heavy and the work so tiring that I thought my lungs would burst, and I often had to stop to catch my breath.”
There was a reason the work was so hard for him. He was battling a lung disease he didn’t even know he had. But here’s the miracle: all that strenuous exercise proved to be exactly what he needed to heal his lungs. Not until many years later, when he took a physical exam to enter the military, did President Uchtdorf learn there had ever been anything wrong.
“It became clear to me that my regular exercise in fresh air as a laundry boy had been a key factor in my healing from this illness,” he said. “Without the extra effort of pedaling that heavy bicycle day in and day out, pulling the laundry cart up and down the streets of our town, I might never have become a jet fighter pilot and later a 747 airline captain.”1

It was a beautiful, clear day, and 28-year-old Aircraft Commander Brent Young was doing what he loved best: flying a C-141 for the United States Air Force. He and his crew, including his copilot, a flight engineer, and two load masters, were on a routine run from North Dakota to Utah.
The flight was uneventful until Commander Young began his approach to Hill Air Force Base. Then, out of nowhere, the thought came to him, “Hold 20 knots above approach speed.”
“Why would I do that?” he wondered. “It goes against everything I know about flying.”
As the plane sped toward its destination, he agonized over the decision he must make in the next 60 seconds. “If I drop 20 knots now,” he reasoned, “the plane will be at just the right speed for the approach. I can’t hold 20 knots. I’ll overshoot the runway.”
But the impression persisted. “Hold 20 knots above approach speed.”
“What are you doing?” his copilot suddenly blurted out. “You’re going too fast!”
“We need to hold 20 knots above approach speed. I can’t explain it,” Commander Young replied.
The plane hurled toward the runway. Beads of sweat rolled down his face. His heart beat wildly, and his hands clenched the steering column. “Will we overshoot the runway? Will we survive?” he thought.
At that moment, with the plane just 250 feet above the ground, the speed suddenly dropped 20 knots. Commander Young stared at the gauge in disbelief. It had dropped to 145 knots. What had happened?
Within seconds the plane touched down, and Commander Young completed the landing.
The flight was over, but he couldn’t leave the cockpit yet. He sat in stunned silence, trying to make sense of what had just happened. But he could find no logical explanation. Without the extra air speed, he and his crew probably wouldn’t be alive. If he hadn’t held 20 knots above the approach speed, the plane would have dropped to 125 knots—stall speed. He wouldn’t have had time to fly out of the stall. Likely the plane would have crashed.
“Why’d you let me do it?” Commander Young quizzed his copilot.
“I’ve flown with LDS pilots before,” he replied. “I know they are guided by a force I don’t understand.”
Commander Young uttered a silent prayer. “Thank you, Heavenly Father. Thank you for the gift of the Holy Ghost.”

As I read of Will Hopoate's unfolding story, my mind went back to an experience President Gordon B. Hinckley spoke of almost 20 years ago. It is another example of a young man faced with substantial choices. President Hinckley says:

"Mine has been the opportunity to meet many wonderful men and women in various parts of the world. A few of them have left an indelible impression upon me. I share with you a story I spoke of some years ago. I met a naval officer from a distant nation, a brilliant young man who had been brought to the United States for advanced training. Some of his associates in the United States Navy, whose behavior had attracted him, shared with him at his request their religious beliefs. He was not a Christian, but he was interested...they taught him the gospel of the Master. The Spirit touched his heart, and he was baptized.

He was introduced to me just before he was to return to his native land. We spoke of these things, and then I said: 'Your people are not Christians. What will happen when you return home a Christian, and, more particularly, a Mormon Christian?' His face clouded, and he replied, 'My family will be disappointed. They may cast me out and regard me as dead. As for my future and my career, all opportunity may be foreclosed against me.' I asked, 'Are you willing to pay so great a price for the gospel?' His dark eyes, moistened by tears, shone from his handsome brown face as he answered, 'It's true, isn't it?' Ashamed at having asked the question, I responded, 'Yes, it's true.' To which he replied, 'Then what else matters?'"[8]

“You think you’re better than everyone else because you don’t swear,” Jared said at recess.
“That’s not true,” said Brock.
“Then why won’t you say one swear word? Just one? It’s not going to kill you. Everybody else swears.”
Brock shrugged. “I just don’t want to.”
Brock knew swearing is wrong and makes the Holy Ghost leave. Brock wanted the Holy Ghost with him. So he didn’t swear.
Brock was new at school, and so far, Jared was the only one in his class who wanted to be his friend. But Jared bugged him about swearing every single day. And every day Brock got a little more tired of saying no. Besides, Brock was afraid that Jared would stop being his friend, and then he’d really be lonely.
“Just say one swear word,” Jared said after school. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
Finally Brock was so tired of being bothered that he said one swear word—one that wasn’t too bad.
Jared nodded. “Good. Now you’re one of us.”
After that, Jared’s other friends talked to Brock too. They ate lunch with him and played football with him at recess. But being in Jared’s group of friends was like walking into quicksand. The more Brock hung out with them, the more he talked and acted like them. And they all swore. A lot. They laughed at and insulted each other. They said rude things about their teachers. They got mad and acted mean a lot. Slowly Brock started feeling angry more often and found more and more reasons to swear.
One night when Mom and Dad were gone, Brock and his sister Katie got into an argument about what show to watch. Before Brock even thought about it, a swear word jumped out of his mouth.
Katie looked shocked. “I’m telling Mom.”
Brock ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. What was wrong with everyone? Why were they making him mad all the time? When his parents came home, Brock cracked open his door and heard Katie say, “Mom, Brock swore at me.”
“What?” Mom sounded surprised. “Brock would never swear.”
Brock closed the door and slumped down on his bed. He thought about how different he’d become since he started swearing. It had been a long time since he had felt the Holy Ghost.
Brock knelt down by his bed and prayed. “Dear Heavenly Father, I’m so sorry I’ve been mean and angry. I’m sorry I started swearing. Please help me do better.”
As Brock prayed, a warm feeling filled his heart. For the first time since he started swearing, he felt really happy. He knew God loved him, and he could feel the Holy Ghost. He felt forgiven and knew he could change. Heavenly Father would help him.
After his prayer, he told Mom the truth and apologized to Katie. Brock felt better after that. It felt good to repent.
The next day at school, Brock didn’t eat lunch with Jared’s group. Instead he sat next to some kids he didn’t know. It would take time, but Brock knew he would find friends who were kind and happy and didn’t swear. Just like him.

by Gary Goodrich
My friend, Don Crowther, and I were double-dating together one evening last fall, and the Friday night star show we had intended to see at the planetarium was sold out. After a few minutes of discussing what we could do, the suggestion was made by my date, Carol, that we go to Temple Square. We were all in favor—it seemed right.
As we entered the temple block, Carol and I were so involved talking that when Don and his date stopped on the sidewalk in front of us, we almost walked right over them. He and his date, Marilyn, had stopped in front of the visitors’ center to talk with a family of three teenage girls and their parents. I wondered if they were friends of Don’s, but just then I heard him ask them if they would like a tour.
“How much will it cost?” they asked.
“Nothing; it’s free, and it’ll be our pleasure!”
My eyes met Don’s, and I silently laughed. He was always so good-humored, so friendly and open. He never hesitated to start conversations with people—even strangers. I always knew Don would make an excellent missionary. We led our new friends into the visitors’ center and looked around for one of the regular guides. They were all busy with other groups. Don looked at me.
“Ready to direct a tour?” he asked.
We walked over to a large, beautifully colored panel depicting six dispensations since Adam. Don explained the first pictures. Our tourists were interested. While they carefully listened to him, my friend lifted his voice in eloquent description. Don was a practiced speaker, and his voice carried a most appealing tone. He had the conviction of a true and heartfelt testimony of the reality of God the Father, his Son, Jesus Christ, and the restored gospel.
A few other tourists ambled by, paying only slight attention to our presentation. Then Don announced that I would explain the next scene of Noah and his ancient family. I assumed the front and center position of teacher, and as clearly as I could, expressed what I knew about Noah. I tried to emphasize the importance of strictly obeying all of God’s commandments, in our time as well as Noah’s.
We and our new friends moved on, and I noticed Marilyn who was Don’s date. I could see a gleam of warm pride shine in her eyes as Don pointed out the various pictures on the wall. She, too, decided to involve herself by chatting with the visiting girls. Suddenly Marilyn brought to our attention the fact that nobody had been introduced. After I learned all the Cromwells’ names, I shook Mr. Cromwell’s hand and asked where they were from.
“Kansas,” they replied simultaneously. Now a suspicion formed in my mind.
“You’re all LDS, aren’t you?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” said Mr. Cromwell, “we’re Baptists.” I looked at Carol, and she just smiled at me. Then Don suggested that we all go upstairs. At the top of the stairs we beheld the majestic Christus. The huge statue is posed in a loving stance that seems to shield all its admirers from earthly care.
Our little party maneuvered into a side room that contains a glass case exhibit of the Sacred Grove. Here Don related the story of Joseph Smith. He explained vividly the details of Joseph’s vision. Don expressed how significant this restoration of truth was to all of us. I was awed at the good memory and good spirit of my friend, and noticed he used many lines from the missionary discussions we had been learning.
“I know this is true,” he announced, “because I’ve received a personal witness that it is from God! You can know of the truthfulness of the restored gospel too …”
I slipped downstairs to the information desk so I could buy five copies of the Book of Mormon. When I returned, all the girls were in tears, and Mr. Cromwell was intently listening to every word Don uttered.
Marilyn suggested that we include the film Man’s Search for Happiness in our tour. The Cromwells seemed to identify with the questions the movie brought up. They willingly considered the answers, too. After the movie was over, I felt an overwhelming sense of brotherhood for our new friends. I felt prompted to stand, and there and then I bore my witness to the Cromwells of the truths we had just seen.
Carol and Marilyn were suggesting to the family that they skip their upcoming plane trip home and remain in Utah for a while, but the Cromwells were on a tight schedule. We finally said goodbye. The Cromwells didn’t go, however, until we had given them each a Book of Mormon and an expression of our love.
The evening was over. Expressing her gratitude and happiness, Carol thanked me for the best date she’d ever had, but I wasn’t to be thanked. It was Don’s generous missionary spirit, the gift of testimony, and the opportunity we didn’t let pass us by that had made it the best date ever.

Some years ago I was with President Marion G. Romney, meeting with mission presidents and their wives in Geneva, Switzerland. He told them that 50 years before, as a missionary boy in Australia, late one afternoon he had gone to a library to study. When he walked out, it was night. He looked up into the starry sky, and it happened. The Spirit touched him, and a certain witness was born in his soul.

He told those mission presidents that he did not know any more surely then as a member of the First Presidency that God the Father lives; that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, the Only Begotten of the Father; and that the fulness of the gospel had been restored than he did as a missionary boy 50 years before in Australia. He said that his testimony had changed in that it was much easier to get an answer from the Lord. The Lord’s presence was nearer, and he knew the Lord much better than he had 50 years before.

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
As a boy, David O. McKay wanted to know for himself that Joseph Smith was a prophet. One day while looking for cattle, he got off his horse and knelt under a serviceberry bush.
He asked Heavenly Father for a spiritual witness, then waited for something wonderful to happen. Nothing did.
David: If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.
Disappointed, he got back on his horse and rode away.
Still, he continued faithful and in time served a mission in Scotland. One day while there, he saw an unfinished building with a stone carving over the front door. He read the inscription: “What E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.” This advice inspired him to work harder.
David: I am here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. From this moment on I will do my part.
Later, during a missionary priesthood meeting, President McMurrin, his mission president, made a prophecy.
President McMurrin: Brother David, … God is mindful of you. If you will keep the faith you will yet sit in the leading councils of the Church.
During that meeting, Elder McKay received the sure witness he had prayed for as a boy. He knew the Church was true. He also knew that Heavenly Father answers our prayers in His own time and His own way.
As President of the Church, David O. McKay taught that every member of the Church is a missionary. Latter-day Saints responded by sharing the gospel with their neighbors.
If you’d like to learn more about President McKay, do the “President David O. McKay Crossword” on page 23.

Many years ago, while on vacation with my family, I had an experience that taught me a great lesson. On a Saturday, my wife and I decided to take the children for a drive and to do some shopping. During the drive the children fell asleep, and not wanting to wake them, I volunteered to stay in the car while my wife ran into the store.
While waiting, I glanced at the car parked in front of me. It was full of children, and they were looking at me. My eyes caught the eyes of a small boy, six or seven years old. As our eyes met, he immediately stuck his tongue out at me.
My first reaction was to stick my tongue out at him. I thought, What have I done to deserve this? Fortunately, before I reacted, I remembered a principle taught in general conference the week before by Elder Marvin J. Ashton (see Conference Report, Oct. 1970, 36–38; or Improvement Era, Dec. 1970, 59–60). He taught how important it was to act instead of react to the events around us. So I waved at the little boy. He stuck his tongue out at me again. I smiled and waved again. This time he waved back.
Soon he was joined in his enthusiastic waving by a little brother and sister. I responded by waving this way and that until my arm became tired. Then I rested it on the steering wheel and continued with every creative wave I could muster, all the time hoping their parents would quickly return or that my wife would soon come back.
The parents finally did come, and as they pulled away, my newfound friends continued to wave for as long as I could see them.

Mom and Dad say that when I was born, I brought a special spirit into our home. I like to be a peacemaker. Whenever my brothers argue, I put up my hand and say, “Stop! No mad allowed!” If that doesn’t get them to stop, I lead them to the den and have them look at the picture of Jesus and talk to them about Him. Then I ask if they feel better. They always do.
Elizabeth Gibson, age 4 (with help from her mom)Goshen, Indiana

It was in Toronto that John Taylor heard the gospel as a result of some unusual circumstances. Parley P. Pratt had been sent to the city by revelation (Elder Heber C. Kimball had also prophesied: “… and from the things growing out of this mission, shall the fulness of the gospel spread into England”). He had received from a stranger in Hamilton, Canada, a letter of introduction to a John Taylor in Toronto, but when Elder Pratt called at the Taylor home, his reception was polite but not exactly cordial. So after presenting his message to ministers in the city, Elder Pratt prepared to leave. Valise in hand, he was saying good-bye to John Taylor when a neighbor came in, offered her home for Elder Pratt to preach in, and proposed to lodge and feed him. The neighbor was a member of a study group that the Taylors had organized. Within a number of days, John Taylor heard Elder Pratt preach. This was his response:
“We are here, ostensibly in search of truth. Hitherto we have fully investigated other creeds and doctrines and proven them false. Why should we fear to investigate Mormonism? This gentleman, Mr. Pratt, has brought to us many doctrines that correspond with our own views. … We have prayed to God to send us a messenger, if he has a true Church on earth. … I desire to investigate his doctrines and claims to authority, and shall be very glad if some of my friends will unite with me in this investigation. But if no one will unite with me, be assured I shall make the investigation alone. If I find his religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be; but if false, then I shall expose it.”
He followed Elder Pratt around and wrote down eight different sermons he delivered. He then privately compared them with the scriptures. “I made a regular business of it for three weeks and followed Brother Pratt from place to place.” He and his wife joined the Church shortly thereafter.