Gospel Story Finder

One night the “mules and horses took a notion they would go and accordingly they went.” The boys started in pursuit “but the night was so dark that we had to take the advantage of the lightning to tell us which way we were going.” When Zeb saw something move in the distance he tried to run to it. “At last I got lost in a swamp but managed, after much trouble, to get back to camp without finding the animals.” Next morning, on foot, the boys found the animals more than nine miles from the camp.

Elisabeth reminded me that I can see only a tiny sliver of what the Lord sees. This thought kept me going after each failed infertility treatment. I could not understand why the Lord kept directing us down paths that seemed like failures because they didn’t end with us having a baby. Now, looking back, I can see how each of those seeming failures was an important stepping-stone on our path to understanding His timing.

The accident happened while I was riding home after a soccer game in a town south of Santiago, Chile. My younger brother had played for one of the teams, and while my parents waited for him, I went ahead on my bicycle. My eight-year-old cousin asked if he could go with me. I set him on the bar of my bike and took off.
As I pedaled, I felt a twinge of guilt. The night before, after celebrating the triumph of my own team in another local game, I had become intoxicated. At 18 years of age, I wasn’t doing much with my life.
The wind buffeted our faces, and my cousin shifted uncomfortably. As he did so, one of his feet caught between the tire and the bike frame. The bike flipped forward, and I hit the rough asphalt face first. When I touched my face, I thought my nose was damaged beyond repair.
Fortunately, my cousin was fine. My parents arrived shortly, then a police officer, and finally an ambulance. I was taken into surgery, where they stitched up part of my nose and placed some tissue on my forehead. After a few hours of observation in the hospital, I was sent home. That night I experienced intense pain that kept me from sleep.
The following night the pain was even worse. Finally, exhausted from the intensity of the pain, I fell asleep. In a frightening dream, I seemed to see myself lying on the bed with my arms folded over my chest—the only position I found comfortable. Then I saw a dense vapor of darkness and felt a hand pulling me toward it. Terrified, I struggled to get free.
Suddenly I saw my younger brother at my other side, pulling me away from the darkness and into the light. But his help was not enough; I became desperate and cried out. As I did, I woke up. My father came in to calm me. The pain came back, and for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry.
I was moved into my parents’ room, next to Mama. Mama and my brother had been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a few months before, and I had seen how much she loved the Book of Mormon. She read to me from it as I fell asleep again.
Almost immediately, I had the same dream. This time when my brother started to pull on my arm, I understood the significance of it. The darkness represented the world in its fallen state, and my brother represented the gospel and a life of hope—the life he wanted for me. I knew I had fallen into bad habits. I had not opened my heart to what the missionaries taught us, and I had never prayed to find out if what they taught was true. At that moment, I promised my Father in Heaven I would be baptized.
I woke up crying. Mama cried too and prayed for me.
The pain continued the following day, and Mama asked the missionaries to give me a priesthood blessing. After that, I began to get better. Throughout my recovery, my desire to be baptized grew stronger.
I began to receive the missionary discussions again, and this time I opened my heart. I did not yet have a great deal of gospel knowledge—but the dream, combined with my mother’s faith and the priesthood blessing, helped me know God loved me and had provided a way for me to obtain eternal life. I took an important step toward that goal on the day I was baptized.
I used to think I had plenty of time to worry about finding the true Church, if it existed. But the accident helped me understand that we must not postpone making good choices.

—Caroline Olsen, a 22-year-old interior design student from Brampton, Ontario, Canada, enjoyed her studies, but wondered if they were superficial.
“I started to feel like what I was doing was unimportant. I mean, why be a designer? Who does it help? “Then one of the faculty members sat down with me and said, ‘Carrie, the things you develop will help others. Our environment is the most important thing that surrounds us each day. It creates an atmosphere for our workplace or our family. If it’s a good environment, it will influence us to be better people.’
“All of a sudden I understood that what I was doing was important. Thanks to that teacher, I found out I was doing something good.”

Even though I had the gospel in my life, life was hard. My father was still not working and had Parkinson’s so during a secondary school vacation, I would pick up any menial work I could find. My father, amidst the challenges of life, quit the Church but allowed me to continue. After secondary school, our stake started the Young Single Adult Gathering Place. I signed up for shoemaking class, but I was alone, so the stake president arranged for me to learn the craft with the instructor at his shop. I am passionate about fashion, especially footwear, because everyone needs footwear, and well-made shoes do not go out of fashion.
I worked long hours for very little pay. Attending church became difficult as I was often required to work on Sundays. I apprenticed for over two years and then was able to break out on my own by saving small amounts until I had enough to buy one tool. It would take me 2–3 months of saving to buy another hand tool, but I had a goal. I had examples of what I was going through in the scriptures, I knew that it would worth it. Sleeping on a bare floor, eating one meal a day, working literally day and night would all prove to help me in the future.
My stake president connected me with a couple who were able to help me get some machines to start my business, Kuatsikor Shoes. I named it after my father, to honor him since he never lived to see my business, having died in July 2019. My motto is “Walk Miles”. In August 2023, I was endowed in the house of the Lord in the Accra Ghana Temple. It was such a great experience. The moment I stepped into the temple, I felt a heavy burden had been lifted, it’s hard to explain. I felt a new peace and joy. The gospel of Jesus Christ has significantly impacted my life because I had the feeling that I was in the right place, my first Sunday at church. I will always be grateful for the self-reliance programs organized at the stake center that gave me insights and knowledge about how to grow my own business and to manage my finances. I believe if I continue to stick to these principles, my vision of becoming the best shoemaker in Africa shall come to pass. I know that God speaks to his servants, the prophets.

She thought back to the first time she had seen them—two young men, “boys” to her, who were about the same age as some of her grandsons. She had been trimming the hedge when she saw them come out of the alley and turn toward her, two well-groomed young men in suits. The sight made her lift her eyebrows in mild surprise and curiosity. It seemed different to see decent kids again, she had thought, picturing her own grandsons who had that awful long hair and were doing things that kids just shouldn’t do. “But,” she said, addressing the hedge, “they are still the best grandkids around.”

She wondered what these two young men did in their suits and on bikes at 9:45 in the morning. She wasn’t left to wonder too long. When they got to where she was working, they stopped. One called out, “Howdy, ma’am.” She stopped snipping and tilted her head way back so as to get a better view of them through her glasses, which always dangled precariously on the tip of her nose.

“Good morning,” she replied.

“Ma’am, my name is Elder Blackburn and this is my companion Elder Lyon.

“We are representatives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as the Mormon church.” (With the mentioning of the word Mormon, her mind reeled with the many things she had heard. Pictures of wild-eyed religious fanatics with long, flowing beards and thousands of wives raced through her head.)

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?” the one called Lyon asked.

“Wha-what was that?” she stammered, as her thoughts popped like an over-occupied toy balloon.

“Have you ever heard of the Mormon church?”

“Well,” she began slowly, trying to think of a way to get out of the situation, “yes, I have, but I’ve got my own church.”

“That’s wonderful,” the one called Blackburn said, cutting her off before she had the chance to say she wasn’t interested. “We are new in the area of Rosmont, and today we are going around talking to our new neighbors. We live over on Richardson Street, behind Mrs. Garrett. Do you know Mrs. Garrett?”

“I know her quite well. I’ve lived here for 48 years.”

Lyon began again: “We are also talking with our neighbors about a visit that the Sav—” This time it was her turn to interrupt.

“Boys, I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a lot to do, and I’m really not too interested right now, but thank you for saying hello. That is very sweet. More young people need to be as nice as you. Good-day.”

“Well, it has been nice talking with you, ma’am.” It was Blackburn again, and with that they were gone to the next house.

So then she knew who they were and what they were doing. As the days went by, she would see them leave between 9:30 and 9:45. They always waved as they passed and said hello. They even stopped every once in a while to chat. In a few months a new face took Elder Blackburn’s place. He was introduced as Elder Daringjer. (Same first name again, she thought.) The one called Daringjer had been a horticulture major before coming on his “mission” as they called it. They became instantly talkative, and she showed him all of her little plants and beauties.

One Monday morning she was surprised to find them in ordinary clothes, waiting in the garden for her. Elder Daringjer explained that they would like to work with her and help if they could. Elder Lyon mowed the lawns and trimmed the walks and hedges, while she and the other cared for her little fragile babies. While they worked, she found out many things about who these boys were and why they came out on missions. She also found out that they didn’t really all have the same first names; it was only a title.

By noon what would have taken her days to finish had been completed. They had wanted to come over and show her a film-strip on something or other, but she had politely refused. The fact that they didn’t push things at her seemed to make her think of them with more curiosity than before. She was thinking of them almost daily.

“Why do I bother with fanatics,” she asked a row of carrots one morning after several weeks of letting the elders come and weed, trim, and talk to her. She was very amazed when they told her that both of their families had vegetable gardens back home, and that their prophet had counseled the people to raise gardens, fix yards, repair homes, and care for their farms.

As the days went by, instead of holding her breath when they turned out of the alley toward her like she had during the first few weeks she had known them, she found herself holding her breath hoping they wouldn’t turn away.

“I wonder what makes young men spend two years visiting with people about a religion that doesn’t even have a professional clergy to give sermons? It sounds rather hastily set up. Some day I’ll just have to ask them inside to talk a little more.”

By 9:00 her morning work was done, and she was kneeling in her chrysanthemums, acting very busy with weeding, looking for any evil little bug that would bring harm to her small, delicate beings. Her thoughts kept wandering to the events that had happened just last week.

Her morning had started as usual, but at 7:30 her phone rang and it was bad news from her daughter. Her grandson, one of those with the long hair and bad habits, had been involved in what started as a stay-out-of-Africa rally and ended in a blood bath between students with rocks, signs, and knives and a local garrison of guardsmen with their clubs, shields, and guns. The rally ended with one dead national guard member and five dead students, of which her grandson had been one.

The shock lingered long after the telephone call. She sat staring at the kitchen wall for an hour, and finally she had dragged herself down to her flowers. There she sat, trying to forget. It was then she looked up, and instead of seeing two young men in suitcoats and on bikes turn out of the alley, only one was coming. His white shirt was missing its usual tie, and his bike and coat were gone. With head down and hands jammed hard in his pockets, clenched in fists of frustration, he was kicking rocks and old cans as he stomped toward her. She could see that he was talking to himself, and as the distance narrowed, she caught snatches of the angry words he was saying.

She sat and listened as he began having a mental battle with himself. First he’d mumble a scripture on patience, or brotherly love, or humility, then a quick comeback on patience being gone, and brotherly love destroyed by this or that, and humility nonexistent. The more he talked, the more the scriptures began to win until he was murmuring only pieces of scriptures and phrases of hymns that she had never heard before.

There had been a disagreement of some sorts; that was obvious. By the time he had reached the spot where she sat staring in the chrysanthemums, he had slowed and stopped. He stood looking at his scuffed shoes, totally unaware of her presence, his mind frantically searching for what to do. Pride said go, but love said stop. The hardness of his brow softened, the firmness around his mouth that had kept his gritted teeth solidly in place weakened, and she could see his eyes fill with tears. She became very conscious of her position and wished she were one of her beautiful little flowers blowing in the breeze.

Then from the alley a voice boomed: “Elder, wait! I—I’m sorry!” The young man near her slowly turned and looked where his partner was standing in his stocking feet.

For what seemed enough time to plant and harvest a section of wheat, the air remained empty of human sounds or movement. Then Elder Scuffed Shoes looked at her and, in a rather husky voice, asked if he could please have a flower. “A flower of forgiveness,” he had muttered. Mutely she clipped one for him and watched as he retraced his steps until he stood in front of the other. They were too far off for her to hear what was said, but she saw the flower exchange hands and watched as they walked back to their apartment in the alley, each with an arm around the other’s shoulder.

She had sat there in the flowers trying to figure out how one young man could know so much about love and have such an abundance of it, while another lay lifeless on a mortician’s table because of his gross lack of it. Both had been searching for what life really was. One had found it; the other hadn’t. Why? She couldn’t answer her own question. Finally she got up and left to prepare for a funeral many miles away. Even as she left, she knew she had to find the answer to “Why?” when she returned.

She was kneeling in the chrysanthemums when she saw them coming.

“Turn up!” she whispered. “Turn up!” They looked right and left, they both saw her and waved, and then together they turned away. Her heart sank like a rock in a lake. She felt as if a building was falling on her, making her hands and mind feel heavy. She watched silently as they rode a little way and then stopped. They were talking to one another. She just sat in the flowers thinking that they were gone and she’d have to try again tomorrow. She considered just going to their small apartment to talk with them.

“I could bring something nice like fresh cookies,” she whispered to her small spade, knowing that she would never find the strength to do it.

The elders sat on their bikes looking back at their neighbor.

“What makes you think she wants to talk to us, Elder? The only things she talks about are her flowers.”

“I know, but did you see the way she was watching us? Did you see her eyes? I have a little sister who used to wait by the big window every day when I came home from work, and I could see in her eyes that she wanted to tell me what had happened to her in kindergarten that day.”

“So?”

“Well, Elder, look at her eyes, and besides that, she didn’t even wave at us. She always waves.”

“Maybe she’s mad.”

“I don’t really think so. Let’s just ask her if we can help her in some way. Look, she’s still watching us.”

“Okay, let’s go chat.”

They turned their bikes around and came back. When they stopped, Elder Lyon said, “Ah, ma’am? Could we help you?”

She just looked at them, and her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, Elder,” she said, through a slightly cracking voice. “Let’s go in the house, and you … well … I’ve got some questions I need some answers to.”

They walked up the stairs and onto the front porch. Before they went in, a thought came to her, and she said, “I hope this won’t take all morning, because there is an old man I must see today, an old man who suffered a stroke in the early spring. He must be awfully depressed watching his beautiful lawn go unattended. I think I’ll take him some flowers, flowers of forgiveness.”

For a long time I struggled with an eating disorder called anorexia nervosa, where you eat less and less and worry about gaining weight. It affects you mentally—you start to feel guilty for eating and don’t understand your body’s needs. It didn’t help that I constantly saw unrealistic standards online or at school, and I compared myself to my family and others around me.
My eating disorder was definitely something I hid. But my mom noticed the changes in my eating habits. She sat down with me and gave me as much time as I needed to tell her what was going on. There were a lot of tears, but I think the Spirit helped guide her to know I needed help. Together, we made a plan and started gently working through it.
During that time, I also decided to get my patriarchal blessing. I wanted to know what my life could be like outside of the darkness that I was experiencing. I came in asking God, “Who am I?,” “Do You love me?,” and “Why am I here?” The first thing the patriarch said was an answer to those questions. My blessing helps me learn about my true identity and what God has in store for me. Whenever I read it, I feel the Savior’s love for me and remember what I can become with Him.
Even with the support of my patriarchal blessing, my family, my Heavenly Father, and my Savior, it took me a long time to process the feelings I had about my body. It’s still hard sometimes to accept myself for who I am and the way I look. But because of my dark times, I am starting to appreciate the growth and light that come from recognizing my true identity. I’m a daughter of Heavenly Father. I’m a disciple of Jesus Christ. They look upon me with love and encouragement, and that matters more than anyone else’s opinion.

Of course, paying fast offerings is not always easy. Like other financial contributions to the Church, it can be a test of our faithfulness. One brother related the following experience:
“I was a student at Oxford University in England and was preparing to fly home to the United States. I only had a little money and needed to do three things: pay my fast offering and budget, buy a trunk for my things, and pay for transportation to the airport. I only had enough money for two of these. I had decided to wait and pay fast offerings and budget later, but while I was in church I felt inspired to go ahead and pay them—which I did. Afterwards I was left with enough money for either the trunk or transportation to the airport, but not both. Later, as I was walking down the street, I noticed a man carrying a trunk. I asked him about it, and he told me he was about to throw it away. After we talked for a minute he gave me the trunk—my problem was solved. To me, that was a direct blessing for paying my fast offerings and budget.”

Not long ago, while riding in a plane, I talked with a young man who was seated beside me. We moved from one subject to another, and then came to the matter of religion. He said he had read considerably about the Mormons, had found much to admire, but that he had a definite prejudice concerning the origin of the Church and particularly Joseph Smith.

He was an active member of another religion, and when I asked where he had acquired his information about the LDS church, he indicated it had come from publications of his church. I asked what company he worked for. He proudly replied that he was a sales representative for IBM. I then asked whether he would think it fair for his customers to learn of the qualities of IBM products from a Xerox representative. He replied with a smile, “I think I get the point.”

I took from my case a copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and read to him the words of the Lord expressed through Joseph Smith, words which are the source of those practices my friend had come to admire in us while disdaining the man through whom they had come. Before we parted, he agreed to read the literature I would send to him. I promised him that if he would do so prayerfully he would know the truth not only of these doctrines and practices which have interested him, but also of the man through whom they were introduced. I then gave him my testimony concerning the prophetic calling of Joseph Smith.

I think I initially questioned what I believed because I wasn’t confident that my testimony was strong enough to go on a mission. I remember around the time I graduated high school thinking something like, What if my testimony isn’t fully mine? What if I’ve been relying too much on the testimonies of other people?

That bothered me. I wanted to go on a mission, but I wondered if the spiritual experiences I had had up to that point were enough to make me what I thought a successful missionary was supposed to be—someone who had enough spiritual strength and knew enough about the gospel to teach other people.

Looking back, I should have asked God to help me understand the counsel given in Doctrine and Covenants 124:97: “Let him be humble before me, … and he shall receive of my Spirit, even the Comforter, which shall manifest unto him the truth of all things, and shall give him, in the very hour, what he shall say.”

But rather than asking God, I got lost in comparing my spiritual stature to others’, and I was afraid that my inadequacies would keep people from accepting the gospel.

Out on my own as a young adult, I continued trying to figure out what I believed. I didn’t see the harm of what I saw as isolated decisions that didn’t redefine who I was as a person. I began to pull away from those that I loved because I knew they would be disappointed in the choices I was making. Instead, I surrounded myself with people who didn’t really care what I was doing. One day I tried an alcoholic drink out of curiosity. Drinking became a part of my life and eventually went from just recreation to something I used as a crutch to cope with difficult experiences. The negative changes in my life during that time weren’t necessarily tied to any one choice; they were gradual. It took me two years to realize that the small choices I made over time had led me to a place I didn’t want to be.

Now, I’m not saying that in order to learn the truthfulness of the gospel, you should experience the opposite. My actions caused pain not just for me but also for people I loved—much of it unnecessary. I’m grateful that I was able to humble myself enough to realize that (1) I was miserable, and (2) I had been happiest when I was living God’s commandments. That was something I knew for myself, something I could stand behind and share with others.

“Brother Jacobs told us about the actual people the play was based on. They left their family behind in Armenia because they knew the Church was true. They decided to come to Utah. After they left, their family was killed. It makes you realize how important this play is. It gives you an appreciation for what people went through,” says 16-year-old Shae Dunkley.
Armenia of the 1890s may seem an unlikely place to find a missionary story, but the play “And They Shall Be Gathered,” written by Martin Kelly, is exactly that. Based on the true conversion story of husband and wife Arzuman and Akaby Tavoian, the play explores not only gospel principles but the love of a family as well.
Arzuman and Akaby (named Sarkis and Arick in the play) learn about the gospel individually, and each decides to be baptized—without telling the other person. (Because of their common last name, the missionaries are unaware that they are married.) When they discover they are both members of this new religion, they realize they must leave the country and go to Utah in order to fully live and practice their faith.
Just as they are preparing to leave, another young family member is killed in an accident. The family is severely saddened by the death and doesn’t understand why he was taken so young. Sarkis and Arick are able to leave with their family the gospel message of hope and the knowledge of life after death.
They then bid their family a fond but teary farewell and set out for Utah.
Sadly, Sarkis and Arick never hear from their family again. It is assumed that they were killed by invading Turks just after Sarkis and Arick left the country.

A couple of years ago, international broadcasts and world fame were the furthest things from her mind. She was an attractive young Denver Mormon girl who liked to sing and who wanted to try her luck where there were a lot of attractive young Mormon men and maybe some new job opportunities. So naturally she packed up her pots and pans and sheet music and headed for Salt Lake City, singing all the way. And when she got a job restoring books and documents for the Church Historical Department, she went right on singing and humming to herself as she worked.
It just so happened that a fellow employee who heard her spontaneous snatches of song was a member of the choir and suggested that she audition. She laughed it off at first and went on singing to herself. “I was frightened,” she recalls. “I really didn’t believe in myself that much.” But the suggestion kept creeping back into her mind each time she started to hum, and before long she decided, “Well, I’ll never know unless I try.”
Richard Condie, then director of the choir, was impressed with her audition, but as is usually the case in real life, it wasn’t to be a perfect Cinderella story. She still needed some work, so she arranged for private voice lessons. Seven months of hard work later, she was ready, and she took her place in what Eugene Ormandy of the Philadelphia Orchestra has called “the world’s greatest choir.”
Every voice in the Tabernacle Choir is a gem, including Janeece’s. But there is no artistic arrogance. Janeece says of her fellow choir members, “They’re very humble and spiritual people. It’s a warm and wonderful experience working with them, and we have a very rewarding friendship. They provide me with a constant challenge to improve and grow, not only in my voice, but also in my personal life.
“I’ve learned a lot,” she continues, “just by listening to the people next to me, but I think that 90 percent of my growth has come in self-confidence.” To the young people of the Church she counsels, “If you have a dream, it can become a reality. If something is unreal to you—if it’s just ‘way out there somewhere’—you have no way of grasping it, but if you can put it into perspective and realize that it’s real, then you’re on your way. If there’s something you really want in life, you should go after it and not limit yourself. It’s true that we each have limits, but we seldom reach them. We limit ourselves too much because of fear. Believe in yourself. Don’t let fear stand in your way. One moment of decision can sometimes make a lifetime of difference. It just took one moment for me to decide to call Brother Condie and go for an audition, and if I had let fear override that moment, I would never have had the experience that I have today.”

Many years ago I had the privilege of meeting a young man by the name of Jay. Jay was in a Sunday School class I had been invited to teach. When the bishop called me to this position, he said I was the fourth teacher in six weeks. He said the class had driven out the other three and that he would not let them drive me out. I told him I would take the class for as long as he wanted me. He referred me then to one of the officers in the ward who relayed the same message about the number of teachers. The officer then said:
“There is a young man in the class named Jay. He is an obnoxious kid and the real ringleader. If he gets out of line, you let me know; I will jerk him out of your class so fast his head will swim.”
I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get along fine.”
“Well, you just let me know if there is any problem. We won’t have him drive you out of the class, too.”
I’ve always believed that if there is a discipline problem, it is the teacher’s fault and not the student’s. So I prepared well, and when I went to class Sunday morning, I was ready.
Jay was sitting on the end of one of the rows. He had a small radio in his pocket with one wire that went up and plugged in his ear and another wire that went over to the radiator. He sat through the entire lesson, tapped his foot on the floor, and seemed very interested in what was going on on the radio. He did not disturb me, and I felt I got through to the rest of the class that morning.
Each week I would prepare well and then go to the class. Each week something different came up, but Jay wasn’t offensive to me, and he didn’t disturb the rest of the class. So we got along fine.
About six weeks after I had been called to teach the class, the bishop met me as I went downstairs and said, “Would you please ask all of your class to be here 15 minutes early tonight for sacrament meeting as we are presenting individual awards.”
I told him yes. I went downstairs and told the class what the bishop had said, mentioned the fact that individual awards would be given and that all of my class would receive one, and would they please be there 15 minutes early.
Jay jumped up and said, “Do you know what I’m going to do with my individual award when I get it? I’m going to stand up right in front of the congregation and tear it in two.”
The class members gasped. I said, “Jay, why would you do that?”
He said, “Because I don’t need a piece of paper or an individual award or a certificate that tells me that I’m a good guy or a Christian. I come to church because I want to come. The piece of paper doesn’t make me different from what I really am inside.”
Well, I didn’t have an answer for Jay, and so I suggested that we might discuss this the last five minutes of the Sunday School period. I was stalling for time.
Five minutes before the class ended I said, “I believe now we are ready to attend to Jay’s question. Do you know, Jay is right. We should not have to have a piece of paper, a certificate, an individual award to get us to come to Church. An individual award is a crutch if that is the reason we come.
“Jay, individual awards aren’t for guys like you. They’re for guys like Vaughn Featherstone. When I was a deacon growing up, my mother wasn’t a member of the Church. My father was an alcoholic, and the first individual award I got I took home and put above my bed. I’ll never forget it. It made me someone. It seemed like for the first time in my life I really could be someone. I counted because here was a piece of paper that proved it. Now I know it was only a crutch. But tonight when they present individual awards and they pass you yours, would you just simply take it and go back to your seat and say, ‘Individual awards aren’t for guys like me. I don’t need them. They’re for guys like Vaughn Featherstone when he was growing up. He needed the crutch, and if it worked there, it’s all right.’”
Well, that afternoon came, and we all arrived about 15 minutes before sacrament meeting. I sat right behind the class, and they were called up to receive their individual awards one by one. Finally, Jay’s turn came. I believe the whole Sunday School class stopped breathing. He took the individual award, walked across the stand, and then back to his seat. I thought in my heart, “I’m getting through to this kid.”
The next week I found out he had tried out for the sophomore football team, and so I went over to his high school and watched the sophomores practice.
No one watches sophomores. They all go down and watch the varsity. So I stood there all alone watching the sophomores.
Jay went out for a pass; and as he came back in, he saw me and made a wide circle and came over. He said, “What are you doing here?”
I said, “I came to watch you play football, to practice, to find out if you are any good. I played football when I was in high school, and I think I can recognize if you are any good. I came to watch you.”
“Oh, you didn’t come to watch me. What are you here for?”
“No, Jay, I did come to watch you. I don’t know one other guy on the team.”
He went over to the huddle, and several times during the next 45 minutes I saw him look over to see if I was still there. I wanted to see him do something that I could talk about at Sunday School where I could talk about just him. So I went back a couple nights later and watched them practice again, and I had the information I needed.
When Sunday morning came, I stood before the class and said: “I went over to watch the sophomore team practice the other night, and I watched Jay. He’s terrific! He has great hands. If he gets within touching distance of a ball, he catches it. He has some great moves, and he’s fast as a deer. I’m sure if he continues with the talent he has as a sophomore, one day he’ll be all-state.”
Well, I don’t know if anyone else listened, but I want you to know that Jay was sitting on the edge of his chair, listening to every word I said.
I followed him the next year as he tried out for the track team. He hadn’t tried out as a sophomore but was doing so as a junior. When he went to the coach, the coach said, “I’m sorry, Jay. We have some good half-milers. We don’t need any more.” He mentioned one young man who had taken second place in the state the previous year and others who were very good, as well as some sophomores who had come up as juniors now, and he didn’t need Jay.
Jay said, “I guess you don’t own the track, do you?”
“No, but what do you mean by that?”
“Well, I guess I can come and run if I want.”
“I guess you can, but don’t get in our way.”
So Jay came down night after night, sometimes during the track practices, sometimes before, sometimes after—always running, running, and running. One night shortly after, they had a dual track meet, and I guess the track coach, softened by this kid’s terrible drive to be somebody, to accomplish something, came over and said to him:
“Jay, if you would like to run in this half-mile event, you can. If you can place, I’ll put you on the track team.”
Well, there wasn’t much of a chance. They had many good half-milers from both teams, but Jay got in the event.
The gun sounded to start them off; and when the tape had been broken, Jay had taken first place. I want you to know they had a new sweatsuit for him, and he was on the track team. He had a nice locker, and he became a permanent member of the track team. I don’t believe I missed one track meet during that season. I saw every one. I watched the papers and saw the times of other half-milers in other meets. Jay’s time was pretty good but was not as good as many other times across the state.
Finally came the BYU Invitational Tournament. I remember Saturday morning getting my wife up early, telling her that we were going down to BYU to watch the track meet. She said, “Well, it’s raining. They don’t hold track meets when it rains, do they?” “Yes, they hold the BYU Invitational.”
“What time does Jay run, and we’ll just go down and watch part of it.”
Well, I had deliberately not found out so that we could watch the whole track meet. So we bundled our three little boys up, and we got two or three blankets and drove down to BYU in our old ’37 Plymouth. I remember laying one blanket out across a bench about ten rows above Jay’s team. Then I put another blanket across our shoulders, and we sat there in the rain, knowing that eventually Jay would come over and check in with his track coach, and we would be able to talk to him.
In a few moments Jay came bouncing up and stood there in front of his coach. His coach threw him an orange, and as he peeled the orange, he happened to look up across the stands, and he saw me. Something happened when my eyes met his eyes. I can’t tell you what it was. I just know that something happened. He turned away, and in a few moments he came bouncing up the stairs, and he said, “What are you doing up here?”
“Jay, we came to see one of the greatest kids I know win the half-mile today.”
“Well, I’ll do my best.”
“Yes, and your best is winning. You don’t know anything else. You’re a great guy. You have an unconquerable heart, and you’ll win.”
He got just a little teary-eyed and then went back downstairs. Pretty soon it was first call for the half-milers, and second call, and third call. As they started to get ready, to take off their sweatsuits to prepare to run, I remember thinking about the other half-milers. There was one from Pocatello who was an excellent runner. I thought of another half-miler from Weber who had been running right around two minutes, and in those days that was a good time. So I just offered a little prayer: “Heavenly Father, put Jay in one heat, and put the boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber in another heat. And then Jay can win. I can talk about him and build him up.”
Well, I watched Jay take off his suit. He was in the first heat. I looked around, and there was the boy from Pocatello taking off his sweatsuit. He was in the first heat. I looked a little farther and spotted the kid from Weber. He was taking off his sweatsuit. He was in the first heat. That’s the way the Lord answers my prayers sometimes.
Pretty soon they lined up, sprinted back and forth. Then I saw Jay look up once more, and he saw me. I was looking, watching. Something passed between us again, and then they were called to their marks.
The gun went off, and they took off around the corner. The boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber stayed side by side way out ahead of everyone else as they rounded the first corner, and on around to the second corner, and down the straightaway to the 220. They were way out ahead of several—20 or 30 yards ahead of one, then two more, and another one, and then finally about 40 yards back was Jay. As they came around the 220, Jay was still way back there. They came around the far end of the 330 and around the first 440, and again Jay was way back, sixth or seventh in the race. I don’t know how far back.
Then as these two passed me, I was cheering for Jay at the top of my lungs.
“Get up there, Jay! Get up in there!” He couldn’t hear me. There were 10,000 people, it seemed, all around me, cheering and yelling for their runners.
As the boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber got past the first 440, they were far ahead. Then the others came across the 440, and then Jay.
Then Jay did something I had never seen done before in a half mile. As he crossed the 440, he burst into a full sprint. He sprinted around one, around two more, and around another one, and another one; and then as they finished the 660, he had pulled up right in behind this boy from Pocatello and the boy from Weber. Then he started to slacken his pace; and as he did so, they picked up theirs. I thought, “Well, what a great run this kid has made today! What a great heart he has! He can’t stay in there now.”
But as they started to pick up the pace, he stayed with them; and as they came around the 330 on the second lap around the far end, I remember watching him with tears in my eyes as I thought of the great effort he was making. Then they came around the far corner, and both of these two men burst into a full sprint, straight down the last 100 yards. And as they burst down the straightaway, I thought, “Well, that’s it. Jay can’t possibly win now, but he’ll take third and what a great race.”
I saw them coming down the straightaway, and I thought my heart would stop. Jay began to move up in between these two fellows. The fellow on the right looked over his shoulder and could see Jay coming. With about 10 yards to go he dove for the finish line and slid across the finish line on his chest in the cinders. The fellow on the left looked over his shoulder and could see Jay about a half a stride behind. He threw his chest out and stumbled toward the tape with his chest out as far as he could push it to try to reach the tape before Jay got there. Jay burst between them and took first place. I stood up in the stands and tears streamed down my cheeks. I thought, “What a great kid he is—what a giant heart!”
Well, I had the privilege of graduating each year with that Sunday School class, 14 to 15, 15 to 16, 16 to 17, and then we moved out of the ward. A short time later Jay asked me if I would speak at his missionary farewell. After he was out in the mission field just a little under a year, he sent a letter to me and said:
“Dear Brother Featherstone, I thought I would like to let you be one of the first ones to know. I’ve been called to be an assistant to the president here in France.”
And I thought, “And someone once told me, ‘You let me know, and I’ll put him out of your class so fast his head will swim.’”
Something happened the other day in the temple that I’ll never forget. As I went through the temple with my three sons, I met Jay coming out of one of the rooms. As I talked with him, he said:
“I’ve been back to medical school on the east coast, and I’ve made contact with Russell Nelson. He has given me the privilege of being one of his assistants.”
And I thought, “Who is this Jay? We don’t know who he is yet. Russell Nelson has operated on our prophet and worked a miracle for the Lord, and Jay is going to work with him. Who is Jay?”

During summer break, I took a robotics engineering class at the high school near my home. I was one of the youngest ones in the class. On the first day our teachers put us into groups. In these groups we learned how to code robots. Coding allowed us to invent ways for robots to complete mazes. It was very hard to learn, and it took our group several days to do. Some days, people didn’t come to class, so it was just me and one other person working on our project.
On the last day, the teachers decided to do a fun game with the entire class. They gave each group 20 dried noodles and 10 marshmallows. They told us to make the tallest tower. My group only had two people that day, so a member from another group came over to help us.
Illustration by Macky Pamintuan
We worked on the tower for a long time and tried our best. The tower we made turned out a little too wide and not very tall. We felt like we could have done better. My teammates wanted to quit, but I said, “Let’s not give up.” We took all the noodle pieces from the side and placed them at the top. Little by little our tower grew!
Because we didn’t give up, we tied another group for first place. I learned that no matter how hard things get, we should never give up!

This past Christmas was one of the most selfless Christmases I’ve ever experienced. One week before Christmas at the ward Christmas party, the members were invited to bring clothes, toys, furniture, and other items to donate to needy families. And if that wasn’t enough, the Cub Scouts offered to give us all the food from their food drive.
Boy, did we get a response! Three classrooms were packed full. It was a beautiful and overwhelming sight! During that week, we probably spent 7 to 10 hours just sorting and separating all that had been donated. In the end, home teachers delivered 48 boxes as Christmas presents the night of December 23rd.
This experience reminded me of Jacob 2:19: “After ye have obtained a hope in Christ ye shall obtain riches, if ye seek them; and ye will seek them for the intent to do good—to clothe the naked, to feed the hungry, and to liberate the captive, and administer relief to the sick and the afflicted.”
We not only had the opportunity to help Church members, but we were involved in helping the community as well. Another 30 boxes of food were distributed to other families in need. What a way to spend Christmas! No gifts or decorated tree can ever compare to the feeling of giving.
As we continued to visit the families who received these gifts of love, we saw the homes brighten and hearts open. These are my most prized memories—giving all that I have and am to the service of my Lord.
Nicole Cox served in the Washington Spokane Mission; she is a member of the El Segundo Ward, Inglewood California Stake.

I grew up in the city of Minas, Uruguay. When I was six years old, my mother and older sisters were baptized into the Church. My father never joined the Church, but he was always happy that we went to church. He even kept the Word of Wisdom and paid tithing.
Our branch was very small, and we did not have a church building. We met in a rented house. The house had a small swimming pool outside that we used for baptisms.
As my eighth birthday got closer, I was excited about being baptized. But on the day of the baptism, it was raining and very cold. My mom said that maybe I shouldn’t be baptized that day because of the cold weather. But it was my birthday, and I wanted to be baptized on that day.
I remember putting on my white clothes and getting into the pool to be baptized. I knew that the water would be cold, but I did not feel cold. I knew that I was doing the right thing, and I had a warm feeling.
A short time later a chapel was built for our branch. At that time Church members could help build the meetinghouses. My job was to pick up nails and screws that had fallen on the ground so they could be used again. It was a simple job, but it was very important to me. It taught me how to serve, and it helped prepare me for future Church service. Remember that even though you are young, the things you do now matter.

My first Sunday home, I was lying on my bed and realized I hadn’t looked at Facebook since coming home. I opened it and was overwhelmed by the nostalgia of pictures and videos from before my mission. I love to dance and had started watching some dance videos when I heard my mom call up to my room, “Breanne! What are you listening to?”
I listened more closely and realized how inappropriate the background music was. I was pretty embarrassed that here I was—a freshly returned missionary—listening to music that wasn’t inviting the Spirit.
That experience helped me realize how easy it is to become more relaxed in how much we maintain our gospel standards when we aren’t full-time missionaries. I wanted to stay changed. I wanted to remain the person God had helped me become. Luckily, I recognized that, for me, what I was listening to wasn’t bringing the Spirit and was able to adjust.

One Saturday morning, Bob and Paula Kraemer of Chandler, Arizona, were sitting outside in the warm sunshine watching their sons play in the backyard. Paula, who had recently returned to activity in the Church, pulled out her Book of Mormon and began reading. Bob, who is not a member of the Church, asked Paula what she was reading.
“The Book of Mormon,” Paula answered.
“Why don’t you read it to me?” Bob asked nonchalantly.
Paula was surprised at Bob’s request. During thirteen years of marriage, she couldn’t ever remember reading a book out loud to her husband. With hesitancy in her voice and a prayer in her heart, Paula began reading—“I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents. …” She read for two hours that day and has continued, on occasion, to read the Book of Mormon to Bob.
“Something important happened that morning,” says Paula. “Bob and I began to communicate about the Church. With this newfound open dialogue, Bob began to see what a difference the Church made in my life. And I learned to be grateful for his support instead of being critical of him. I recently went through the Arizona Temple and received my endowment, and Bob supported me 100 percent.
“Now as I read the Book of Mormon, I realize that this book is far more than just words on a page; its spirit has worked miracles in my life just by reading its message to someone I love.”

I usually take one of the local freeways to work. It’s the quickest and easiest way to get there. I try to leave early enough in the morning to miss the heavy traffic, when things slow down and accidents can happen.
One morning, however, I got out of the house later than usual and ended up in congested traffic. As I merged onto the freeway, I thought about my scripture study that morning. I had had the impression that I focus too much on worldly things and not enough on spiritual things. As I drove to work, I thought about how I could be more attentive to spiritual things throughout the day.
Then I noticed a message on one of the large electronic signs over the freeway that alert drivers of accidents or road conditions. As I got closer, I read, “Crash ahead at Mesa Drive—center lane blocked.” I didn’t want to be inconvenienced by having to get off the freeway, so I wondered how long I could stay on the freeway before I had to exit.
Then another thought came to my mind: If I ignored the sign, could I be putting myself in a situation that would be dangerous? Was I ignoring a warning just because I didn’t want my schedule disrupted? Clearly, I was inclined to ignore warnings of my physical safety; how often I had pushed aside promptings for my spiritual safety?
As I pondered about how to be more attentive to the Spirit, I realized that Heavenly Father probably sends me many messages throughout the day. I wondered how many times I had missed His messages because I wasn’t listening for spiritual promptings. I committed to do better.
I checked the traffic, changed lanes, and took the next exit. By using the city roads to get to work, I was able to avoid all the hazards and dangers of staying on the freeway as the accident was cleaned up.
I know that the Lord loves me enough to send me His messages. I simply need to be in tune with the spiritual promptings He sends me.

The Komadinas look back to their first trip to the Fiesta as their incentive for getting involved in the sport.
“Seven years ago, 1977, we had just moved back to Albuquerque from California,” Steve Komadina, Jenny and Amy’s father, explained. “In Albuquerque you see balloons floating by almost every day. So naturally I wanted to take the family to the Fiesta. I couldn’t believe it when we got there. I felt like Gulliver in the land of giants, surrounded by these giant balloons. I went home wishing that somehow we could be a part of it.”
In 1978 Brother Komadina contacted a friend who owned a balloon and asked for a ride. Everything was set, but then it rained. (Balloons only fly in calm, clear skies, usually in the morning before the sun creates thermal drafts.)
In 1979, the family decided to buy Dad a balloon ride for a Christmas present. “It was everything I hoped it would be,” he said. “Peaceful. Quiet. Like standing on a cloud.”
Time for a family council.
“I thought it would be a good way to have a hobby the whole family could get involved in,” Brother Komadina explained. “But the only way I could see to make it work was to include it as part of our family company.”
That meant everybody would have to help. But that’s something the Komadina children are used to. Their family company also rents out rafts for river runners and llamas for backpacking, and organizes rafting and hiking trips. And every child has a job, even if it’s just helping make sandwiches or picking up trash. (Amy, 12, Becky, 10, Spencer, 8, Neal, 6, and Mark, 4, complete the family crew. Mom’s name is Penny.) Dad has another job, too. He’s an obstetrician at Presbyterian Hospital.
The Komadinas were able to purchase two used balloons for about the cost of a mid-sized car, then pay for them by selling rides and advertising. Their favorite advertisement is a stork permanently stitched to the side of one balloon—a plug for what Dr. Komadina does for a living.
In their four years of flying, the Komadinas have three claims to fame.
“The second year we were in the Fiesta, Dad won second place in the roadrunner-and-coyote contest,” Jenny said. In other regions, that’s the hare-and-hound chase. One balloon takes off and tries to lose others. The pursuers try to keep on its trail and land next to it. The coyote that lands the closest wins.
That year the family also won a second place in the parade that rolls through town following the first mass ascension.
But it was in 1982 that the Komadinas made ballooning history. It started out as a service to the elderly in the Albuquerque 5th Ward, where the Komadinas live and where Jenny was at the time Beehive president.
“There was one couple, Brother and Sister Pat Miller, who had never been able to get out to the Fiesta,” Jenny said. “We thought it would be fun if we brought the Fiesta, or at least part of it, to them.” So instead of launching their two balloons at Cutter Field the Komadinas inflated them at the ward parking lot.
The youth of the ward sponsored a “balloon breakfast” and provided transportation for older members who might not otherwise have a chance to see a balloon up close.
“I can still remember what it felt like to touch the fabric, look at the basket, and watch them use hot air to make it fly,” Brother Miller said. “It was wonderful to think the youth would organize something so we could have a chance to see.” The breakfast also helped to fund a temple trip for the Young Men and Young Women.
After breakfast, many of the ward members joined the chase crew—the people and vehicles who follow along behind the balloon on the ground and assist when it lands. That’s where the history comes in. The Komadinas hold the record for the Fiesta’s largest chase crew ever—97 people in 23 vehicles. “Everywhere you looked you’d see them following you,” Amy said.
The whole event typified the family’s attitude about ballooning: sharing. The balloon has been used to give rides at a regional youth conference. It has been used to help the Boy Scouts, even to the point of forming an Explorer post with a ballooning specialty. It has provided an opportunity for the family to share the gospel with other balloonists, especially when explaining why they leave weekend activities early in order to be home for church on Sunday. It’s even been the site for family discussions: “They can’t get away from you up there,” Brother Komadina laughed.
More than anything, it’s been a chance for the family to share with each other. “The emphasis is really zero on ballooning and 100 percent on family,” Sister Komadina said. “This is something we all can do, and it’s exciting enough that the children’s friends want to do it with them, too. At first I didn’t want to get involved with it. But now I enjoy it, except for getting up early.”
Sharing, Komadina style, doesn’t end with the balloon. “We have family home evening every week and family councils all the time,” Amy said. “We read out of the Bible every night together.”
“My father’s my friend,” Amy said. “We have a lot of the same interests. I feel like I can talk to him. He took me out backpacking on my birthday, just so we could be together. He’s busy because of all his patients, but he tries to give us all the time he can.”
“Besides,” Jenny added, “if you can trust your father enough to go up in a balloon with him, you can trust him with almost anything.”
It is a scary thing, going up in a balloon for the first time. But it’s hard to worry too much, because there are so many things to do in advance.
On a typical launch day, the Komadinas and anyone accompanying them gather in the family living room for prayer. Then Amy and Jennifer give talks, much like stewardesses preparing passengers for takeoff on an airplane. They discuss safety (it’s important not to get in or out of the basket unless told to, because ballast is critical), preparation for landing (it’s important to remember to bend your knees to help absorb the impact), and flying techniques (the balloon drifts with the wind, but by ascending or descending, the pilot can usually find a breeze headed in the direction he wants to go).
At the launch site, two or three people unpack the balloon and spread it on the ground. Around the top of the fabric “envelope,” velcro strips are fastened together to keep flaps closed until the balloon stands upright. The mouth of the balloon is held open and a large fan is used to blow air into the nylon or polyester envelope. The propane burner then heats the air, which rises inside the envelope, inflating it even more.
The balloon then tries to assume an upright position. But if that happens too fast, the balloon will not inflate properly, so crew members use a “crown line,” a rope attached to the top of the envelope, to pull against the force of the air. It’s a tug-of-war that two adults or six kids never win.
While all this is going on, the pilot checks gauges which indicate fuel quantity, altitude, rate of climb or descent, and air temperature inside the envelope. As the balloon becomes more buoyant, he will have passengers join him to act as an anchor while he adds more hot air. Finally, when everyone’s ready, he blasts still more hot air into the envelope until the balloon begins to rise. To keep rising, he heats the air, to come down, he can let it cool off or he can pull a rope that allows air to escape.
Any fear a passenger has disappears quickly. It is as though the balloon remains where it is and the earth moves away. The only sound is the occasional hissing of the burner. The only feeling of height comes when you look down and suddenly realize that you’re 1,500 feet in the air!
It is flight without wings, flight without a runway or the whine of jet engines. Because the balloon floats with the breeze, there is no sensation of motion. It is, indeed, like standing on a cloud, quietly watching the earth beneath.
“When I’m up here, I think about Heavenly Father,” Jennifer said. “I feel close to him, peaceful, when I see the world he’s created and how big it is. You somehow know he’s in charge.”
Her father agreed. “You get some idea of who you are and how small you would be on your own. But you also get a feeling for what Heavenly Father has made, what he can help you accomplish if you have him on your side.”
Jennifer and Amy talk freely about what’s going on at school and in the ward. They had been in the same Beehive class for a little while, but now Jennifer is a Mia Maid, a freshman at Valley High School active in the ski club, speech club, student council, and orchestra. “I ran for student-body treasurer and lost,” she said, “but don’t put that!” She also talks about how she invited some non-LDS friends to a youth conference and “now they want to come to all the dances and activities.”
Amy, who attends Taft Middle School, enjoys chorus, putting on plays, and, during the Fiesta, launching the balloon from the school yard, much to the delight of her classmates. “We get permission from the principal first,” she said, grinning. Of course, they talk about ballooning, too.
“Nobody doesn’t love a balloon,” Amy said. “We fly over people’s houses that we know, and you can see everything. People come running out in shower caps and bath robes just to wave. If you drop down low, you can hear the dogs barking and see horses run back and forth, but nobody complains.”
“People here are used to balloons,” Jenny added. “It’s a mutual benefit. Pilots love to fly them, and people on the ground love to watch them float by.”
“Sometimes I get cold and grouchy early in the morning,” Amy said. “But then I remember my first flight. We went over to the West Mesa where it’s flat and there aren’t any power lines or roads to worry about. It’s a good place to learn. There was snow on the ground. We came down and skimmed the bushes and saw some jackrabbits, then went back up again. Every time we go it’s fun like that. I want to be a balloonist for a long time.”
Even in the Land of Enchantment, the propane supply only lasts about two hours, so eventually the flight had to end. Visions of dragon fire captured in a sack, of jeweled seeds sprouting into towers of color, of Christmas ornaments decorating the sky, would all fade back into a normal world as soon as the balloon touched down.
Even the princesses would be transformed, from lead roles in a fantasy to supporting roles in a family. Floating with them through the sky, it had been easy to imagine Princess Jennifer and Princess Amy as benevolent daughters of the king of balloon land. Now, chatting with Jennifer, Amy, and their father, knowing we would soon be landing, it was like talking to any happy LDS family anywhere. They could have been in the chapel foyer after sacrament meeting, or sitting at home eating their family favorite, pizza with everything, or even doing homework around the kitchen table.
Except that they were up in the sky, standing on a cloud. And even though the Komadinas are just like a lot of other close-knit LDS families full of love, that distinction makes them unique.