Gospel Story Finder

Across from me sits a young woman with a soft, slightly husky voice that could be the envy of any movie star. She is tan, blonde, very tall.
“Any problem being 5 foot, 14 inches, and female?” I ask.
Her eyes crinkle with quiet mischief. “Oh not at all,” she deadpans. “You just get used to sewing ruffles—a lot of ruffles—on your pant hems.”
Meet Dylann Duncan, just another LDS girl from Salt Lake City who likes romantic comedies and long talks with good friends. Who craves hamburgers and roasted marshmallows. Who hates jogging. Who could watch replays of Mary Lou Retton’s perfect vault a million times. Dylann Duncan, just another LDS girl, who also happens to be one of the most honored high school basketball players in the state of Utah.
Quite honestly, Dylann’s sports dossier reads like a page out of a Guinness Book of World Records. Examples? While attending Skyline High School, Dylann was—
Named to the 4A All-State Basketball team.
Selected MVP for her region.
Recognized as the first female to earn a career 1000 points at Skyline.
Made a member of the Utah all-state academic team.
Voted prep of the week by the Deseret News.
Chosen as a member of the prestigious Carnation and Converse All-American teams.
She also managed to letter in three sports (track, softball, and volleyball) besides basketball. By the time Dylann graduated last spring she had received over 55 letters from colleges and universities (including Stanford) expressing an interest in her. And that’s just for starters.
With stats like that, Dylann could create resentment. After all, who honestly likes someone with talent and brains and looks? Yet people like Dylann. In fact, they like her a lot—maybe because she’s always more impressed with others than she is with herself. Dylann’s mom, DeEtte, says that her daughter is baffled by the attention she has received—she doesn’t think she’s all that special. Mrs. Duncan notes that “Dylann has an uncanny ability to put people at ease and to show her love for them.”
What’s the secret to this very nice person’s tremendous success on court?
Let’s face it—being born with natural athletic ability helps. The person who trips over his own shoelaces even when he isn’t wearing any probably won’t accomplish what Dylann has, no matter how willing he is to sacrifice his body for his sport. And, as coach Joan Burdett of Skyline High School notes, Dylann has plenty of athletic ability. She comes by it naturally: Dylann’s siblings—Doak, Dixon, Deon, and Dana—are a lively, fit bunch, and dad Douglas played varsity basketball in college. It was he who helped Dylann learn some of her own inside moves under the basketball standard in front of their house.
Still, designer genes aren’t enough. Any coach can tell you that plenty of naturally gifted athletes warm the bench while others take their place. The successful athlete has something extra.
Like enthusiasm for one thing. Douglas Duncan talks about his daughter’s general “zest for life” and, as everyone who watches her play knows, Dylann crackles with excitement. Her enthusiasm, however, is not restricted to the formal boundaries of a high school basketball game: Dylann shows the same kind of enthusiasm, the same kind of intensity, at a practice. Coach Burdett says that Dylann is “willing to work and work and work at something until she gets it. I don’t think she would accept anything less of herself. She wouldn’t accept anything less than excellence.” This enthusiasm for excellence, coupled with Dylann’s ability to listen to instruction, are two big reasons for her success. Burdett, in fact, calls Dylann “coachable”—probably the highest compliment a coach can pay an athlete.
Talent, enthusiasm, coachability—all these things go a long way toward the creation of a successful young athlete. Still, these things might not have mattered had Dylann not had one more important quality.
Take just a moment now and think about the choices below:
You really want to take some art and graphics classes, but you wonder if you have the time to take them and play basketball and do well in your core classes, too. What do you do?
A friend you haven’t seen for a while wants you to go to a new movie you’re dying to see. You haven’t put your day’s mileage in yet (remember, you ought to jog but you tend to put it off), and you know you’ll never do it if you go with your friend. What do you tell her?
You would love to have one best goofing-around friend—the kind of friend you tell everything, call anytime. To develop that type of relationship, however, you’ll have to slack off on some of your responsibilities at school.
Easy choices to make? They weren’t always easy for Dylann. “It’s a real effort to not be distracted, to stay motivated,” she notes. Of her senior year she says, “I found myself without one really close friend.” And although Dylann is an exceptional student (she has been honored nearly as much for her academic achievements as for her athletic ability), she admits that her “grades did suffer a little bit. I could have had A’s in things I got B’s in.” All this led Dylann to write about certain regrets in her Sterling Scholar Portfolio last spring: “Sometimes, although I’ve tried to fill my life with exciting and interesting activities, I feel a touch of regret that I haven’t had enough time to pursue everything that I would like to experience. I have not had time to study as much as I would like nor have I practiced the guitar and the piano to my satisfaction.”
To get some things, you often have to give up other things. Many of us have a hard time accepting this truism emotionally: we want it all and refuse to choose what matters most. Thus our energy and talents dissipate into a thin cloud of indecision. Not so for Dylann. She knows how to choose, and she isn’t afraid to do it.
This is not to suggest that Dylann doesn’t have a lot of fun on her way to being the best. Although she couldn’t do everything she wanted to in high school, she still made time to take advanced placement classes, to sing, to participate in student government, to order out at a local drive-in.
At present, Dylann is a freshman at Brigham Young University on a full-ride scholarship, majoring in electrical engineering. She is also a member of the Y’s top-ranked women’s volleyball team.
Volleyball? I do a quick double take. Now why would a high school basketball superstar like Dylann Duncan decide to switch sports?
“My height isn’t outstanding for basketball anymore,” she points out, smiling. Besides, she was ready for a new challenge and Dylann liked Coach Elaine Michaelis and her program. “Anyway,” Dylann laughs, “volleyball is a lot more fun.” Typical Dylann.
In her Sterling Scholar Portfolio Dylann spoke of regrets. But she also spoke optimistically of the future: “In the vast life ahead of me,” she said, “I will change my regrets to actions.” It seems that Dylann is well on her way to doing just that.

As a returned missionary, busy with a young family and my own company, I was called to be the president of a good-sized branch with many faithful and mature members. Did I feel prepared, trained, and educated to start serving? No! I had good counselors with whom I could discuss issues. But was their help enough? No!
Thinking back on that calling and on other callings, I realize that in addition to the Holy Ghost and the scriptures, what really helped me were the Church handbooks! They were a treasure of information—as a guide to my initial learning and as a valuable reference along the way.

Delwin Pond (center) introduced Michael Anthoney to the Church in 1981.

Michael Anthoney, a pioneer member in Bangalore (now Bengaluru), miraculously connected with a Church member in 1970. When Delwin Pond, a bishop in Utah, went to a chiropractor because of back pain, he saw a magazine article at the chiropractor’s office for a nonprofit organization that sponsored students in India. He felt a strong prompting to support one of these students. This led to a 10-year anonymous correspondence that culminated in the Ponds making contact with Michael and sharing the gospel with him. Michael was baptized in 1981 and served a mission in Salt Lake City in 1982. He returned to India early because his mother was critically ill, so he served the final three months of his mission in Bangalore, where he taught several of his friends and others who became members of the first branch there.5 Now plans are underway to build a temple in Bengaluru.

President David O. McKay tells of a singular event that happened to him. After falling asleep, he said he “beheld in vision something infinitely sublime. “He saw a beautiful city, a great concourse of people dressed in white, and the Savior.

“The city, I understood, was his. It was the City Eternal; and the people following him were to abide there in peace and eternal happiness.

“But who were they?

“As if the Savior read my thoughts, he answered by pointing to a semicircle that then appeared above them, and on which were written in gold the words: ‘These Are They Who Have Overcome the World—Who Have Truly Been Born Again!’

“When I awoke, it was breaking day” (Cherished Experiences From the Writings of President David O. McKay, compiled by Clare Middlemiss, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1976, pages 59–60).

The compact omnibus speedily wound its way up the winding switchbacks of the El Alto road leading out of the main city of La Paz, Bolivia. I sat on the edge of my seat, aware of nothing other than my thoughts. “What will I say? How can he be persuaded to do the right thing?” I asked myself, as the bus bounced around another curve in the worn cobblestone road. I then peered intently through the window at my right toward the mud streets and houses we swiftly passed, as if I could find an answer in the dirty, yet somehow serene surroundings. I had been given an urgent assignment to work that afternoon with one of our native Bolivian missionaries, Elder Sanchez.
Arriving in Elder Sanchez’s area, I stepped off the bus and walked determinedly to the corner apartment of a dirt-colored adobe house. Elder Sanchez stood apprehensively in the doorway of the small apartment to meet me. I sensed a look of concern in his face as I approached and we shook hands.
Elder Sanchez was not just an ordinary Bolivian, though his features were typical—a staunch 5 feet tall, jet-black hair, dark, intense eyes, and a deep brown complexion. His shoulders were broad and muscular from the year he had spent as a construction missionary before his proselyting mission. This missionary was a special Bolivian—a Lamanite called to serve his own people.
Elder Sanchez was the only member of the Church in his family, and they did not fully understand why he had to dedicate himself in such a manner to his religion. He was also somewhat older than the average missionary, and his family felt that he should be completing his education at this important time. These pressures had weighed heavily on Elder Sanchez, and at times he felt the burden was too great. Possibly he would be more of a positive influence were he with his family. These questions had to be dealt with immediately.
Ducking to fit through the small doorway, I followed Elder Sanchez into the dimly lit room—a typical missionary apartment. The furnishings were the standard items: two identical, well-worn beds, which sagged terribly in the middle; three or four new copies of the Libro de Mormón stacked on a small table in the center of the room, and several tracting pamphlets and Church books nearby. We sat on the edge of one of the beds and reviewed the plan for the afternoon’s work. We knelt together on the bare brick floor, and Elder Sanchez offered prayer. Silently I pled in my heart with the Lord: “Please help Elder Sanchez. Help him to realize just what he should do.” He had to stay—he was vital to the program. We paused briefly at the conclusion of the prayer and looked each other in the eye. We shook hands and rose to leave.
We left the apartment and talked about prospective converts and investigators as we walked down the unpaved dirt road toward the proselyting area we would be working in. I could sense that although Elder Sanchez was a little nervous about our visit, he wanted to talk. Trying to concentrate on cheerful and positive events in the mission, I complimented Elder Sanchez and his companion on the work they were doing, for things did appear to be going well for them.
We turned from the road onto a well-worn pathway that twisted its way up a small hillside. At the top we stopped to rest and catch our breath. The sun was bright and warm, yet a gentle breeze made things cool and refreshing. From the crest of the hill we looked down upon the streets and houses of the community below. The adobe structures all were roofed with sheets of rippled tin, which reflected the bright sunlight like giant mirrors. These were familiar sights to me now. I thought about how I had gone through struggles with the language, adjusting to the customs, and learning how to love these people. Elder Sanchez had not had to go through any of these changes. He knew the language, including the Aymara dialect. He knew the customs; he knew humility; he knew the language of the Lamanite heart.
We continued along the path. The top of the hill leveled into a long, narrow plateau. The other side of the plateau dropped vertically at the edge into a deep and wide ravine. At the bottom of the canyon was a small stream, polluted by garbage and other refuse that people had thrown over the side of the gulch. The stench that rose from the pollution made me shudder, and I breathed through the material of my suit sleeve to try to filter the air. This was one of the poorest areas of the city, and it was evident.
Our pathway ran parallel to the ledge of the ravine, and I scanned the scene below as we walked. In the distance was an ancient-looking railroad bridge that crossed the canyon. The path we followed appeared to pass near it.
Elder Sanchez opened up more as we talked about his family and his missionary calling. He was confused about who to listen to and who to rely on for direction. There were so many pressures!
Suddenly my concentration was interrupted as the pathway crossed an old pair of worn railroad tracks. My heart jumped as Elder Sanchez abruptly turned to follow the railroad tracks instead of continuing on the pathway. I stopped. The old railroad bridge was directly in front of us! My heart began pounding as I realized what was happening. I reached for Elder Sanchez’s arm and beckoned him to stop. “Are we going to cross the bridge?” I asked. He shrugged and replied simply, “Yes.”
I paused. “Isn’t there some other route we could take?” I began to perspire as I looked past Elder Sanchez to the canyon and the bridge. Elder Sanchez walked toward the bridge and replied, “This is the shortest way.” Unwilling to confess my fear of heights, I silently tried to muster courage.
I followed my companion to the edge of the canyon and stopped, stretching my neck to look over the edge. The bottom of the gully was several hundred feet below. My confidence evaporated, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I swallowed hard as I studied the bridge. Although it was still in use, it was very old and in poor condition. There was nothing above the rails to aid in crossing—no hand or guard rail, no supports, no girders—nothing at all. The iron rails rested on greasy, black, wooden ties, old and worn from use and cracked from the weather. I looked up at Elder Sanchez—he was already halfway across.
A silent prayer rose from my heart as I braced myself and carefully placed my foot exactly in the middle of the first tie. Then ever so slowly, the second, then the third. Slowly, I moved away from the solid ground. Through the gaps between the ties I could see the ground far below. I seemed to lose my equilibrium and my muscles tightened. I tried to relax and concentrate completely on the ties, avoiding as much as possible the view between the spaces. As I developed a rhythm, each step became easier and smoother.
I proceeded slowly and steadily ahead. One by one the ties moved under me, until I had stepped on each one in the bridge. I leaped from the last step onto solid ground, smiling with pride and relief as my fright turned into exuberance. My heart was still pounding as I joined Elder Sanchez, who had been watching and waiting patiently for me on the other side. With pride in my step we continued together.
Elder Sanchez and I spent the rest of the day tracting and visiting families. For a time, we became so involved in the proselyting work that our concern for the original problem was completely forgotten. It was late afternoon and the sun was beginning to set behind the distant Andes mountains as we finally directed our steps back toward the apartment. In near desperation I reviewed all that Elder Sanchez and I had talked about during the day. So far I had only been able to listen to Elder Sanchez’s feelings about his situation. I had not been able to offer any convincing suggestions. There seemed to be no conclusions. I searched for the key. Surely Elder Sanchez had problems that would be resolved with patience and faith. The Lord understood his problems, and he would help. We needed Elder Sanchez; the people needed Elder Sanchez; and the Lord needed Elder Sanchez. He was vital to the program! Surely he would sense he must stay.
Suddenly my concentration was shattered as we rounded a corner, and there in front of us again lay the railroad tracks! Panic-stricken, I searched down the rails, and in the distance it loomed—the bridge. Body and mind reacted instinctively. My knees and legs went weak, and my stomach began to tighten again. My heart began to pound quickly. We continued forward. To maintain composure, I tried to be logical: “I’ve done this once,” I thought. “Why not again?” But fear answered: “It’s impossible!” My chances of being able to cross again were too slim! Yet we approached the bridge, and Elder Sanchez again started out in front of me.
Repeating positive phrases and words of encouragement to myself, I reoffered my silent prayer and started out. Step by step, slowly and surely, I tried to follow the same process as before. Again confidence grew with each step. Again I was on my way.
I was near the halfway point on the bridge, concentrating on steady rhythm, when I heard voices—then footsteps. I cautiously stopped and slowly looked up. I froze. In front of me was the largest Bolivian woman I had ever seen in my time as a missionary. The woman was coming directly toward me, and her steady pace clearly indicated who was to make room for whom. I was stunned. I painstakingly lifted my right foot and placed it on the portion of the tie extending several inches to the outside of one rail. I kept my left foot firmly planted on the inside of the rail for balance. I strained to make enough room for her to pass by. Uncontrollably I glanced down over the edge of the bridge to the bottom of the ravine. The stream of water trickled and wound through the debris far below. I felt myself begin to gently sway. Quickly I looked back to the rails.
The woman approached and moved past me. Her long full skirts brushed me gently, and I leaned as far forward into the bridge as I could. But there was another small figure directly behind the woman I had not noticed before—a slender eight-or nine-year-old girl. She clutched her mother’s full skirts with tightly clenched fists. As they both moved past, tears ran down the little girl’s brown cheeks, and she cried out to the woman, “Mamá, tengo temor! ¿Qué hago?¡Tengo temor!” (“Mother, I’m scared! What do I do? I’m scared!”) The old woman merely kept her steady pace, eyes fixed directly ahead, and replied in her native tongue, “Mírame a mí, hija. No mires hacia abajo, sino mírame a mí.” (“Look at me, dear. Don’t look down, just look at me.”)
I stood motionless and watched mother and daughter continue across the bridge. As if a wave of warm air had blown about me, all fear left and inspiration came. I stood in reverence as I realized the simplicity of the answer to Elder Sanchez’s questions. Just as the wise Indian mother had counseled her daughter, I seemed to hear in my mind, “Keep your eye on the prophet.” “Look to the Brethren.” “Come, follow me.”
I looked across the bridge to the other side where Elder Sanchez stood. The affirmation of the Spirit came to me, and I knew what Elder Sanchez must come to understand. Although he was fearful and uncertain, he had received a call from the Lord through his prophet; there was no question about what he should do. With childlike faith he had to look to Him, not look down—keep his eye on Him, and he too would cross the bridge.

In October 1988, as my plane droned onward to Berlin, my thoughts were upon these nations and my heart felt concern for their people, particularly our own members who had unflinchingly borne their burdens and suffered in silence. I sat back somewhat in reverie, contemplating my lengthy assignment to the German Democratic Republic. For twenty years this had been a vital part of my ministry. My mind filled with memories. My heart overflowed with gratitude to God. I reflected on the history of the Church in the land to which I was going.
Such was the dilemma uppermost on my mind as my plane landed in Berlin that October afternoon. We went forward with the vital assignment to visit with the leaders of the German Democratic Republic. Our ultimate goal was to seek permission for the doorway of missionary work to open. Elder Russell M. Nelson, Elder Hans B. Ringger, and I, along with our local German Democratic Republic Church leaders, headed by President Henry Burkhardt, President Frank Apel, and President Manfred Schutze, initially met with State Secretary for Religious Affairs Kurt Löffler as he hosted a lovely luncheon in our honor. He addressed our group by saying, “We want to be helpful to you. We’ve observed you and your people for twenty years. We know you are what you profess to be: honest men and women.”
Government leaders and their wives attended the dedication of a stake center at Dresden and a chapel at Zwickau. As the Saints sang “God be with you till we meet again”—“Auf Wiedersehen, Auf Wiedersehen”—we remembered Him, the Prince of Peace, who died on the cross at Calvary. I contemplated our Lord and Savior, when He walked the path of pain, the trail of tears, even the road of righteousness. His penetrating declaration came to mind: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” (John 14:27.)
Then it was back to Berlin for the crucial meetings with the head of the nation, even Chairman Erich Honecker.
That special morning the sunlight bathed the city of Berlin. It had been raining all night, but now beauty prevailed. We were driven to the chambers of the chief representatives of the government.
Beyond the exquisite entry to the building, we were greeted by Chairman Honecker. We presented to him the statuette First Step, depicting a mother helping her child take its first step toward its father. He was highly pleased with the gift. He then escorted us into his private council room. There, around a large round table, we were seated. Others at the table included Chairman Honecker and his deputies of government.
Chairman Honecker began, “We know members of your Church believe in work; you’ve proven that. We know you believe in the family; you’ve demonstrated that. We know you are good citizens in whatever country you claim as home; we have observed that. The floor is yours. Make your desires known.”
I began, “Chairman Honecker, at the dedication and open house for the temple in Freiberg, 89,890 of your countrymen stood in line, at times up to four hours, frequently in the rain, that they might see a house of God. In the city of Leipzig, at the dedication of the stake center, 12,000 people attended the open house. In the city of Dresden there were 29,000 visitors; in the city of Zwickau, 5,300. And every week of the year 1,500 to 1,800 people visit the temple grounds in the city of Freiberg. They want to know what we believe. We would like to tell them that we believe in honoring and obeying and sustaining the law of the land. We would like to explain our desire to achieve strong family units. These are but two of our beliefs. We cannot answer questions, and we cannot convey our feelings, because we have no missionary representatives here as we do in other countries. The young men and young women whom we would like to have come to your country as missionary representatives would love your nation and your people. More particularly, they would leave an influence with your people which would be ennobling. Then we would like to see young men and young women from your nation who are members of our Church serve as missionary representatives in many nations, such as in America, in Canada, and in a host of others. They will return better prepared to assume positions of responsibility in your land.”
Chairman Honecker then spoke for perhaps thirty minutes, describing his objectives and viewpoints and detailing the progress made by his nation. At length, he smiled and addressed me and the group, saying, “We know you. We trust you. We have had experience with you. Your missionary request is approved.”
My spirit literally soared out of the room. The meeting was concluded. As we left the beautiful government chambers, Elder Russell Nelson turned to me and said, “Notice how the sunshine is penetrating this hall. It’s almost as though our Heavenly Father is saying, ‘I am pleased.’”
The black darkness of night had ended. The bright light of day had dawned. The gospel of Jesus Christ would now be carried to the millions of people in that nation. Their questions concerning the Church will be answered, and the Kingdom of God will go forth.

After many promptings during his young adult years, Elder Larry S. Kacher began to recognize a greater power guiding him in his life. At age 19, sensitivity to the Spirit led him to the gospel of Jesus Christ—a change that has made all the difference.
After high school he went to Europe to ski, and after more than six months there he felt he needed to return home. Once home, he felt like he needed to go somewhere else but didn’t know where. A childhood friend planned to move to Utah, and Elder Kacher decided to move with him. While in Utah, Elder Kacher enrolled at Brigham Young University, learned about the Church, and was baptized.
“As the missionaries taught us, I felt it was true,” he says. “As I prayed, I felt that the Church was true.”

“Over here!” Miss Karen, the cheerleading camp director, waved Cricket over. “Girls eight and under are in this group.”
“Not again,” Cricket whispered to her best friend, Lauren. She turned to Miss Karen and said, “Actually, I’m 10. I’m just small.”
“Oh,” Miss Karen said. “Well, we need you to cheer with the younger girls for the performance. You’re so much shorter and you wouldn’t blend in with the older girls. Besides, their uniforms would be too big on you.”
“But—” Cricket started to say.
“Of course you can do all the other camp activities with your friends.” Miss Karen patted Cricket’s shoulder. “I know you won’t mind.”
Cricket didn’t say anything. But back in their room, Cricket told Lauren, “But I do mind. I’m always the smallest one at camp.”
“It will be OK,” Lauren said. “We’ll have fun doing everything else together.”
And they did have fun. They learned to do flips and back walkovers on the bar in their gymnastics class. Miss Karen even complimented Cricket on her landings.
They watched every day as the high school cheerleaders practiced their pyramids. Cricket was already good at pyramids, and she couldn’t wait until she was old enough to join a cheer team too.
But none of it quite made up for having to cheer with the little kids. Cricket felt out of place practicing with them. They were so much younger! She wished she were taller so she could cheer with her friends.
“Why don’t you pretend to be sick on Saturday?” Lauren said. “Then you won’t have to be in the show.”
Cricket thought for a moment. “No, I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be honest. And besides, Miss Karen and the kids are counting on me. I’ll just tough it out.”
The next day, Cricket had just performed with her group and left the stage when Miss Karen came running up to her.
“We need you,” Miss Karen whispered. “The girl for the top of the high school team’s pyramid is sick. You’re small enough for the girls to lift easily, and your landing is perfect. Are you willing to try it?”
Cricket nodded slowly. They needed her help because she was small. “I’ll do my best,” she said.
When the high school girls finished their routine and started their pyramids, Miss Karen gave Cricket the signal to join them. Cricket said a silent prayer asking Heavenly Father to help her do her best.
She walked on stage. The girls lifted her up and she grinned, holding her hands high in the air. Cricket flipped down into the girls’ arms and landed perfectly. The crowd cheered.
The rest of the cheerleaders came down from the pyramid smoothly. Cricket couldn’t stop smiling as she listened to the crowd cheering.
At the end of the show, all the cheerleaders came onto the stage for one last bow. Miss Karen walked to the microphone.
If you don’t think faith and attitude are more important than size … just ask Goliath about David!
“Every year we give an award to the most inspirational camper,” she said. “This year we’ve chosen a girl who cared more about the group than about herself. The most inspirational camper award goes to a little girl with a big heart. Cricket Newton, please come forward!”
Cricket hugged the trophy tight. She smiled as she stood on her tiptoes to say “thank you” into the microphone.

“Hi, Tommy,” Mom said as Tommy walked in the door and dropped his backpack on the floor.
“Hi, Mom. Guess what?” Tommy opened his backpack and took out a piece of paper. “Soccer sign-ups are this week!” Excitedly, he handed Mom the paper and watched as she read it.
“It says the city leagues are forming, and any interested boys should meet at the park this Saturday.” Mom looked up at Tommy. “What do you think? Do you want to play soccer this season?”
“I really want to,” Tommy said, “but my other friends have been playing for a couple of years, and I might not be a very good player. What if I make a mistake and our team loses a game?”
“Winning isn’t everything,” Mom said. “Having the courage to try, even if you’re scared, is more important. I think you should try.”
Later that evening as the family was sitting around the dinner table, Tommy told Dad about the soccer sign-ups.
“Are you going to play this year?” Dad asked.
“Mom says I should have the courage to try,” Tommy said.
“That’s right!” Dad said. “Having courage is more important than winning. Remember in family home evening when we talked about Nephi building a boat? He had the courage to try something new. Without Nephi’s courage, his family would never have made it to the promised land.”
Tommy sat silently for a few moments. “Dad, will you go with me on Saturday to the soccer meeting?”
“Sure.” Dad smiled. “I’ll give you an extra boost of courage.”
The rest of the week went by quickly, and soon it was Saturday morning. Tommy and his dad sat on the bleachers at the park with the rest of the boys who wanted to play soccer. Some of them had brought their parents along too.
After dividing everyone into teams according to where they lived, the man in charge spoke to each group and asked them to choose a coach. Tommy and his dad looked around at the other parents in their group. They were all shaking their heads.
“I’m too busy,” one dad said.
“I work on the weekends,” said another parent.
Soon the man in charge stood in front of Tommy’s group.
“We still need a coach here,” he said. He waited a moment, but nobody raised a hand. “Without a coach, you can’t form a team,” the man repeated. Everyone was silent.
Tommy pulled on his dad’s sleeve. “You could coach our team!” he whispered.
“No, not me,” Dad said. “I’ve never played soccer. I don’t know anything about the game.”
“But without a coach, we can’t play!” Tommy insisted. “C’mon, Dad, you’d do a great job.”
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I can barely even recognize a soccer ball!” They sat in silence a few more moments. Still, no one offered to coach the team.
Tommy leaned over to whisper to his dad again. “Remember, having courage is more important than winning.”
His dad’s brow furrowed as he thought for a moment. Then he slowly raised his hand. “I’ll coach the team,” he said quietly.
“Hooray!” The other boys cheered as they jumped up. “We can play soccer!”
Tommy grabbed his dad’s hand. “I’ll be with you at every practice and every game, Dad,” he said. “And I’ll give you an extra boost of courage!”
Even though the team had a great time that season, they never won a game—and only scored one goal. The details of their soccer games are now forgotten, but the lesson Tommy and his dad learned about having the courage to try will last a lifetime.

I was baptized in February 1991, and soon after I received the January 1991 issue of Der Stern (German), in which I read an article concerning baptism for the dead. I decided that I would have my mother baptized as soon as I could go to the temple. After that, my mother appeared to me by my bed and told me that she would accept her baptism.
I am eternally grateful to my Heavenly Father because I owe this wonderful experience to him and to Der Stern, which brought this message to me.
Erika GiesenGluckstadt Ward, Neumunster Germany Stake

The last part of the hike was the hardest. The sun beat down on us, and my feet hurt. But I continued to run ahead and look for the place that marked the end of our hike—St. George’s Monastery.
At last I saw the great monastery, built on the side of the cliff. It sure looked neat, but I was just as interested in getting to the top, where a stand with cold drinks and ice cream was waiting.
I wanted to run ahead, but my little brother, Joseph, was having a hard time going up the last steep hillside, so I stayed behind and helped him.
I’m proud to be a Cub Scout, and I always try to live the Cub Scout promise to help other people.

Jenny had been having a wonderful time, but now her cousins were going to play hide-and-seek, and they said that she couldn’t play with them.
“You’re too little,” Jason said. “You might get lost.”
“Yeah,” Lee agreed before he threw a ball into the air and Jason caught it. “My dad said that this mountain country is so big that a kid could get lost and might never be found.”
That did sound scary. “But somebody would find me,” Jenny insisted.
“Might not up here,” Lee said. “Nobody lives in this forest except animals.”
Jenny said stoutly, “I’m five years old, and that’s old enough not to get lost.”
But her cousins ran off without her.
Jenny walked to the picnic table and watched her mother and her aunts unpack food while the men started a fire. She heard Jason call, “I’ll be it! Don’t anybody get far from camp.”
Jason began to count. Jenny saw Ryan and Becca and the other cousins running to hide. She thought, I’ll hide too. They won’t know, so I’ll be the last one caught. Then they’ll let me play.
Jenny ran up a slope where tiny wild-flowers blossomed. Wood chips and brown pine needles muffled her footsteps. She saw a big tree to hide behind, but Stacy was already there.
Jenny ran on until she tripped over a rock and went rolling. She was afraid that she had made too much noise, so she listened, but nobody called her. She got up and looked around. I know, she thought. There are bushes in that little gully. I’ll hide over there.
When she reached the gully, Jenny saw the biggest tree that she had ever seen up ahead, so she climbed another slope and ran behind the tree. She leaned against it to catch her breath. Has Jason already called, “Ready or not, you shall be caught!” she wondered.
She waited for what seemed like a long time, but she never heard Jason. Jenny didn’t hear her other cousins, either. Everyone else has been found, she decided. Now I’ll run in and surprise them.
Laughing, Jenny ran toward where she thought the camp was. But she couldn’t see the big tree where Stacy had hidden. She couldn’t see anyone else, either.
Jenny stopped running. Her heart was pounding, partly because she had run so fast and partly because she was becoming frightened. She began to run in another direction. But soon she stopped again. Nothing looked familiar, yet everything looked the same. All the trees, all the bushes, all the green slopes looked just like all the other trees and bushes and slopes.
Jenny took a deep breath. I’m lost, she thought. I’m really lost. She started to cry, then stopped. Maybe her cousins were playing a trick on her because she had joined the game without their permission. They were probably hiding right now, watching her. They must be waiting for her to cry. Then they would all jump out and run in a circle around her.
But soon Jenny knew that her cousins weren’t hiding. She knew that she could not find the camp. She didn’t know which way to go. There were so many trees in the forest, and the forest was so very quiet!
Jenny started to cry again. She ran very fast. Twice she stumbled and fell. When she tripped again, Jenny didn’t get up. She turned over to lie on her back. She looked up.
Tops of towering spruce trees were far, far above her. The sky was a deep blue. Fluffy white clouds looked so close that Jenny thought that maybe they would drift right down to touch her. Then something soft did touch Jenny’s hand.
Slowly she turned her head. A wee brown chipmunk watched her, its black eyes like bright, tiny beads. As Jenny watched, the chipmunk skittered right up her arm. She hardly felt its little feet.
Jenny stayed very still. She thought, I’m not alone. There are friends in the forest. And my very special Friend is here.
How could she have forgotten that Heavenly Father would watch over her? She folded her arms, and the wee chipmunk ran away so fast that she saw only its bushy tail.
Jenny closed her eyes. She asked her Heavenly Father to please keep her safe until her daddy could find her.
Jenny started to stand up; then she stopped and listened. A voice seemed to come from somewhere, maybe from inside her head. She shut her eyes. What was she supposed to remember? Then it came to her. Daddy had given a lesson in family home evening about what children should do when they are lost.
“If you ever get lost,” he had told Jenny and her brothers, “don’t get so frightened that you just run and run. You would probably just get more lost than ever. Instead, stand very still. Look all around you. Find a tree that you think looks like the friendliest tree in the forest. Go to that tree and hug it. Stay right there. Hug your friendly tree and wait.”
Now Jenny looked around. Finally she saw a tree that looked about as big around as her father, but much taller. She ran to it. Her arms would not reach all the way around, but she put her cheek against the tree’s rough bark and hugged it as tightly as she could. “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “help Daddy find me by my tree before it gets dark.”
Then Jenny began to call. “Daddy, I’m here!” She waited. Then she called again.
The sun went down, and Jenny began to shiver with cold. She was afraid of the dark too. She wanted to cry, but she hugged her tree instead. The tree stood straight and still as if to keep her safe. Jenny called again. “Daddy! I’m over here!” She waited a few moments and called again. And again.
Suddenly Jenny stood straighter. Had she heard something? Was that her father’s voice calling from far away?
“Jenny? Can you hear me? Jenny, where are you?”
“Over here, Daddy!” Jenny called as loudly as she could. “Over here, by my tree!”
A few moments later her father came running. He picked Jenny up and held her very tightly. Jenny cried, then laughed. Then Jenny hugged her father even more tightly than she had hugged her tree.

Although 95 percent of the students at BYU are members of the Church, Elder McKay and Elder Doerflien have plenty to keep them busy on the campus.
“For the first few days, no one even knew who we were. Finally we set up a booth in the activity center where clubs are allowed displays to contact potential members,” says Elder Doerflien. “The results were more than 100 referrals within two weeks.” People even went up to the missionaries and asked to be baptized. It was just a matter of days before their first contact actually joined the Church.

What amazes me about the Book of Mormon is the great and eternal change it causes in people even before they are members of the Church. As a missionary in the Mexico Cuernavaca Mission, I saw this great change firsthand.
When I had been on my mission for six months, a member of the branch referred my companion and me to teach a 20-year-old woman and her family. The young woman didn’t understand what Latter-day Saints believed and asked us many questions. Knowing that the Book of Mormon answers questions of the soul, we gave her the book and shared the promise it contains about praying sincerely to know if it is true.
For three weeks she attended church, and we continued meeting with her. We didn’t know that she had already taken an important step: she had prayed about the Book of Mormon. During one particular lesson, she told us of her experience. She had been thinking a lot about the lessons we were sharing, and she desired to pray on her own. She knelt down and asked God if the Book of Mormon was true. The peace she felt after praying encouraged her to read more of the book. While reading, she felt the Spirit sweep over her.
Recounting her experience, she told us, “I felt more special than I had ever felt before. Something began to fill all the empty space I had in my life that nothing else could fill. I felt so happy that I began to cry. I couldn’t believe what I was feeling, but I knew that my Heavenly Father had answered me, that He knew me, and that He loved me enough to listen to me and answer my prayer.”
I felt so much joy in my heart when she recounted her experience. I knew I was on sacred ground on that occasion. The Holy Ghost confirmed to me that her words were true. From her testimony I was reminded of the great love our Heavenly Father has for us; He loves us so much He has given us the Book of Mormon as an instrument to know Him and His truth. When we obey the principles found in the Book of Mormon, our lives will change.
I still remember how that lesson ended. The sister asked us, “What happens now that I know the Book of Mormon is true?”
“Be baptized,” we responded.
Her reply was simple but reflected the firmness and simplicity of her testimony: “Then I will be baptized.”

My best friend Emily and I were two of the six members of the Church at my high school in Indiana. At an activity, we were invited to think of someone in our lives we could share the gospel with. To our surprise, we both immediately thought of the same person—our English teacher. We were nervous to share it with an authority figure, but we decided to act on the prompting and give him a Book of Mormon. It was summer, so we sent it to him in the mail with our testimonies written on the inside cover.
When the school year started a few weeks later, we walked into his class apprehensively. But he didn’t say anything that first day. Or the second day. Or the day after that. We wondered if he was just going to act like nothing happened or if he even got our package at all, but we were too afraid to ask. Finally, about a week and a half later, he handed us a card. When we opened it, we read that he was respectful with his thank you, but we were disappointed to realize that he wasn’t interested in learning more. Though I’m still not sure why we both felt that prompting, I know that it was the right decision to act on it and send him the Book of Mormon.
Carli C., Utah, USA

Another time, I was sent to speak to leaders of churches in the United States and ministers of those churches who had met in Minneapolis to deal with the problem of competition among churches.
When I arrived, I found that I was assigned to be a speaker. My subject was to be: Why there was a need for a restoration of the true Church through Joseph Smith. I was a last-minute substitute for Elder Neal A. Maxwell.
When I arrived in the city the night before the meetings and looked at the program, I called President Hinckley. I told him that the meetings were to last three days, that many talks were to be given at the same time, that the crowd could choose which one to attend. I told him that I thought if I told the truth, I feared that no one would come to my second session and that I might be coming home very quickly. I asked him what he thought I should do. He said, “Use your best judgment.”
I prayed through the night. Somewhere near dawn, I was sure I was to say about the Restoration not, “This is what we believe happened to Joseph Smith and why we believe it happened,” but, “This is what happened to Joseph Smith, and this is why the Lord did it.” In the nighttime I was given no assurance of the outcome, just a clear direction—go forward.
To my amazement, after my talk the ministers lined up to speak to me. Every one of them, one after another coming to me, told essentially the same story. Each of them had met a member of the Church somewhere in their lives that they admired. Many of them said that they lived in a community where the stake president had come to the aid of not just his members but of the community in a disaster. They asked if I could take back their greeting and their thanks to people I not only didn’t know but had no hope of ever meeting.
By the end of the three days of meetings, larger and larger crowds were coming to hear the message of the Restoration of the gospel and the true Church of Jesus Christ not because they believed the message but because they had seen goodness in people’s lives—the fruits of that restoration.

Desi squinted at her book, trying to focus on the story. It was hard when her four-year-old sister, Libby, was playing on Desi’s bed.
“Mom!” Desi called. “Will you please make Libby get out of our room?”
“Is she bothering you that much?” Desi’s older sister, Claire, asked from the top bunk bed.
“Yes, she is bothering me,” Desi said.
Mom came in and knelt down next to Libby.
“Honey,” she said, “your sisters are trying to read, and it’s almost time for bed. Let’s go to your room, and I’ll read you a story.”
“But I want to sleep with my sisters,” Libby said.
“I know,” Mom said. “But you need to sleep in your room.”
Mom picked up Libby and carried her out of the room. Libby started crying. Desi frowned. She wasn’t trying to make Libby cry! Sometimes Libby acted like such a baby. Why couldn’t she be fun to play with, like Claire?
Libby had been asking to sleep in their room for days now, but they never let her. They didn’t let Libby do a lot with them. No wonder she was so sad, Desi realized.
“Claire,” Desi said, “I feel kind of bad for Libby.”
Claire leaned out over the bunk bed to look at her. “You’re the one who wanted her to leave.”
“I know,” said Desi. “But I think we should do something for her.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Desi put her head back on her pillow and tried to focus on her book.
That night Desi kept thinking about Libby. What could they do that was extra special? Suddenly she had it. They could have a sisters’ sleepover party for her!
The next morning Desi told Claire and Mom about her idea. They loved it, and Mom said they could have the party that night!
At lunchtime Claire wrote a short message on a piece of pink paper. She rolled it up and tied it with a purple ribbon. Desi slipped it onto Libby’s plate.
“What’s this?” Libby asked when she found it. She pulled off the ribbon and unrolled the paper. She handed it to Mom to read.
“Dear Libby,” Mom read, “you are invited to a party in our room tonight. Wear your pajamas and bring your doll. Love, Claire and Desi.”
Libby smiled big. “I’m going to a party!”
Desi was excited too.
After dinner Claire and Desi ran to their room. Soon Libby knocked on the door.
“Princess Libby!” Desi said, opening the door. “Please come in and sit on your royal throne.”
She led Libby to a chair decorated with colorful streamers.
“We now present the Princess Award to Libby Jackson,” Desi said. She handed Libby a sparkly seashell while Claire clapped and cheered.
“And now we shall play the Princess’s favorite game!” Desi said.
“Can I pick any game at all?” Libby asked.
“Yup!” Claire said.
Libby ran to her room and came back with her favorite board game. The three girls sat down to play together.
Normally Desi thought Libby’s games were for babies, but she was actually having fun. She even liked reading Libby’s favorite stories together.
After Mom turned off their light, Libby and Desi snuggled together in Desi’s bed. Desi was too happy to fall asleep right away. Making Libby smile and laugh was so much fun! She couldn’t wait to play with her sisters tomorrow. Both of them.

Several weeks ago in a neighborhood not far from my home, dozens of bright, yellow balloons were seen floating from every tree branch and light post lining a winding, three-block road. It was a beautiful sight on that hazy winter day. Senses were stirred as one drove with anticipation along that friendly, colorful street. Around each bend in the road rose the yellow balloons, waving upward to the top of the hill where a sign warmly proclaimed, “Welcome home, Brigham!” I had heard of Brigham Fordham only a few months ago when I was told of this young eighteen-year-old’s tragic accident that left him paralyzed. I only now discovered that this was his home and his homecoming from the hospital.
I noticed the ramp that had been built to the front of the house and thought of other changes that would have been made in his home to accommodate the changes in his life. There will be changes in Brigham’s family, too, I thought. Life will be different for all the Fordhams—and difficult.
But, as the yellow balloons brightly signaled to Brigham and to all who had the opportunity to travel this street, his was a caring home where family love and strength would be found.

Jack was in trouble. He had poked his little sister, Harper. Mom told him to stop. He dumped his toys in the kitchen. Mom asked him to pick them up. He pulled out all the plastic cups to build with. Mom told him to put them away. Then he got in a fight with his little brother, Adam. And that’s when Mom yelled at him. Jack yelled back. Then Mom told Jack to go sit outside.
Jack ran through the kitchen and out to the balcony. He slid the door shut as hard as he could. He walked back and forth and back and forth. He was mad!
And he was sad. He wished Mom hadn’t yelled at him.
He stopped and looked down at the cars far below the apartment. He watched small cars and big buses drive by. He wished he hadn’t yelled at Mom. He shouldn’t have teased Harper. Or fought with Adam. He hadn’t made very good choices today.
Jack sighed. He looked back at the street and counted cars.
Soon the balcony door slid open. It was Mom.
“Jack?” she said softly. She stepped outside and slid the door shut behind her. She stood by Jack and looked at the cars with him.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Jack said. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t very nice. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course.” Mom gave Jack a big hug. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m still learning just like you are, and sometimes I make mistakes.”
Jack hugged Mom tight.
“Let’s go try again,” Mom said.
She followed Jack back inside. She helped him pick up the cups. They helped Harper find her blanket. Then they played a game with Adam and Harper. When Adam got mad about losing, Jack didn’t get mad back. Mom gave him a big smile. They were learning and trying together.

May I refer to a modern “last days” testimony? When Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum started for Carthage to face what they knew would be an imminent martyrdom, Hyrum read these words to comfort the heart of his brother:
“Thou hast been faithful; wherefore, … thou shalt be made strong, even unto the sitting down in the place which I have prepared in the mansions of my Father.
“And now I, Moroni, bid farewell … until we shall meet before the judgment-seat of Christ.”
A few short verses from the 12th chapter of Ether in the Book of Mormon. Before closing the book, Hyrum turned down the corner of the page from which he had read, marking it as part of the everlasting testimony for which these two brothers were about to die. I hold in my hand that book, the very copy from which Hyrum read, the same corner of the page turned down, still visible. Later, when actually incarcerated in the jail, Joseph the Prophet turned to the guards who held him captive and bore a powerful testimony of the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon. Shortly thereafter pistol and ball would take the lives of these two testators.