Gospel Story Finder

From the very first day Ellen had seen the cameo ring in the display case at Mr. Henry’s general store, she could think of little else. Even while at the Oklahoma homestead, where she lived with her grandparents, she could close her eyes and picture every detail: Tendrils of hair curled down its neck, a half-smile graced its lips, and a bead necklace was carved around the dainty throat. It was mounted on a coral base and enclosed by an oval of gold; its fancy ring box was lined with crimson velvet. The ten-dollar price, however, was more than Ellen thought that she would ever have.
Still, she mused, like Gram always says, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Dreams cost nothing.”
Ellen’s daydreaming was interrupted as Gramp reined in the plow horses in front of the livery stable. As soon as the wagon stopped, the gangling girl was off and running, her flaxen braids streaming out from under her white sunbonnet, and her calico skirt whipping around her long legs. She skittered to a stop at the general store.
The ring box was still there! She knew that the day might come when the ring would be gone. I just have to find a way to buy it, she thought. She straightened her shoulders determinedly, then turned reluctantly from her heart’s desire to the shopping list that Gram had given her. As Mr. Henry filled the order, Ellen wandered around the store. It was a fascinating place. Blue-speckled enamel pots and pans hung from wires attached to large hooks in the wooden ceiling. Kerosene lamps of different sizes and jars of lemon drops and licorice sticks took up much of the counter space. A pickle barrel stood under a black-and-white cardboard sign announcing the events for the town’s annual picnic.
As Ellen slowly read what it said, she realized that it could be the answer to her prayers! A footrace for ten-to-twelve-year-olds had been added this year, and first prize was a ten-dollar gold piece! She turned to Mr. Henry and said, “Please enter me in the race.”
Figuring that it would be hard beating boys, especially the older ones, Ellen knew that she would have to train hard. The one-room school that she attended was about a mile down the hardpan path from home, so she decided to use it as her training track. And she’d run it barefoot so that she could run the race that way and not be slowed down by heavy shoes.
“Gram,” she said one afternoon while catching her breath on the wooden steps to the cabin, “sometimes I wish that I were a boy!”
“What on earth for? Gramps and I are glad that you’re a girl. Just you wait and see, someday you will be too.”
“Oh, I’m glad to be a girl most times. It’s just that boys get to wear trousers. They aren’t bothered with skirts when they run. I could run a lot faster if I didn’t have to wear an old skirt!”
As her speed increased over the next three weeks, so did Ellen’s determination. When the prairie wind whipped the bonnet from her head the day before the race, she yelled defiantly, “These dumb skirts won’t stop me from doing mybest!”
That evening she sat on the step by Gramp’s rocker. In the distance they heard a coyote’s mournful howl. The moon was huge and golden, bathing the dirt yard with soft light.
“That’s a beautiful harvest moon,” remarked Gramps. He cleared his throat and tweaked Ellen’s braids. “Lass, I know that you’re all het up about tomorrow. Gram and I want you to know that even if you don’t win, we’re mighty proud of you for trying. Being the only girl in the race is a courageous thing to do.”
Ellen was about to answer, when she heard Gram calling her from inside the cabin. Gram was in her bedroom, putting the finishing stitches in a piece of denim. When she held it up, Ellen could only stare.
It was a skirt, her size, but it had legs!
“Oh, Gram!”
“It’s the kind of divided skirt that they make for riding horses these days,” Gram said with a big smile. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
The day of the race dawned bright and crisp. As Ellen joined the boys at the starting line, she bowed her head in a silent prayer. “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for all Thy blessings. And especially for Gram and Gramps.”
“On your mark!” the starter shouted. “Get set!”
The pistol shot cracked.
Ellen scarcely noticed the cheers as the onlookers chose their favorites. Her long gangly legs soon left most of the runners behind. Only three were ahead of her. You can do it! she told herself as she approached the halfway mark. She passed one of the runners—then the second. Only one to go! Every breath hurt now, and her arms and legs felt like lead weights. Just as she passed the last boy, she felt the finish-line ribbon snap across her body.
Ellen collapsed in a heap, tears of joy and exertion running down her face. Mr. Henry brought the prize ribbon and the ten-dollar gold piece to her. She whispered something in his ear, and he straightened, smiling broadly, and rushed off.
Her grandparents hurried over to help her up. They were still excitedly congratulating her when the store-keeper returned and pressed something into her hand. She gazed up at him with thankful blue eyes, then turned to her grandmother and said simply, “Gram, this is for you.”
As the surprised woman opened the velvet-lined box, her brown eyes shimmered with tears. She lifted the cameo ring and eased it gently onto her finger.

My brother Eric is a unique individual. He was born seven weeks prematurely and has had health problems his entire life. Two strokes, as a baby and at the age of two, left his right side partially paralyzed and destroyed a third of his brain.
When he was ten, he began having seizures, so we took him to a neurologist. After reviewing his CAT scans, the doctor came into the room expecting to see a drooling, severely retarded child. Instead, he met my brother, the electronics wizard and family clown. The doctor thought someone had accidentally switched scans. That’s because he didn’t know the miracle, my brother.
Eric’s brain damage left him with problems. He had a limited attention span and lacked many of the “normal” behavioral inhibitions. It was not uncommon to see him walk along and suddenly burst into an absurd song and dance. Those who didn’t know him thought, “Who is that?” But those who did know him thought, “That’s Eric.”
Eric was born a year and a half after I was. Our older brother, a headstrong toddler, demanded a lot of attention. Eric’s health problems also required a lot of my parents’ attention. As a result, my parents couldn’t give me as much attention as they, or I, would have liked. For years I resented Eric. “He’s a mistake,” I thought. “I’m really the youngest.” I tormented him and punched him and tried to make him miserable. But Eric always smiled at me and never hit me back.
One night I did something that made Eric cry, and when I did I felt like the lowest and the worst. Eric was watching TV. We had been fighting over something, so I started making fun of his disability. I never had before. I must have felt malicious. I made my hand look like his right hand, curled up and spastic, and I limped around and talked gibberish while I drooled.
The thing I remember most, as Eric started crying, was that he looked down at his crippled hand and hugged it to his chest. At that moment I wished the floor would swallow me, and I think I tasted what hell might be like.
Our relationship changed after that incident. As we grew older I tormented him less, and when I did, he fought back. We basically ignored each other until our family moved to California one summer.
When school started, Eric and I were the only people we knew at school, and we had to rely on each other. Instead of eating lunch by myself, I met Eric and we sat on the stone steps together. As we dug through our brown bags and munched ham sandwiches, I was surprised at the growing number of people who waved at, talked to, and sat down beside Eric. His cheery grin, relaxed attitude, and silly jokes soon had us in the middle of a noisy group of friends. Others saw in Eric what I had kept myself from seeing, and they showed me his strength, his dedication, his strange but hilarious sense of humor, and his amazing ability to shrug off pain.
One lunchtime Eric was a couple of minutes late. He spotted our group and sprinted across the sloping lawn, gripping his brown sack in his good left hand. His backpack bumped against him, his shirttail billowed, and his shoelaces straggled behind him. His weak right ankle tangled with his charging left foot, and he went down in a heap. He tried to catch himself, but his right arm crumpled and he plowed the grass with his face.
A couple of guys and I jumped up and ran to him. By the time we reached him, he was sitting up in the middle of his spilled backpack and smashed lunch. Dirt and grass smeared his nose and forehead, and he had a bloody scrape on his chin. He grinned up at us and said, “I hate it when that happens!”
One of the guys asked him incredulously, “Did you do that on purpose?”
Another example of his determination was when he joined the swim team. I had swum the year before and lettered in water polo. Eric decided he’d like to take a crack at competitive sports. He never missed a practice, even though he never placed higher than last in any meet. Sometimes he ended up in the wrong lane because his left side was so much stronger than his right, and he often worked up such momentum that he crashed into the concrete pool sides. But by the end of the season, he had halved his personal best time for the 50-meter freestyle.
Eric has been an example to me, even when I wouldn’t admit it. He taught me how to be tolerant of other people’s differences, how to overcome and overlook weakness, and how to find strength. He taught me to use what I have and to never give up. He showed me the value of being myself and how to love without condition.

My school friend invited me to her birthday party. It was fun. We played games and dressed up like princesses. When it was time for dessert, we all gathered around the table for beautifully decorated cupcakes. As I was eating my cupcake, I was offered tea to drink. All the other girls were drinking tea in fancy little cups, but I knew it was wrong to drink it. I said, “No, thank you. I do not drink tea.” I felt good inside for keeping the commandments.

It was one of the first warm days of early spring. The windows of our church were open for the first time that year, and bright, warm sunlight spilled in long rays into the chapel. A small, spring wind came through the windows carrying the fragrances of unseen blossoms. My grandparents and several aunts and uncles were sitting proudly with my parents. I was sitting on the front row of the chapel with the deacons. It was my first time passing the sacrament.
The sacrament song ended.
The bishop nodded to us, and in a single motion we stood and walked to the table. The white cloth was removed and carefully folded, and then the prayer was spoken. I felt the importance of the words and the ordinance as I never had before. With my relatives and what seemed like the entire congregation watching me, I tried to move with as much reverence and dignity as I could. I felt a strong feeling of pride to be able to pass the sacrament. It was a great honor. When the meeting was over, nearly everyone in my ward congratulated me.
Several months passed, and in that time, along with the other members of my quorum, I began to forget, a little, the honor of holding the priesthood and of passing the sacrament. We began not to remember what the ordinance stood for. It became a chore. Something we had to do. A job we were given because no one else wanted to do it.
This attitude began to affect the way we performed the ordinance. They were small differences. We were sometimes late for sacrament meeting. Occasionally we didn’t dress as appropriately as we should have. And we talked during the meeting, not loudly and not during the sacrament service, but enough that it was noticed. They were small things, but they took away from the sacredness of the ordinance we were charged with.
The bishop asked our adviser to talk to us about it. Every Sunday morning for weeks he tried to explain to us the importance of what we were doing, of the priesthood of God, and of the ordinance of the sacrament. He told us of the sons of Aaron, of Gethsemane, and Calvary. He was an older man, and we could tell he felt strongly about the things he was telling us. We would straighten up a little. Then a few Sundays would pass, and we would slip back again.
One Sunday after our priesthood class had ended, our adviser stopped us.
“You don’t have to worry about the sacrament today,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
We were surprised and curious, but we were also glad to get out of the job, even if it was just for one day. We came into the meeting late as usual, during the song, and sat on a middle row. Sitting on the deacons bench with our adviser were the high priests of our ward. They were the oldest and most respected men in our ward. Two of them had been bishops, one a stake president. All held or had held positions of honor and leadership. The song ended. They rose, and the prayer was said.
By their bearing and by their reverence it was easy to see they felt great respect and honor for what they were doing. It was no menial task for them. They were all dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. But it was more than the way they were dressed or even the way they carried themselves in performing the ordinance. The congregation was silent. The sacrament became something deeply felt and sacred. There was something deeper, something much more significant. There was a spirit to it. A feeling deeper than words.
The windows in the chapel were open that Sunday. It was late fall, and the fragrance of fall came in through the windows. I could see patches of a blue sky. Leaves were falling from the trees. I was humbled. Passing the sacrament wasn’t a job no one else wanted. It was a job I had been given as a sacred trust. It was the greatest of honors.

Beth Lancaster, a Mia Maid, had been going to church for years with her member friends before she was baptized. One day, when Beth was 13, she asked her friend, Megan Rasmussen, if she could take the discussions. Beth says, “I wouldn’t have asked her if it hadn’t been for all my friends’ examples and the joy they had in their lives.”
“I saw the examples of the Rasmussen family and the Bromley family and how happy they were and how much love they had in their lives,” Beth says. “I decided I wanted some of that.”
Sixteen-year-old Jake Bromley, one of Beth’s good friends, says, “You never know when somebody will be looking at you, wondering why members of the Church are so good and what makes them so happy. Be a good example 100 percent of the time.”

Ring! It was the final bell of the school day on Friday afternoon. I jumped from my desk and raced to the door. My friend Kent had invited me and two other boys to camp out that night by his house. I had been looking forward to it for two weeks.
When I got home from school, I gathered my sleeping bag, pillow, flashlight, comic books, and a bag of snacks. When I got to Kent’s house, he and his father were just spreading out the tent. We took turns hammering the stakes that kept the tent secure on the ground.
Then Kent’s dad barbecued hamburgers, and we all played hide-and-seek in the woods. As soon as the sun went down, we turned on our flashlights and went exploring.
After a while, Kent’s mother called us all back from the woods and told us it was time to settle in for the night. We ran into the tent, laid out our sleeping bags, and got comfortable. Soon we were sharing snacks and listening to some of Kent’s amazing adventure stories. Kent always made us the heroes in his stories. We could always fly, and we always saved the day.
As it got late, everyone was tired and began to fall asleep. I could hear the crickets chirping in the night air and a train passing in the distance. I began to think about Kent’s stories. I realized that even though Kent had told me a lot of great stories, there was one important story he didn’t know. It was the true story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration of the gospel. The more I thought about it, the more I felt I should share this special story with my friend.
“Kent, are you still awake?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
My heart started beating a little faster and I felt anxious, but I kept talking.
“I was just wondering. Do you believe in God?”
“Yes, of course,” he said.
“Do you believe in the prophets in the Bible?”
“Yes,” Kent said as he sat up in his sleeping bag.
“Well, what if I told you that we have a living prophet on the earth today, just like in the Bible?”
“What do you mean—a prophet like Moses?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, that’s something new,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
My anxious feeling began to melt away, and excitement grew in its place. I told Kent about the Prophet Joseph Smith and how the gospel was restored to the earth. I told him about the living prophet and apostles on the earth today.
When I finished, I asked Kent what he thought about it.
He was quiet for a few moments. “I think that’s an amazing story that I really need to think about. Do you really believe it?”
“Yes, I really do.” I felt warmth inside my chest, and I knew I had said what Heavenly Father wanted me to say. I said a silent prayer that Kent would find out for himself that what I had said was true.
I later learned that Kent did pray to find his answer. He also shared what he had learned with his parents. Soon Kent’s family was studying the gospel and meeting with the missionaries. It wasn’t long until Kent’s whole family was baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Although many years have passed since then, Kent and I are still great friends. We both served missions, and we attended Brigham Young University together. I’m so glad that I took the time to share the gospel with my friend.

I assumed that was all I’d be needed for in giving blessings before my mission, but the next day came the most unexpected phone call of my life. It was my mom, who had been trimming some old tree branches at my grandma’s house. She’d fallen, twisted her knee, and now could not get up because of the pain. Instantly I sprinted from my uncle’s house to go help. When I got there, I helped my mom up and we slowly walked inside my grandma’s home so that Mom could sit down.
Then came the request I will never forget: my mom asked me for a blessing. I, being only an 18-year-old teenager, but also being a newly ordained elder, could accept that call to serve for the second time that week. The blessing finished with everyone in tears and my mom feeling much better.

Except for a few cries from toddlers, everything was quiet. I stared forward and waited for the sacrament tray to make it to the end of the row so that I could pass it to the next row. I wondered how long it would take before it would reach me and I could continue on with my duty.
As I waited, a thought my priesthood leader had shared came to my mind: “During the sacrament you should be thinking about the Savior,” he had said.
I tried to follow his advice, but my thoughts soon switched to something that had recently happened to me. Giving up, I passed the tray to the next row and began waiting and wondering again.
Then I heard a soft voice behind me. I listened and realized that it was a girl speaking to her little brother. The girl said, “Do you know what the bread and the water mean?” The brother answered, “No.” They were silent for a moment. Then I heard, “They represent the body and blood of Christ.”
Immediately after she said that, my heart filled with the Spirit, and my thoughts didn’t drift anymore from the meaning of the sacrament. I will never forget that small reminder from a young girl and her brother.

In addition to spending evenings and Saturday mornings in rehearsals, the youth also served at the temple open house. Imagine spending five weeks of your summer vacation putting on and taking off slippers, hauling water and cookies, and smiling for 150,000 open-house visitors. That’s exactly what these faithful youth did between July 23 and August 20, 2005. “People would comment on how the young people were always smiling. That’s what they noticed,” recalls Alicia Bremmer of the Garden Grove First Ward.

“I felt really special because they noticed us. It is just cool because people really appreciated it,” Krista agrees. “The visitors were really interested and curious—nonmembers and members alike.”

I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

When I was in high school, one of my best friends came up to me and said, “If you continue to be friends with Joanne, I won’t be your friend any more.” I was so surprised, but my decision was simple. I would continue my friendship with each girl. If Jackie shunned me because of my friendship with Joanne, it would be her decision. That never happened. Twenty years later, Joanne is the friend who still writes and sends Christmas cards and pictures of her family. I am so glad I didn’t accept Jackie’s challenge and lose a lifelong friend.
Vicki Nelson, 36Independence, Missouri

“A hot fudge sundae says you miss,” Clay Carson taunted from the edge of the cement basketball court behind the elementary school.
“Make that a double,” Tad Patterson yelled from under the basket.
At half court I bounced the ball three times and then held it at chest level. Eyeing the basket, I crouched slightly in the knees and was about to send the ball arching toward the basket when a voice called behind me, “I’ll make that a triple.” My concentration crumbled, and although I still pushed the shot off—I was too far into it to stop—I missed the rim entirely. Barely hit the backboard.
Amid hoots, hollers, and hassling, I turned to see Samuel Feagin, our priests adviser, standing at the other end of the court with his hands on his hips and a goading grin on his face.
Brother Feagin was probably the best athlete ever to come out of Rolling Hills High School. He had been a two-time All-Stater in both football and basketball and second in the 100 meters his senior year. Although he was a little over 30 and had a desk job at a bank, he continued to stay trim and fit, maintaining his weight at a healthy 185 pounds, just 10 pounds heavier than the day he graduated from high school.
“Thanks a lot, Brother Feagin,” I muttered, wiping the sweat from my brow with my shirttail. Tad and Clay were coming up behind me, Clay bouncing the ball and Tad pulling on the shirt he had discarded on the grass 30 minutes earlier.
“Ross needs a little more practice,” Clay teased me, slapping me on the back. “He just doesn’t have the touch today.” He wagged his head. “In fact, I’m not sure he’s ever had the touch.”
“I’ve hit seven of those today,” I said, turning to Brother Feagin, who was ambling toward us, kicking a couple of pebbles from the court as he came.
“I’d have drilled that one too if you hadn’t yelled when you did.”
Brother Feagin chuckled, “Ross, you’re always telling me how good you are, but whenever I come around you lose your concentration. I don’t know how you ever managed to be voted All-State guard as a junior. Must have been a bad year for basketball players. Do you think you can even make the team this year?”
I didn’t answer. I knew Brother Feagin was only joking. Tad, Clay, and I had been on the Rolling Hills varsity football and basketball teams since we were sophomores. Though none of us had played much that first year, Brother Feagin had rarely missed one of our games; and though to our faces he didn’t hesitate to kid us about our athletic prowess, we knew he bragged about us otherwise every chance he got. A lot of our success had to be attributed to him. He’d spent more than one afternoon scrimmaging with the three of us, giving us pointers, pushing us to our limits, and humbling us a little when it was timely and appropriate. He wasn’t just an adviser; he was a friend, a coach, and just an all-around good guy.
“How’d you find us, Brother Feagin?” Tad asked, looking a little sheepish.
Brother Feagin didn’t answer right away. He snatched the ball from Clay and bounced it a few times. “I figured I’d find you here playing basketball. Or out front on the lawn playing football. You’re pretty consistent, you know.”
“Are they finished over at Sister Howard’s place?” Tad asked.
“Yep. I came to tell you the grub’s ready.” He dribbled toward the basket, jumped, and pushed the ball off. It jangled through the chain net. “If you’ve earned it,” he added, as he ran after the ball.
“We helped,” I responded. “Didn’t we?” I asked, turning to Tad and Clay.
“Yeah,” Clay corroborated. “We raked up two of those big piles in back. Honest.”
Brother Feagin was walking back, bouncing the ball as he came. “I know. I saw you. For a while I thought you’d stick around. Then the next thing I knew you were gone.”
“Ah, Brother Feagin,” I groaned, “those service projects are so—so blah. They’re so sappy.”
“You’re the guys that organized the thing for the Mutual. It was your idea.”
“But it was your suggestion,” I pointed out.
“You didn’t come up with anything better.”
“Service projects are dumb,” Clay grumbled.
“Clay, service is what the Church is all about,” Brother Feagin came back.
“Yeah, but it’s not raking leaves and hoeing weeds,” I countered. “Why don’t we do something meaningful? Something that will make a difference. We’re always running around trying to scare up some service project, just something to keep us busy. We put in our hour and a half and we’re supposed to be better people for it. I’d rather play basketball.”
“There’s more to life than basketball, Ross.”
“Football?” Tad joked.
Brother Feagin studied us for a moment. We couldn’t look him in the eye, though. We stared down at the court and felt his eyes on us. “Go ahead, chew us out and get it over with,” Clay mumbled. “Then let’s go eat.”
“I didn’t come to chew you out,” he came back. He tossed the ball hard into Clay’s stomach. Though it caught Clay off guard, he caught it, but not before it knocked his wind out. Brother Feagin grinned. “You’re getting better, Clay.” Then he became serious. “There are a lot of people looking up to you three. A lot of the kids back there are wondering why the three of you get off. You might not want to be examples to those other kids, but you are. But it’s up to you as to the kind of examples you’ll be.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “I’m not going to chase you down anymore when we have a service project,” he announced simply. “If you want to be there, you be there. If you’re good enough to start for Rolling Hills, you’re good enough to stay with a service project until it’s finished.”
“Are you threatening to resign?” Tad asked knowingly, trying not to smile, but the smile escaped through his eyes.
Brother Feagin took a deep breath. “No, I’m not going to resign. I guess I like you guys too much. Don’t ask me why,” he muttered, then smiled wanly. “Maybe you remind me too much of myself.”
“Yeah,” Tad grinned, “you probably skipped out of all your service projects when you were growing up. Now you feel guilty so you want us to do all the work to relieve you of your guilty conscience.”
Brother Feagin rubbed his chin with the backs of his fingers. “Maybe. Maybe I don’t want you to feel guilty when you’re 30 and looking back.”
“Hey, Brother Feagin,” I burst out, “if we were doing something that was unique, we could handle it, but who wants to rake leaves?”
“Yeah, if there were about ten banana splits that needed to be cleaned up, we could handle that,” Tad offered.
“Or if you know of three lonely, beautiful girls, we could make them happy,” Clay suggested. “That would be a praiseworthy service project.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “we would have two or three service projects like that a week. One a night if you wanted.”
“Just give us something—something tailored to us,” Tad said seriously. Then he grinned.
“It’s not what you do. It’s why you do it. That’s what makes service unique. The task isn’t nearly as important as the attitude.” Brother Feagin thought for a moment and then said, “But if I think up something unique, something that’s never been tried before, you’ll do it?” We eyed him suspiciously and glanced at each other. “I might even be able to make it so there was food involved. And maybe a girl or two. What do you say?” The three of us shifted our weight uneasily and then nodded, entrusting ourselves into Brother Feagin’s care.
We soon forgot about the deal we had made with Brother Feagin. Football season was almost upon us and the three of us were trying to work summer jobs, push weights in the evenings, do a little jogging, and work on our plays before we started two practices a day in a week and a half.
One evening after one of our workouts, Brother Feagin called up and asked us to drop over by his place for a few minutes. Still wearing our shorts, T-shirts, and running shoes, we strolled over to his place. He and his wife Connie were sitting on the front porch in a bench swing while their three little girls were out playing on the lawn. Tad, Clay, and I dropped down on the front steps.
“What’s up?” I asked, feeling the sweat trickle down the small of my back.
“I’ve got your service project lined up,” Brother Feagin announced, “and it’s tailored to you.”
I glanced at Connie who looked at her husband and then smiled down at the three of us.
“What’s he got planned for us, Sister Feagin?” I asked.
Her eyes sparkled and her quiet smile blossomed into a full grin. Just then her youngest daughter, Tara, padded barefoot up the steps and scampered over to her. Sister Feagin pulled her up into her lap and then answered, “You’ll have to ask Sam about his plans.”
“We’re waiting,” Tad said suspiciously.
“I lined you all up,” Brother Feagin announced, coming right to the point.
For a moment the three of us were silent. Maybe dumbfounded is a more accurate description.
“You did what?” Clay asked.
“You said you wanted a unique service project. You accused me of always making the suggestions to you, so I decided that I’d take one of your own suggestions. You said you’d be perfectly content to take a girl out for a service project. So I lined you up.”
“With who?” Tad demanded, fidgeting uneasily on the front steps.
“Does it matter with whom as long as you make her happy?”
“It sure does,” I answered, getting nervous. I glanced over at Sister Feagin, who had taken her husband’s arm and snuggled up next to him. She winked at the three of us.
“I think you’re setting us up,” Tad complained.
Brother Feagin rolled his tongue around his mouth like he does when he’s thinking. “Have I ever led you astray?” he asked.
We shook our heads. “But there’s always a first time,” Clay murmured.
“Have I ever done anything that would cause you not to trust me?” We shook our heads again. “Then trust me now,” he said solemnly.
“I trust you to give our priesthood lessons and stuff, but I’m not sure I want you choosing my dates.”
“Are you questioning his taste?” Sister Feagin asked, holding her chin up and looking down at us. Brother Feagin laughed, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her close. “Personally,” she continued with a smile, “I think he has remarkable taste.” She started to giggle.
“When you do a service project, you help those in need,” I pointed out, obviously skeptical and disgruntled. “Any girl that’s in need of a date can’t be too—”
“Don’t judge,” Brother Feagin cut me short, raising a warning finger. “I just followed your suggestion. But I’ll throw in a guarantee if it will make you feel better.”
“Keep talking,” Tad said.
“If this service project isn’t the best you’ve ever had, if you don’t come off this date with absolutely no regrets, I’ll give you each a steak dinner.”
“He’ll probably fry them himself,” Clay grumbled. “And burn them to a crisp.”
“I’ll take you out for steaks then. Any place you want to go. But remember,” Brother Feagin cautioned, “you’ve got to be on your best behavior. You’ve got to do all you can to make it a good date. Fair enough?”
We nodded and Clay asked, “Where and when?”
“Tomorrow night, here. Bring a corsage and wear a suit. And I’ll tell you tomorrow who your dates are. We’ll take my van.”
“Are you and Sister Feagin going with us?” I asked hopefully.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Sister Feagin laughed.
None of us had ever had a blind date, and though we weren’t expecting great things from this one, we couldn’t help feeling just a little anticipation as we congregated in Brother Feagin’s living room the next evening. Perhaps it was as much curiosity as anticipation, but it had a certain luring effect which made us all show up on time.
“Well, who are the lucky ladies?” Tad asked as he pulled at his shirt collar and cradled his corsage.
“They don’t go to Rolling Hills,” Sister Feagin spoke up, “but one was a beauty queen.”
“Keep going,” Tad said.
“In high school, none of them worried about getting a date. They were very popular. And pretty.”
I began to chuckle. “I’m dying to hear the catch. What happened after high school? Did they all get run over by a train?”
“No catch. You really couldn’t find better people.”
“I’ll take the beauty queen,” I spoke up. Clay and Tad glared at me.
“All right, Ross,” Brother Feagin said, “you’ll take Mandy Wilson.”
“Mandy Wilson.” I smiled. “Sounds nice.” I thought for a moment. “Is she any relation to Sister Wilson that lives over on Alpine Drive?” Brother Feagin nodded. “Granddaughter?” He shook his head. “Great-granddaughter?”
“Closer relation than that.”
“Daughter?” I gasped. Brother Feagin shook his head. “Well, how much closer can you get?” He didn’t answer. I stared at him and my eyes began to narrow. “Now wait a minute,” I said slowly in protest. “Just a minute.”
“What’s going on?” Clay asked, utterly confused. “I don’t get it.”
“Mandy Wilson isn’t Sister Wilson?” I rasped.
Tad and Clay both bolted to their feet. “What?” they asked in horror.
“You set me up with Sister Wilson?”
Brother Feagin remained calm. He had his arm around his wife’s shoulder and was looking steadily at the three of us.
“And who are we going with?” Clay demanded.
“Bette Douglas and Liz Arnold.”
“Not Sister Douglas, not that Bette Douglas?” Tad wheezed. “The one that lives over by the elementary school?”
“That’s the one. And Liz Arnold lives over in the 15th Ward.”
“But they’re old ladies,” I protested.
“Sister Wilson is 74, Sister Arnold is 77, and Sister Douglas is 75.”
The three of us stood gaping in shocked silence.
“They’re very nice women,” Sister Feagin said. “Fun ladies.”
“What do we have to do, pick them up in a wheelchair and hire a nurse to give them periodic heart massage?” Clay asked.
“They’re all in very good health. They don’t even carry canes. And if you’re not too terribly thrilling, they might not even have a heart attack.”
“They’re married,” Tad cried out.
“Widowed. That makes them eligible. There’s no law that says you can’t ask someone out who’s older than you.”
“They’ve probably got grandkids older than we are.”
“No probably about it. They all have grandkids older than you. Look, you’re not going to marry them. There’s an adult two-stake dance tonight. You’re going to take them out for an evening and show them a good time. Something they don’t get very often.”
“We’re just a bunch of kids. They’ll be wondering if they’re supposed to baby-sit us.”
“Prove to them that you don’t need a baby-sitter anymore.”
“Brother Feagin,” I groaned, “they’re not going to want to go with us.”
Brother Feagin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ll admit,” he said, nodding his head, “that you’re probably not first on their list of eligible males, but you just happen to be all there is. Don’t flatter yourselves. They have some misgivings themselves.”
“But they won’t want to go,” Tad insisted.
Brother Feagin thought for a moment and then said, “Do you know how many years Sister Arnold has been a widow?” We shook our heads.
“Thirty-five years. Her husband was killed when she was 42. She had eight kids under 18. She went back to college, got a degree, and then taught for the next 19 years. She didn’t have much time for a social life. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to go 35 years without a date? That’s twice as long as you’ve been alive. People never outgrow their need for doing things with other people. Oh, she’s gone to a church dance occasionally, but always with a couple, always feeling like a fifth wheel. Now she has a chance to go out and be the main wheel. Going with someone young enough to be her grandkid won’t be ideal, but it beats staying home for 35 years.”
“But why us?” I mumbled.
“I know you can play football and basketball. I know you can push weights. I know you can get good grades. I know you can charm the girls at school. Now I want to see if you can be gentlemen.”
We were silent, staring at the floor, knowing that whatever this service project wasn’t, it was certainly unique. No one else would have dared ask us to do something so utterly crazy. No one else could have asked and had us accept. Brother Feagin was probably the only person in the whole world we knew we couldn’t turn down. There was just no way we would have disappointed him.
“All right,” I muttered without enthusiasm, “we’ll go for you.”
“I don’t want you to go for me,” he said, his voice soft but charged with emotion. “I want you to go for those three sisters. I’m happy. I have a wife and three kids at home. I don’t need to go to that stake dance tonight to be happy. I can stay home and be happy. But those three sisters are alone.”
No one spoke for a couple of minutes. We just stood around avoiding each other’s eyes and waiting for someone else to be the one to break the stifling silence. Clay ended up being the bold one. He took a deep breath and cried out, “Well, let’s get going before the flowers wilt. I’m not giving Bette a crumby wilted flower.” Turning to Tad and me, he ordered, “And get those glum looks off your faces. We’re not going to a funeral.”
Never in my life had I been so nervous to pick up a date. When we drove up to Sister Wilson’s place, my mouth was dry and my cheeks burned with an annoying blush. I’m sure I was sweating, but I was so uptight that I couldn’t think about anything so trivial as wet underarms, bad breath, or messed up hair, the usual considerations I had before picking a girl up.
“Why don’t all three of you go,” Sister Feagin suggested as the van stopped.
“Yeah, let’s all three of us go,” I joined in. Tad and Clay looked dubiously at me. “To all three of them,” I quickly added.
So all three of us marched up to Sister Wilson’s front door. Amanda Wilson came to the door in a navy blue dress. She had a narrow face, creased with smile wrinkles about her thin lips and her piercing blue eyes. She smiled. “Well, hello, boys,” she greeted us warmly. I’d never paid much attention to her in the past. There had never been a need. She was just one of the older women that I’d seen wandering about the church on Sunday. I wasn’t even positive what ward she was in. But on this particular evening, standing on her front steps, I took a good look. I could still detect those faint features that had made her a beauty queen in her youth.
“Are you ready?” I stammered.
She laughed. “I guess I’ve been ready for half an hour.”
“We’re not late, are we?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, I’m just early.” Her voice broke slightly, and her cheeks colored some. I was taken back as I realized that she was just a little nervous. We were the ones who were supposed to be nervous. We were the kids. She was the adult. But we were making Sister Wilson nervous. Or was it a rare kind of excitement?
“This is for you,” I said, holding out the corsage.
Her eyes widened and she clasped her hands together in front of her. “A flower? For me?” she gasped, happily surprised. “You shouldn’t have,” she whispered. “I had no idea.”
I just smiled and shrugged.
“I really wasn’t expecting a flower.”
“Well, there is one catch,” I said, grinning. “I’m not an expert when it comes to pinning them on.”
While Tad and Clay watched, I fumbled about to pin the corsage onto Sister Wilson’s dress. My hands were shaking badly and I almost took two of my fingers off trying to get the pin through everything it was supposed to go through. “You sure your mom isn’t here to do this for you?” I muttered in jest.
Sister Wilson laughed. “Will my grandson do? He lives across the street.”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid he’d be as clumsy as me. I don’t know why they don’t just tape these things on instead of using these pins.”
Tad and Clay had to pin their corsages on their dates too, and they weren’t any better than I was. When we all got in the van, I noticed for the first time how excited these three older ladies were. Here they were going out with a gang of boys and they were excited. I had been so worried about me that I hadn’t noticed them until I heard and saw them talking and laughing with each other. It made me feel warm inside to think that I could make someone feel that good.
“I feel privileged to be going with such handsome young men,” Sister Douglas laughed.
“There are going to be a lot of unhappy young girls at home tonight, wondering why you young men aren’t taking them out instead of old ladies.”
Clay sighed and answered, “These young girls just don’t have what it takes. We like our dates to be—” He groped for the word.
“We like them to be mature,” I helped out with a smile. “And we take only the best,” I added as the women laughed.
“Actually,” Tad injected, loosening up and getting into the jovial spirit of the occasion, “we’ve been wanting to take you out for a long time.”
“And what kept you?” Sister Wilson asked.
“Well, we were just waiting until you were—well, until you were old enough!” Everyone laughed. “We wanted to make sure you were old enough to date.”
“I’m glad you didn’t wait much longer,” Sister Arnold joked back, “or we might not have been available.”
I had never imagined that a date with a 74-year-old woman could be fun. But it was. I suppose what made it so fun is that they were so appreciative of everything we did. When we opened a door, offered them our arm or any of the other little common courtesies, they were so quick to thank and praise us. I soon felt so proudly chivalrous that I was about to burst.
When we entered the stake center for the dance, we heard the soft music, which wasn’t exactly our style, and I leaned over and announced to the three women, “You’ll have to be a little patient with our dancing skills—or lack of them. We play a pretty mean game of football, but we’re not too great on the dance floor.”
Sister Wilson smiled and patted my arm. “We’ll show you,” she said. “Our football days are behind us, but with a little support we can still dance a pretty wild waltz. At least for girls our age.”
“Don’t expect to be danced breathless, though,” Sister Arnold chuckled.
We felt awkward at first, being in there with all the adults of the two stakes, but the awkward feeling soon left as we saw how pleased the women were to be there, not just to sit on the periphery of the action with another couple but to be escorted by someone of their own, even if that someone was as young as we were. I could tell they were proud of us. Every time they saw someone they knew, they would introduce us and brag how they had “the cream of the crop tonight.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Clay announced around 11:00 as we sat at a table for a rest and drank punch. “Let’s drop over to the youth dance.”
“What?” Sister Douglas asked, almost choking on her punch.
“Sure,” Tad joined in, “we’ll show you how the—other side lives.”
“I don’t know if we could do anything but stand around and watch,” Sister Arnold said.
“We’d love to go,” Sister Wilson spoke up. “And we’ll even dance.”
We loaded up in Brother Feagin’s van and headed over to the South Stake Center to the youth dance there. By then we had all grown accustomed to the idea of being with three older sisters and we walked right in and started to dance. It was a fast one and the ladies were a little reluctant to get started, but with a little encouragement from us, they were soon swaying and shaking their arms and laughing and having a good time. The kids at the dance were shocked at first, but soon they got a real kick out of it.
Halfway into the third dance, someone tapped me on the shoulder and growled in my ear, “Do you think you can keep her to yourself all night?” I turned around to see Tye Brown grinning at me. “Don’t be so greedy.”
“Huh?”
“I’m cutting in,” he said, slapping me on the back and pushing me away. “You don’t get all the fun. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”
As I walked off the floor and went over to sit by Brother and Sister Feagin, I noticed that two other guys were cutting in on Tad and Clay. I laughed and dropped into the chair next to Connie Feagin.
“I’m proud of you, Ross,” she whispered over at me while her husband visited with Clay and Tad.
“I’m having a good time,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I’m just glad we were able to talk you and Brother Feagin into coming with us.”
She smiled. “I’ve never seen them so happy.”
“Yeah, I think they’re having a good time.”
“No one else could have brought them here tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“All the young people respect you and Clay and Tad. Everyone else would have been afraid to be so bold. But now that they see you doing it, they all want to be part of it too.”
I was quiet, listening to the powerful pulse of the music and watching Sister Wilson joke and dance with Tye. Soon Tracy Hall walked up and stepped in for Tye. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come here. It looks like we’re going to lose our dates,” I observed.
“Remember last year when you were chosen to the All-State team?” Sister Feagin said, leaning over so I could hear above the music. I nodded. “Sam and I were so proud of you. I’d never seen Sam so excited about anything. Until tonight. He’ll probably never tell you, but he’s so proud of the three of you that he’s almost ready to bawl.”
When we took the sisters home, we walked each one to the door and said goodnight. Sister Wilson was the last to be escorted to her front steps. When she reached the front door and opened it, she turned and faced the three of us. Then she reached out, took my face in her hands, pulled me down and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly. There were tears shimmering in her eyes.
When we returned to the van, we were all quiet for several minutes, deep in thought. Brother Feagin was the one to break the silence. “Where do you want to go for your steak dinner?” he asked.
Clay chuckled, “Oh, you’re too late, Brother Feagin. I’ve got another date with Sister Arnold.”
We all laughed. “No, seriously,” Clay went on, “I think we’d like to take you out.”
“No,” Brother Feagin objected, “I promised to take you out for a steak dinner if you’d go tonight.”
“You promised to take us if this wasn’t the best service project of our life. It was the best.”
Tad and I nodded our agreement.
“And,” I added, “we’ll be by in the morning at 5:30 to pick you up.”
“Tomorrow at 5:30?” he asked puzzled.
“Yeah, there’s a ward work project over at Sister Call’s place. We’re painting her house.”
Brother Feagin laughed. “I think you guys have put in your service hours for the month.”
“Don’t try to weasel out of it,” Clay spoke up. “We don’t want to chase after you and drag you over there. But we will. Don’t you know that a guy can never get all his service hours in? That’s what the Church is all about, Brother Feagin. Didn’t you know that? And if you go over to Sister Call’s and don’t come away with a warm feeling, we’ll pitch in and buy you and Sister Feagin a steak dinner tomorrow night.”
“You’ve got a deal,” he laughed.
“We’ll throw in the steak dinner anyway,” I added. “Just to tell you thanks. For everything.”

With the trusting nature of a child, four-year-old Chitalu Kennedy from Lusaka, Zambia ran into the open arms of Jesus! The moment was later captured on canvas by Latter-day Saint artist Liz Lemon Swindle in a heartwarming painting entitled Worth of a Soul. Since 2008, this painting has found a place in our hearts. We see the Savior draw this young, trusting child to Him. As we look into this young child’s eyes it may really be ourselves that we see. If we allow the Spirit in, it will testify that it is really each one of us that is cradled in His arms.
Kennedy was orphaned when both parents passed passed away from undiagnosed diseases just a couple of months apart. They left behind eight cherished children, the youngest just three weeks old. The lives of Kennedy and his brothers and sisters were forever changed. The emptiness and loss robbed him of hope. That feeling would follow him for many years. His Spirit craved acceptance, love and belonging.
Two years after his parents’ passing, on a sunny day in Lusaka West, Zambia at the Mothers Without Borders Children’s Center, where Kennedy and some of his siblings were being cared for, a man portraying the Savior arrived with the artist and a photographer where an environment was created with the desire to photograph African children with the Savior so that a much-needed painting could be created.
Kennedy was then four years old. With the innocence of a child, and fully believing this man to be the Savior, he broke loose from the grip of his sister Bridget’s hand and ran toward him. He jumped into his outstretched arms. Throughout the day, Kennedy rarely left his side. Was the Spirit whispering to him that something here was familiar?
As a young orphan, Kennedy depended on others for survival. Prior to being brought to the children’s center, he and his siblings were scattered among relatives. As with most experiences in life, some of the times were good, some desperate. Throughout it all, and despite separation from each other, the siblings remain bonded together. His older brother Bwalya was ever present in his life and took on the role of father and protector even though he was only two years older than Kennedy.
Kennedy was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when he was nine and became a baptized member at the age of eleven. Five siblings were also baptized.
As a young teenager, life became difficult for Kennedy when no funds were available for his continued housing, food and much desired education. It was at this time that BJ Warnick, Sandra Peters, and Anthony Mulenga—who had all known Kennedy since he was four—were able to take him into their care. Through their Heart to Hands Foundation, he and Bwalya were immediately adopted into their flock. While it was obvious that Kennedy needed the basics required for daily survival, what he really needed was hope and love and they had plenty of that to offer. Kennedy said while he was not officially adopted, it was even better. He now had two moms. With his new family’s help, he was able to complete grade twelve, obtain a driver’s license and complete auto mechanic school. Again, he was wrapped in the arms of his Savior, but it was through the acts of others. Kennedy remarked, “I don’t know who I would have become without the continual love of my enlarged family and friends who have dedicated so much time to me.”
It was a year ago that Kennedy made the decision to serve a mission and to become those arms of the Savior for others. His ‘better than adopted family’, his brother Bwalya and his determined Bishop Michael Simbeya in the Libala Ward helped him prepare. While at the Ghana MTC, before departing to the Kenya Nairobi mission, miracles occurred and he was able to attend the temple and take part not only in his father’s ordinance work, but also to participate in the sealing of his parents and finally his sealing to them for time and all eternity.
Now, as Elder Chitalu, in the mission office he met Sister Stacie Sturt, mission leader for Kenya Nairobi West Mission. She captured this beautiful photo of Elder Kennedy Chitalu standing in front of the picture of his much younger self, cradled in the arms of his Savior. Now he wears a name tag as a representative of Jesus Christ. It is his turn to wrap his arms around others and help bring them to Christ. He testifies: “I know and stand as a solemn witness that Jesus Christ is our Savior, and I know that His Atonement has healing power for all kinds of afflictions”.

It was a beautiful, lonely countryside. Yellow wheat waved like a golden sea in the sun. The air was sweet and pure, and the stream danced clear and sparkling. Each afternoon a young girl would look up expectantly from her chores. Her gaze would follow the slope of the land to a valley where parallel tracks ran east and west.
First she would hear the shrill whistle. Next she would see the gray plume of smoke. Finally the huge black locomotive would push its way into the panorama. It would roar on and not even slacken its pace as it passed. None of its passengers probably ever noticed the girl perched on the top rail of the fence. She always waved excitedly, though, and felt a sense of awe as the wonderful train disappeared around a hill. Where had it been? Where was it going, so safe and secure on those steel ribbons that banded the land? What people did it carry, and what were they like? When the smoke from the train had vanished on the breeze, the girl slowly climbed down from the fence and went about her chores.
One day a peddler appeared on the horizon. The clank and jingle of his wagon and its goods could be heard for a mile. The girl’s mother shielded her eyes and watched the wagon approaching. The kettle was put on to boil, and another plate was set at the table.
The peddler had wondrous things to sell. Cloth and buttons, pots and scrub boards, hammers and ointments, spices and books were stuffed into or hung from the sides of his wagon. While her mother fingered the cloth and her father chatted with the peddler, the girl gazed longingly at his books. She pulled one from a box and carefully opened it. There were pictures of the ocean, strange lands, and strange people wearing clothes she had never seen before! She stared at page after page of marvelous sights!
“Your daughter seems to enjoy the books,” the peddler said and smiled.
“Indeed,” her father replied. “Perhaps it’s time she learned to read.”
“Yes, I believe it is,” her mother agreed.
“I’ll let you have the lot in that box for a dollar and a hot meal,” the peddler offered.
“It’s a bargain,” the girl’s mother replied.
So the dollar was paid, the meal was eaten, and the books were taken into the house. They did not, however, remain long in the box, for the girl was anxious to look at them all.
“God gave us good minds,” her mother said, “and we’re obliged to fill them with meaningful things. It’s time for you to learn to read.” She patted the table and smiled. “Come here by the light, and we shall begin.”
Evening after evening they pored over the pages, and word by word the girl learned to read. As she learned, whole new worlds opened before her eyes. And then when she watched the train in its daily passing, she no longer felt so sad. She knew that the train could go only where its tracks were laid and no farther. But she was free to travel with it, and beyond, with God’s gift of a mind that knows no bounds.

Working as an errand boy in his father’s advertising business, Elder Nelson says that he learned to appreciate both the value of work and the people he met. His father had built his advertising business with the hope that his sons would join him. When Elder Nelson decided to become a doctor, his father may have been “somewhat disappointed.”
Elder Nelson had found that he had “a flair for the exact sciences—mathematics, chemistry, and physics. I did well in those subjects, and I reasoned that through medicine I could couple the exact sciences with my desire to serve other people. When my father learned of my plans, he was very supportive and said, ‘Well, if you want to do it, be the best.’”

Registration is from 9:00 A.M. to 12:00 noon. A sister missionary walks bravely into the room marked “Missionaries—Register Here.” She reports her name, pays a fee to cover meals, and is given a short briefing by a member of the mission presidency as well as written instructions relative to her future for the next eighteen months and instructions to attend her first meeting at 2:00 P.M. Now she somehow wrestles her suitcases upstairs—“Missionaries Only” territory. In her room are seven bunk beds with pink bedspreads, several closets, some mirrors, and another sister lying on one of the beds. She sits up.
“Is that all you brought? Oh no! I’ve overpacked!”
Downstairs two mothers wait, watching missionaries form small groups, shake hands, and ask, “Where are you going?”
Both mothers are smiling; they’re also keeping score.
“Look! There’s another lady missionary there.”
“That’s two we’ve seen.”
By the wall map of mission divisions a father points for his two children.
“Do you want to see where Richard is going?”
Then it’s two o’clock and time for the first meeting and the first rule of missionary life: Missionary time is five minutes early.
The hunt for assigned seats causes some confusion, but soon the missionaries get themselves properly distributed. Seated in front of the sisters are the missionary couples going into the field. One woman confides to the sister next to her, “Look at these clean looking kids. I call them kids. My husband says I will have to get used to calling them elders. You know, it’s exciting to watch them change.”
The meeting begins. “Elders and sisters …” Each meeting is opened and concluded with a song and a prayer. Today’s meeting begins with a welcome from the mission presidency. The group learns that the present group of missionaries represents twenty-seven states of the United States plus Australia and Canada.
Next, Sister Rawson speaks on housekeeping, personal habits, and grooming. Little-known facts of ministerial grooming emerge. The missionaries learn that they can remove grass stains with rubbing alcohol and ballpoint pen marks with hair spray. Then there are talks from the counselors in the mission presidency, President Rees and President Broberg.
After dinner the group is introduced to the missionary discussions, and then President Rawson talks to them about spirituality.
The missionaries then spend a half hour in temple preparation. A more serious mood settles upon them with a deeper realization of their relationship as missionaries to the plan of salvation.
Next comes an introduction to discussion memorization by the teaching director. A few mumbles follow his announcement of the “easy way” to do it.
“I think I have a congenital memorization inadequacy.”
“How about me? I almost failed Primary because I couldn’t memorize the Articles of Faith.”
But then the teaching director concludes his remarks with the fact that sixty percent of the previous group memorized all discussions while still in the Missionary Home and adds his testimony.
“Looks like it’s not impossible after all, doesn’t it?”
Ten-thirty is bedtime. There is a long line of sinks in the women’s dormitory, each equipped with a sister missionary.
“… because the Lord wants me here, that’s why.”
“My goal is to go through every temple in the world.”
“Everyone told me I’d probably be called to some place close, and now just think, Southern Italy. Wow!”
“If someone could just take my make-up case, it would take care of my six excess pounds of luggage.”
“My boyfriend said he’d wait for me, but …”
Back in their bedrooms the sisters kneel together in prayer and know the comfort of feeling their spirits united in a mutual goal: to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ. An exchange of good-nights closes the day, except for a whispered, “The top bunk? I’ve never slept in a bunk bed before.” The light goes out, because in a shorter time than could be possible it’s
“Elders and sisters, it’s 6:15. All hands on deck!” President Rawson’s voice comes through the intercom, and missionaries in various stages of alertness arise and turn to make their beds.
Breakfast is at 6:30 in the new Church Office Building, where all meals are served during the five-day stay in the Missionary Home. The elders extend the sisters the courtesy of allowing them to be first in line at the cafeteria.
“I’m glad the Church doesn’t practice women’s lib!”
“Is there a rule against perfume?”
During breakfast the sisters make the acquaintance of a sister missionary whose family is all grown and married and whose husband is dead. She has been called to the Alabama-Florida Mission and speaks proudly of her children, all of whom graduated from college and were married in the temple.
“The Lord has been so good to me; I could not possibly refuse this call.”
Following breakfast the missionaries meet in the Visitor’s Center for a tour. The Tabernacle Choir broadcast then provides a half hour of enjoyment and relaxation prior to the first classes.
At 10:15 the sisters meet with the wives of the mission presidency for orientation and a question and answer session. The rest of the morning is spent discussing goals, self-improvement, and how to get organized.
After lunch it’s discussion study again. All the teachers are returned missionaries who have been called and set apart to this position. Each has completed a three-month training course.
Sunday morning the teaching staff for the sister missionaries gathers in the dormitory study area for a meeting to review the results of the previous week, check weak points, and assign study groups of six to ten sisters. The supervisor encourages her staff to maintain their enthusiasm and love for the sisters and to stimulate them to strive to reach the goals they have set. A member of the teaching staff reflects on her appreciation for this special calling with the comment:
“Sunday is the best day of the week!”
Sacrament meeting concludes with the testimonies of recent converts and Lamanite missionaries. A convert of one year bears his testimony to a congregation quiet in contemplation and reverence.
There are a few minutes between dinner and the evening classes, so the sisters use the dormitory to discuss mission rules, passports, bicycles, the language, hometowns, and expected conduct.
“We should exercise for a few minutes every day.”
“Let’s run in place; it’s good for your heart.”
“You mean all that walking isn’t going to do anything for our hearts?”
Then it’s back to the discussions again. The sisters approach memorization of the discussions with a concept of key-wording to establish a broad outline of thought patterns and content rather than the mechanical memorization of words, phrases, and sentences.
The legendary Mr. Brown becomes Sister Brown as the sisters pair off to tackle the first discussion.
“I think I make a better Mr. Brown than Elder Jones.” They memorize the first two discussions on Sunday.
Then, after straining their memories for two hours on the discussions, the missionaries strain them again with a class on how to remember names. Finally, it’s time for family prayer, and the day closes in the same peace of spirit with which the missionaries plan to meet
The temple session begins at 6:45, so the sisters get up at 6:15. The automatic protests at the early hour are brief and overshadowed by a low-voiced exchange of reasons for wanting to be part of this aspect of the Lord’s work.
“Every time I open my eyes it hurts.”
“… share something beautiful …”
“… an overwhelming desire to serve the Lord.”
“… feeling of peace as I signed the final papers in the bishop’s office.”
Between the two temple sessions that they attend, the missionaries meet with President Lee in the temple, where he answers any questions they may have about the endowment ceremony and the temple.
A late lunch is followed by a return to the classrooms, where the elders and sisters learn about door approaches and the use of the Book of Mormon in proselyting.
After dinner they memorize discussions three and four.
Two and a half days after their first apprehensive and impatient hours in the Missionary Home, the missionaries begin to feel a sense of purpose and belonging caused by tangible actions as well as their strong desires and aspirations. With this positive assurance they face
The day begins for the sisters with a morning prayer and song, and then a trip to the mailbox. A disconsolate elder stares at his empty box.
“I guess nobody loves me.”
“Sure they do. They were just glad to get rid of you.”
“Yeah! My brother was wearing my clothes even before I left.”
Most of the day Tuesday is spent learning about some important practical matters such as companion relationships, investigator relationships, health problems, auto safety, mission organization, and the daily work schedule.
Sandwiched in between these subjects is a unique little class taught by a member of the mission presidency. It is called “Listening.” In it the missionaries are taught how to listen perceptively and compassionately to others.
After dinner the missionaries memorize discussions five, six, and seven. Actually they have spent every spare minute all day long in concentrated study of the discussions. The time is only a few minutes snatched here and there, but it’s enough for most to get the job done.
It’s been a long day, but time seems to go faster each day. Lights out at 10:30, and more quickly than ever it’s
Today is the last day in the Missionary Home. This evening many of the elders and sisters will leave in buses for the language training missions at Ricks College and BYU. Others will leave on Thursday morning flights for their mission fields.
Everyone looks forward to Wednesday morning, not because it’s their last but because that’s the day the General Authorities speak to them. These leaders bear moving witness of the divine mission of Joseph Smith, of the importance of modern apostles and prophets, of the truth of the gospel, and of the divinity of Christ. They also explain the order of Church government in priesthood correlation, and advise the missionaries regarding their personal conduct. The morning passes far too quickly.
After lunch there is a testimony meeting. It ends with the elders and sisters singing “God Be with You” with some tears but mostly a sense of hope and enthusiasm and minds and hearts filled with words to remember.
“Smile, elders and sisters! These are glad tidings!”
“If you want to have a certain quality, act as if you already had that quality.”
“I told the brethren that the Book of Mormon was the most correct of any book on earth and the keystone of our religion, and a man would get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts than by any other book.”—Joseph Smith
“The gospel makes bad men good and good men better; it changes human nature.”—David O. McKay
Each missionary takes from the Missionary Home his suitcases, packages, “mission library,” and two special gifts: the gospel and the chance to share it, and the knowledge that he is prepared to succeed.

“Choises le bien.” That is what my Primary teacher had said. In English that means “choose the right.” She then gave each of us a CTR ring—in French it is a CLB ring—and challenged us to make good choices in our lives. The whole week after that lesson, I tried extra hard to do what I thought Jesus Christ would have me do.
On Monday, when I saw Nicolette fall down, I hurried to help her. This made me feel good inside. My teacher had said that when we made good choices, we would have a warm, peaceful feeling.
On Wednesday, I fought with my sister Tiffany. She had taken the toy I wanted to play with, so I grabbed it from her. Then I saw my CLB ring. Taking the toy from her like that was not choosing the right. When I thought about that, I gave it back, and I again felt happy inside.
On Friday, I did not want to help clean the house, but I knew that the Savior would want me to help my mother. When I was done, I felt snugly warm inside, like my heart was wrapped in a new quilt.
Although I felt good about the choices I had made, something bothered me. What if I did not know what the right choice was? What would I do then?
The next morning I heard Maman’s (Mom’s) voice coming into the room like a tickle of sound. “Bonjour, bonjour (Good morning, good morning),” she said as she came over to me and playfully rubbed my head. Then she stretched to reach Tiffany on the top bunk. Maman’s stretch made one leg leave the ground like the flamingos we saw on our family vacation. I laughed and Maman laughed, but Tiffany did not wake up.
“J’ai faim (I’m hungry),” I said as Maman did another flamingo stretch to try to wake Tiffany. This stretch ended in a “flamingo flop” on my bed. We both giggled.
“So you are hungry? I am making crepes (thin pancakes with something rolled inside). What do you want in yours?”
I was not sure what to choose. What was the right choice? I looked at my ring. I still did not know what to choose. “Maman, what should I choose? All week I have known what the right choice was when I tried to do what Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would have me do. Now I don’t know what I should have in my crepe.”
Maman pulled me close. “You knew before because you were choosing between good and bad. Heavenly Father will help you to make those choices. But some choices are between two good things. Then Heavenly Father may let you choose by yourself. There are many choices that you can make—like what to wear or what to study in school.”
“Or what I want for breakfast? I want peaches and cream in my crepe.”
When I said that, Tiffany sleepily added, “I want strawberries in mine.”

A Mia Maid from Utah wrote: “This past year I had some personal challenges. I lost track of the Spirit, and then something incredible happened. I went to my bishop. I can’t remember ever feeling so scared. But the Lord was with me in that room, holding my trembling hand. I knew I could be forgiven. It’s been a hard road—humbling, repenting, and learning to pray all over again. But He was there. He never left me for a minute. I’ve been on both sides, and the light side is definitely the place to be” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

President Hinckley described what happens to the heart of every missionary who commits his or her life and work to the Lord when he talked about his own missionary experiences. It was early in his mission, and he was discouraged. The work was hard, and the people were not receptive. However, there came a time when discouragement turned to commitment. For him, the beginning was a letter from his father in which he read: “Dear Gordon, I have your letter. … I have only one suggestion: Forget yourself and go to work.” In describing what happened next, he said: “I got on my knees in that little bedroom … and made a pledge that I would try to give myself unto the Lord.

“The whole world changed. The fog lifted. The sun began to shine in my life. I had a new interest. I saw the beauty of this land. I saw the greatness of the people. … Everything that has happened to me since that’s been good I can trace to that decision made in that little house” (in Mike Cannon, “Missionary Theme Was Pervasive during Visit of President Hinckley,” Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).
President Hinckley continued by saying: “You want to be happy? Forget yourself and get lost in this great cause, and bend your efforts to helping people” (in Church News, Sept. 9, 1995, 4).

I learned as a young high school athlete that rules sometimes are more important than winning. I guess I have shared this experience a time or two around the Church, but I remember when I went in to sign up for varsity baseball. I was 15 years old. I went over to the gym where the head coach was officed. Scared to death, butterflies in my stomach, I knocked on his door. “Come in,” was the reply, and I walked in. He said, “What can I do for you, young man?”

I said, “Where do you sign up for varsity baseball?”

My coach made a very interesting observation. He said, “Do you want to play ball, or do you want to be a champion?” Well, that was kind of crazy. I wanted to play ball.

I said, “I came to play baseball.”

“Well,” he said, “we’re all filled up. Thank you.” And he excused me.

I went out, and he shut the door. There was a drinking fountain there, and I took a drink of water and thought, “Well, now, what’s that all about?”

Fortunately I had the stamina to knock on the door again. He said, “Come in.” I walked in.

I said, “I want to sign up for varsity baseball.”

He said, “I asked you a question. Do you want to play ball or do you want to be a champion?”

Finally it sank in. I said, “I want to be a champion.”

“Oh,” he said. “Then sign here.” He said, “At this school we build champions. We don’t play ball.” There’s a difference I have learned.

Well, the year went on, and somehow I made the team and had some great and glorious experiences. As we came down to the final innings of the season, Fairfax High (our archrival) and Hollywood (which I represented) ended in a dead heat—a tie. There would be a one-game playoff on Friday afternoon on our home field.

Thursday afternoon our coach got us all out on the ball field. We were standing around him, as players do with their coaches, and he was giving us some instruction, fired-up enthusiasm, motivation. Then he turned and said, “Paul, you’ll pitch tomorrow.” I was thrilled but scared.

I want to give you a little flashback. This was an interesting coach, not a member of the Church, but a man who had seen in contests the great ability to build youth. He had each boy on his team sign a contract, not a professional contract, but a contract of rules and regulations. There were some thou shalts and thou shalt nots, and one of them had to do with the Word of Wisdom, although he had never heard of it. He said, “Now, if you’re going to play ball for me, you’ll play according to the rules. Is that understood?”

And I said, “Yes, sir,” as did all the other players. So we signed our contracts, and he kept them on file, and occasionally he would remind us.

Well, as he was giving his pep talk, our all-star second baseman was standing in the circle with his hands on his hips. When the coach made a pass, he stopped and he did a double take. “Jimmy,” he said, “is that a nicotine stain on your finger?” Jimmy put out his hand.

He said, “Yes, sir.”

Then he said, “Well, don’t you know the rule?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

“Did you sign a contract with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know the penalty?”

“Yes, sir.” And this was being said in front of the whole team.

He said, “You’ve lost your privilege. Turn in your uniform.

I almost shouted, but I didn’t, “Coach, wait till tomorrow! We’ve got a game.”

Jimmy was batting .380 and as a second baseman had not made an error in league play. And he now had to turn in his uniform. Our coach was the kind of person who kept close to the boys, even when he disciplined them. He didn’t lose him, but he wouldn’t let him play.

The next day I drew the assignment to pitch. The game went into extra innings, and they beat us one to nothing in the top of the 13th. Do you know how it happened? A ground ball was hit to second, and the ball went through the substitute’s legs, and that proved to be the winning run. Well, I went home that night and literally cried myself to sleep because I wanted to win. You see, I hate to lose.

Well, that was many years ago. I thank God this day for a great man, a great coach, who taught me that playing according to the rules was more important than winning.