Gospel Story Finder

Ídolos was a television show I really enjoyed watching. I have always liked performing and hoped to someday enter a music competition. This year I didn’t hesitate; I simply signed myself up for the show and went to the audition with my dad. I guess you could say I’ve been preparing for Ídolos my entire life. Every experience I had with Ídolos was amazing, without exception. I tried to take advantage of every opportunity that came my way.

Once during a dinner with the other contestants, we talked a little bit about religion, and I spoke about my faith and the standards of the Church. Later I gave each of the finalists a copy of the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet so they could better understand what I believe. Some said the Church’s standards seemed really conservative, but others praised me for having such high standards in these days.

I continued to say my prayers, read my scriptures, participate in seminary, and take the sacrament every Sunday. I am currently preparing to serve a mission, which is something I’ve wanted to do since I was little. I serve in my ward as ward pianist, ward missionary, and assistant to the bishop in the priests quorum. I had to dedicate almost all my time to the competition, but I made sure to first dedicate time to the Lord.

Elder Oaks and I were privileged to join the Choir on that significant journey. Upon our return, we reported to President Ezra Taft Benson on 3 July 1991 the success of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s tour. Then we showed him certified copies of documents that attested to full recognition for the Church in the Republic of Russia. We shall never forget his look of joy. That has become one of our most cherished memories shared since our call to the Quorum of the Twelve in 1984. Poignantly, we recalled that President Benson had often referred to his own unforgettable experience when he had courageously spoken from the pulpit of a church in Moscow on 1 October 1959, telling the congregation:

“Our Heavenly Father is not far away. He can be very close to us. God lives, I know that He lives. He is our Father. Jesus Christ, the Redeemer of the World, watches over this earth. He will direct all things. Be unafraid, keep His commandments, love one another, pray for peace and all will be well.”

President Benson noted that “as each sentence was translated for the congregation, I saw the women take their handkerchiefs and as one observer put it begin to ‘wave them like a mother bidding permanent goodby to her only son.’”

This prophet, who presided over the Church during the period described in this report, who had preached for freedom and pled with people everywhere to study the Book of Mormon and “sweep the earth as with a flood” (Moses 7:62) with its precious pages, lived to reap part of his harvest with news that the Church was fully recognized in the Republic of Russia!

In such a dream, my grandfather’s ears were opened and instruction was given, or sealed, that would change our family for eternity.
Brígido Becerra grew up in Puebla, Mexico. Sadly, he grew up without a father, and at the age of 11, Brígido’s mother died in his arms. He was left alone to live his life as best as he could. At the time, there were no social programs or opportunities to assist an orphan boy like Brígido. Without any guidance or someone to care for him, Brígido became addicted to alcohol. That addiction negatively affected almost every aspect of his life.
At one point his addiction become so severe, he felt he was going to lose his wife and children. In desperation, he decided to pray. He had not been raised with any religion and so offered a prayer in his own way. He pleaded for help to overcome his addiction and sincerely sought to find an escape from his problems.
Sometime after he uttered that sincere prayer, sister missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints visited his home. They had met his wife, Julia, and had told the children about Primary at the local ward. They now sought Brígido’s permission for the children to attend.
The sisters began to teach Brígido and his family about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Back then, missionaries taught using flannel boards to show pictures while they were teaching. During this lesson they showed a picture of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Brígido immediately recognized the man in the picture. He told the sister missionaries he knew this man. They were puzzled by what Brígido said. He was from Mexico and Joseph Smith had lived and died in the United States many years before Brígido was even born. There was no way Brígido knew Joseph Smith.
My grandfather then shared his dream with the missionaries. He told them he dreamed that he was working on his small ranch cutting alfalfa with his machete and gathering other food to feed his chickens and pigs. As he was busy working, a large serpent attacked him. My grandfather fought the serpent as best he could, but it wrapped itself around him, opened its mouth, and was about to swallow him whole.
At that very moment of peril, a man dressed in white, and with a sword in hand, cut off the head of the serpent. As it fell dead at Brígido’s feet, he looked up to see who had saved his life. He did not recognize the man but noted he was dressed in white. Then he explained that the man in the picture the sisters were sharing was the man in his dream. Brígido had immediately recognized that this was the man in his dream, the man who saved him. Now he knew the man’s name was Joseph Smith.
This dream was a vivid learning experience for my grandfather. He felt it was a direct answer to his prayers and pleadings. He said he felt that the serpent was a representation of his addiction to alcohol. And he understood, through the powerful teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, that he would be able to overcome his addiction. He knew he would find relief and receive the full blessings of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
Elder Becerra’s grandfather, Brígido Becerra and his wife, photographed on their only visit to the United States.
Photograph courtesy of the author
Shortly after sharing this experience with the sister missionaries, my grandfather Brígido Becerra was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He loved the gospel of Christ. He had a special love for the Book of Mormon and all the prophets, especially Joseph Smith.
My grandfather’s dream led him to the true gospel of Christ and not only saved him from a life of addiction and sorrow but also blessed generations of faithful members of the Church. When my grandfather passed away at the age of 98, he left approximately 120 descendants—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. Each one has been affected by his dream and by his legacy of testimony and faithfulness to the Church and to the Savior, Jesus Christ.

I have in mind a special moment in Church history which has a great bearing on our testimonies and on the progress of the gospel. I hope that it has been duly recorded by those who keep the history. I refer to what happened on the 4th of April, 1974.
The story really begins on the 26th of December, 1973. President Harold B. Lee passed away suddenly on that day. His death was completely unexpected. It is necessary to remember that over a period of twenty-five years, members of the Church had awaited the time when Harold B. Lee would become the president. There had been every reason to think that this would eventually happen, due to his relative youthfulness and because he occupied a position in seniority following Joseph Fielding Smith and David O. McKay, both of whom were of advanced age. In addition, Harold B. Lee had gained more than average prominence. His leadership in the welfare and priesthood programs of the Church, his forceful nature, and his sound judgment had made him one of the apostles most listened to and one whose influence and advice were most respected. He had an evident spiritual stature which commended him to the members of the Church as one of the great men of our time. He possessed an unusual ability to relate as a personal friend to countless people. It was expected that when he became president he would preside for twenty years or more.
Suddenly he was gone!—called elsewhere after only one and one-half years. It was the first time since the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith when the president had died before it was time for him to die. In deep sorrow and concern the surging questions arose in the minds of the people, much as they did at the time when Joseph Smith was killed in Carthage, Illinois. “What will we do now? How can we carry on without the prophet? Our great leader has gone. Can the Church survive this emergency?”
Of course we knew that the Church would survive, but it could not possibly be the same. We had never expected Spencer W. Kimball to become the president, and we had not looked to him for the same leadership evident in the life of Harold B. Lee. We knew, of course, that he would manage somehow, until the next great leader arose, but it would not be easy for him, and things would not be the same. “O Lord,” we prayed, “please bless President Kimball. He needs all the help you can give him.” Such seemed to be the attitude in the hearts of the Latter-day Saints during those days of mourning.
We return to the 4th of April, 1974. There were gathered that morning in the Church Office Building, all of the General Authorities as well as the Regional Representatives and other leaders from around the world. We were to be instructed once again, as we had been periodically during the past seven years. On each preceding occasion Harold B. Lee had given us our direction and sounded the trump of leadership. Now he was no longer there, and we all felt his absence deeply. Again came the questions: “How can we proceed without our great leader?” “How can President Kimball fill the empty space?” And again the prayers went forth: “Please bless President Kimball.”
The moment came when President Kimball arose to address the assembled leadership. He noted that he also had never expected to occupy this position and that he missed President Lee equally with the rest of us. Then he reviewed much of the instruction which President Lee had given over the past years, and our prayers in behalf of President Kimball continued.
As he proceeded with his address, however, he had not spoken very long when a new awareness seemed suddenly to fall on the congregation. We became alert to an astonishing spiritual presence, and we realized that we were listening to something unusual, powerful, different from any of our previous meetings. It was as if, spiritually speaking, our hair began to stand on end. Our minds were suddenly vibrant and marveling at the transcendent message that was coming to our ears. With a new perceptiveness we realized that President Kimball was opening spiritual windows and beckoning to us to come and gaze with him on the plans of eternity. It was as if he were drawing back the curtains which covered the purpose of the Almighty and inviting us to view with him the destiny of the gospel and the vision of its ministry.
I doubt that any person present that day will ever forget the occasion. I, myself, have scarcely reread President Kimball’s address since, but the substance of what he said was so vividly impressed upon my mind that I could repeat most of it at this moment from memory.
The Spirit of the Lord was upon President Kimball and it proceeded from him to us as a tangible presence, which was at once both moving and shocking. He unrolled to our view a glorious vision. He told us of the ministry performed by the apostles in the day of the Savior, and how the same mission was conferred on the apostles under Joseph Smith. He demonstrated how these men had gone forth in faith and devotion and were clothed with great power, by which they had carried the gospel to the ends of the earth, reaching further, in some ways, than we with the strength of this modern church are doing at the present time. He showed us how the Church was not fully living in the faithfulness that the Lord expects of His people, and that, to a certain degree, we had settled into a spirit of complacency and satisfaction with things as they were. It was at that moment that he sounded the now famous slogan, “We must lengthen our stride.” (See Ensign, Oct. 1974, p. 5.) I doubt that everyone fully understands that directive even now. If it were put into the vernacular it would sound much more like: “Let’s get off our dime!” “Get going!” “Move!”
President Kimball bespoke other messages: “We must go to all the world.” “Every boy should go on a mission.” “Open the door to new nations.” “Send missionaries from Mexico, South America, Japan, Great Britain, and Europe.” (See “When the World Will Be Converted,” Ensign, Oct. 1974, pp. 2–14.) This was a new vision, disturbing and exciting, added to the old.
The thought came to me: “Imagine! At any moment the president might call any or all of us to go to distant lands or otherwise extend the preaching of the gospel.” I little realized that within six months I would be en route to Portugal for that very purpose.
President Kimball spoke under this special influence for an hour and ten minutes. It was a message totally unlike any other in my experience. I realized that it was similar to the occasion on the 8th of August, 1844, when Brigham Young spoke to the Saints in Nauvoo following the death of the Prophet Joseph. Sidney Rigdon had returned from Pittsburgh, where he had apostatized, to try to capture the Church. Many people testified, however, that as Brigham Young arose, the power of the Lord rested upon him to the extent that he was transfigured before them, with the appearance and the voice of Joseph Smith. That moment was decisive in the history of the Church, and the occasion of April 4, 1974, is parallel.
When President Kimball concluded, President Ezra Taft Benson arose and with a voice filled with emotion, echoing the feeling of all present, said, in substance: “President Kimball, through all the years that these meetings have been held, we have never heard such an address as you have just given. Truly, there is a prophet in Israel.”
Now I affirm that since April 1974 things have indeed not been the same. This is no attempt to eulogize President Kimball into a figure greater than other presidents of the Church, but to point out the continuing spiritual power which attends the prophet of the Lord, whoever he may be. But President Kimball has nevertheless launched us into a new perspective and is causing us to take giant strides. Since that day no one has worried the least little bit about who is the Lord’s prophet.

Jacob pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket that read,
Please take good care of Henry.
My mother wouldn’t let me take him with me.
Benne
That morning Jacob had found the note taped to the bare wall of his room when his family arrived at their new home. While the furniture was being carried in, Jacob looked everywhere in the house, in the yard, and even out around the cholla and prickly pear cacti growing outside the fence beyond the mesquite trees. But he didn’t see a sign of any pet.
After supper Jacob got two bowls and put leftovers and bones in one and some fresh cold water in the other and set them outside the back door.
“Henry! Henry!” he called in every direction into the cooling desert air, but there was no answer and no pet came running to eat. He watched until the sunset had faded and bright stars twinkled through the purple and gray of the night, but no pet came.
“I guess Henry is lost,” he told his mother, “or maybe he ran away.”
That night Jacob woke up to the sound of a coyote calling from the mesa out in the distance. He sat up to see if he could see it from his window. But all he could see was the moonlight reflection, glimmering off the desert sand. Then Jacob thought he caught a glimpse of something moving in the corner of his room.
“Henry?” he called and crawled to the foot of his bed to see what it was.
Jacob’s eyes grew larger and larger. He rubbed them hard and then looked again. There in the corner was a snake. He could see its yellow markings in the moonlight against its black body. It was just swallowing the last of a small mouse and was too busy to notice Jacob.
Jacob watched as the end of the mouse’s tail disappeared inside the snake’s mouth, then he saw the bulgy, black and yellow snake crawl slowly into a knothole in the baseboard.
The next morning what Jacob had seen seemed like only a dream, and he forgot about it in all the excitement of his first day at school.
After school one of the boys in his class introduced himself. “My name’s Tom. You moved into the house out near Chacho Mesa, didn’t you? I went past there yesterday with my father and saw you. We live about half a mile farther on.”
“Did you know a boy named Benne who used to live there?” Jacob asked.
“Sure.”
“I’m afraid that his pet, Henry, is lost. There was a note asking me to take care of him, but I can’t find him.”
“Oh, haven’t you met Henry yet?” Tom asked with mock innocence. “He’s probably hiding till he gets used to your family. I’ll bet he’s around there somewhere,” Tom added, suppressing a smile. “My father’s planning to stop and get acquainted with your family tonight. I’ll come with him and help you hunt for Henry then.”
Tom and his father arrived right after supper, carrying a plate heaped with chocolate chip cookies. After Jacob and Tom each ate one, they took two more and headed outside.
“Henry’s really hard to find when he wants to be,” Tom said. “There’s an old pack rat’s nest out here that Henry sometimes checks out to see if it’s occupied. Let’s start looking there.”
Tom wove his way in and out of cedar clumps, barrel cacti, and grasses that grew in thin tufts. Here and there he had to step over lechuguilla spines. “Watch out for those!” he warned Jacob. “They’ll slice into even the toughest shoes.”
Soon they reached a large mound of dirt piled around the base of a creosote bush. Bits of foil and shotgun casings and colorful pieces of plastic and metal were poking out here and there from the dirt. Up and down the sides of the mound ran four-toed tracks and long grooves made by something being dragged up its sides.
“It looks like a new pack rat has taken over this place,” Tom said. “If Henry had been here lately, it would have been empty. Let’s go.”
From behind a yucca, a roadrunner darted, then strutted off ahead of the boys, stopping now and again to raise and lower its tail.
“Is Henry a dog?” Jacob finally asked.
“No,” answered Tom briskly.
“If Henry’s not a dog, then he must be a cat?” persisted Jacob.
Tom laughed. “Benne really didn’t tell you in the note who Henry is, did he?” he said incredulously.
“No, who is he?”
“Henry’s a pet snake.”
“A snake!” Then Jacob remembered. “What kind of snake? What does he look like?”
“He’s a king snake. He’s black with yellow markings that look sort of like a chain on his body. He can catch a rat or mouse better than a cat. I already have a pet snake, or I would have taken him home with me when Benne moved away.”
Then Jacob told Tom what had happened the night before. It didn’t seem at all like a dream now.
“That sounds like Henry all right. If he comes out before I go home, I’ll introduce him to you and let him know you’re his new friend. He trusts me already.”
The boys went into Jacob’s room and looked into the knothole.
“I can’t see him in there, but he’s probably awake by now,” Tom said. “He usually sleeps all day and comes out to eat about this time.”
The boys played two games of checkers before a black and yellow head with two bright eyes poked out of the knothole, and the snake crawled into the room.
“There you are, Henry,” Tom said and he picked up the snake. “Meet Jacob. He just moved in here.”
Tom placed the snake in Jacob’s hands. Henry looked at Jacob with unblinking eyes.
“Look,” Jacob said as he walked into the living room to show his mom and dad. “We’ve found Henry.”
“So this is what you were telling us about,” Jacob’s dad said to Tom’s father.
“A pet snake!” Jacob’s mother exclaimed. “That will take a little getting used to. But if he’s as friendly and as good at keeping the mice away as you say, I guess he can stay.”
Henry looked around at Tom and Jacob and their parents, flicked out his tongue, and laid his head down on the coil his body had made in Jacob’s hands and went to sleep.

After hearing Church leaders encourage youth to save money for full-time missions, we held a special family home evening with our two children, 10-year-old Allana and 7-year-old Ulric. We discussed the importance of saving for a full-time mission, then presented them with piggy banks to help them begin saving.
After that evening it was incredible how the money has accumulated. Ulric collects and saves every coin he can find; both children save any money they receive from relatives. In three months Ulric has saved enough to pay for the first month of his mission, and Allana is almost there. The children also make sure to pay tithing on the money they receive, and our family has seen great blessings as their testimonies of serving and sacrificing have taken root and grown.
Luiz and Andreia Pereira, São Paulo, Brazil

My name is Ben. I used to be the best trumpet player in our school band. Did you notice that I said “used to be”? When Bradley moved here from Centerville last month, everyone went gaga over how wonderful he was on the trumpet.
Mr. Gerhardt, the band director, still let me play the first-chair trumpet part, but I could see that my days as the band’s top-dog trumpet player were fast becoming history.
Today during band practice, Mr. Gerhardt announced, “Next week we’ll have tryouts for All-County Honor Band. Only first-chair players are eligible.”
I let out a sigh of relief. That meant me! Dad had said that if I made All-County Honor Band, he and Mom would buy me that new trumpet I wanted. That old, beat-up one I played now had probably been around since the fall of Jericho!
Then I nearly fell off my chair at Mr. Gerhardt’s next words: “Since Bradley was a first-chair player in Centerville before he moved here, I’m going to let him try out, too.”
I groaned. It looked like my free evenings were a thing of the past. I was going to have to actually practice my Honor Band music for the tryouts. I glared at Bradley. But he was too busy putting his trumpet away to notice.
I didn’t get much sympathy from my folks at dinner that night. “It isn’t fair!” I complained. “Mr. Gerhardt’s going to let the new guy in school try out for the Honor Band.”
Dad looked at me kind of funny. “So that’s why you’ve suddenly started practicing again!”
“He’s only been here a month,” I said. “Shouldn’t there be a rule about outsiders not being eligible for a year or so?”
“Would you want to represent your school if you knew you were second-best?” Dad has a habit of answering my questions with questions of his own. Usually hard ones, too, like that one. “It makes you think,” he always says. It gives me a headache! is what I think when he does it.
Now I had to practice my trumpet instead of play video games after school. And even if I practice an hour a day, that might not be enough to beat Bradley out of the Honor Band spot.
All the next week I practiced until my lips hurt where the mouthpiece pressed against them. The tryout music was getting all crumpled from being taken out of my trumpet case so many times. Finally I just stopped taking the music out—I had it memorized, anyway, by then.
During band practice on Wednesday, Mr. Gerhardt had our whole band try to play the Honor Band music. Boy, was it hard! Most of the other kids just stumbled around, losing their places, playing wrong notes. If it hadn’t been for Bradley and me, the music would have been a total disaster.
Since Bradley and I seemed to be keeping the music going on the right track, Mr. Gerhardt let us keep playing. I noticed that Bradley didn’t look at the music any more than I did.
He must have practiced a lot, too, I thought with satisfaction. Then I groaned. If he was practicing more, I would have to practice more, too, unless I wanted to give up on my dream of playing in the All-County Honor Band on my new trumpet. That dream was getting dimmer by the day, but I wasn’t ready just yet to give up on it!
When Mr. Gerhardt finally stopped the band, Bradley turned to me with a big grin on his face. “Hey, you’re pretty good! Want to come over to my house tonight? We could practice some great duets I brought from my last school.”
“Uh …” Bradley wasn’t supposed to be friendly! Didn’t he know that we were bitter rivals for Honor Band?
“I sure miss my old trumpet partner from Centerville,” Bradley said with a sigh. “We used to play duets together almost every day after school.”
I looked down in embarrassment.
“I guess you have something else planned,” Bradley said. “Maybe we can get together another time.”
I thought about how I was going to practice an hour a day, just to beat this guy out of Honor Band. Then I thought how much fun it would be to play duets with someone as good as he was. I was having a hard time remembering that he was supposed to be my rival, not my friend!
“Some other time,” I said as coolly as I could, turning away. But I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, like maybe I hadn’t handled the situation exactly right.
The tryouts for Honor Band were Friday afternoon. When it was time for the trumpets, Bradley played first. He played it so perfectly that even I had to applaud when he finished.
I didn’t do so bad, either, I thought to myself after I played. All those hours of practice have really paid off. The whole band waited nervously to hear whom the band director would choose.
When Mr. Gerhardt cleared his throat, everyone stopped breathing. I looked sideways at Bradley. He was looking down at the floor. I wondered if he was praying.
“It’s a hard choice to make,” Mr. Gerhardt began.
So, who is it? I muttered under my breath. Don’t make speeches—just tell us who won!
“A band is like a team,” he continued. “And a team is only as good as its individual players. That’s why we help each other, just as Bradley and Ben have been doing.”
I didn’t remember helping anyone except myself.
“They set an example, and they helped the newer members with their parts. I only wish I could choose both of them!”
Oh-oh! I thought. Here it comes! I held my breath.
“I have chosen Bradley to represent our school at the All-County Honor Band this year!”
You could hear the whooshing of thirty breaths being let out at once. Then the room got quiet as Bradley stood up and faced Mr. Gerhardt and the band.
“Thank you,” he said, “but I’m a newcomer here. I don’t deserve to be your representative.” He pointed at me. “Ben’s the one you should have!”
Suddenly I remembered Dad’s question. This time I already knew the answer. I stood up and faced the band. “Mr. Gerhardt made the right choice,” I said firmly. “The reason I wasn’t chosen was that Bradley played better than I did.” I felt my face redden, but I gripped my battered trumpet harder and went on, “I’m proud of our band, and I wouldn’t want the second-best player—me—to represent it.”
It was hard to tell Mom and Dad that I’d lost to Bradley, but I told them what he’d tried to do, too, and that felt good.
The next day, I poked Bradley and grinned at him. “How about us getting together after school today to play some duets? But watch out—next year we might have a different guy in Honor Band—one with a brand new trumpet!”

One Sunday Sister Garcia assigned Whitney to give a talk in Primary the following week. Whitney didn’t usually like giving talks because she never knew what to say. But this time was different. Whitney could hardly wait to get home and begin writing.
“What are you supposed to talk about?” Wendee asked on the way home from church.
“Well,” Whitney said, “Sister Garcia said the theme should be ‘families are forever.’ The way I look at it, forever families are a lot like making raspberry jam!”

The past few years, I have struggled with clinical depression and anxiety. Last year was a record low for me. My testimony was slipping, and seminary was the only thing barely pulling me through. I met a few girls who quickly became my best friends. The scriptures began to resonate with me. And our teacher taught in such a way that the New Testament stories of Jesus Christ from so long ago became relevant to our teenage lives. I grew to know my Savior and my Heavenly Father. Slowly my testimony not only was restored but also became stronger and more immovable. My battle with my mental health has never left me, but because of seminary, the hope that was once lost is now abundant. I have a testimony of Jesus Christ; I know He lives, He loves us, and He can bear our burdens if we come to Him. Without seminary I would not have received that blessing.
Jalee D., 16, Colorado, USA

Last year a dear family friend passed away. Lucile was 89 years old and had been a widow for more than 20 years. She was not a rich woman, she was not famous, and most of the world knew nothing of her passing. But her family knew. Her neighbors knew. The members of her ward knew. For all who had experienced her love, her death had left the world a diminished place. During her years as a widow, Lucile had endured difficult challenges, including the death of a beloved grandson and infirmities brought on by age. But Lucile continued to nourish everyone she knew with her spirit; with her baked goods, her quilts and afghans; with her humor and goodwill. And she loved to work in the temple. One spring day in 1981, she wrote in her journal: “This morning at 3:30 A.M., as I was walking up the path to the temple, I watched the flag gently blowing in the breeze and looked at the beautiful sky and thought how happy I was to be there. I felt sad for all the people who [were] sleeping and missing the awakening of a beautiful day.”
Most of us don’t think the world is “awakening” at 3:30 in the morning, and we’re perfectly happy to roll over in bed about then and allow Lucile to feel sorry for us. But what an attitude! Only a flow of goodness from within could explain it. Did she possess this purity of spirit at 15, at 25, or even 55? I don’t know. In most cases, it probably takes a lifetime of listening to the Holy Ghost before we know God’s voice so well and before we trust in the living waters enough to taste them throughout the entire day—especially a day that begins at 3:30 A.M. But I believe the living waters sustained Lucile during those long years when she might have given way to self-pity, and her life, her spirit, became nourishment to everyone she knew.

It was about 5:00 in the evening when mother announced that she had to run into town, which was about four miles away. She would barely have time to purchase a few necessities before the store closed at 5:30. Since mother did not drive, my older brother was summoned from the field to chauffeur her.

“Running into town” was always a treat if one lived on a farm, so my brother just younger (almost 11) and I (about 13) coaxed to go. Mother consented, with the stipulation that I get the cows in the corral for the evening milking without making her wait.

As we tore out into the yard, my brother and I decided how we could manage it, and we agreed that if he did the running, with luck we could finish in the six or seven minutes that it would take for Mother to get her things on.

He yelled for me to open all the gates and to clear everything out of the way as he scurried over the canal to head the cows down the lane. If they were headed in the right direction, they would not escape, for Father’s fences were notoriously strong and always in good repair.

Through the thick cloud of dust I could see the cows running full speed with their tails flying high in the wind and my brother close behind, grinning broadly, for he could see that the car was still in the yard and success was near. He ran around the haystack into the corral to close the middle gate while I fastened the one by the stack and then made a dash for the car.

Mother was in her place in the front seat, and my older brother had started the car and was circling the yard when I came in sight, so they slowed down, and I jumped into the back seat, breathless but triumphant! Eagerly I leaned out the right window of the car to watch for my younger brother who only had to fasten the middle gate and then cut kitty-corner across the corral to the main road to meet us.

My elation over seeming success was short, for my brother was having difficulty with the gate. It was made of poles strung between barbed wires, and they were tangled! I had seen this happen often when someone flung the gate wide instead of laying it down carefully. In my hurry I had thrown the gate down, and the possibility of it becoming tangled had not even crossed my mind! Frantically he worked at the wires, but hurrying only made things worse. Now he needed me, and where was I?

Sitting in the car and feeling sick! I pleaded with Mother to wait another minute, but after quickly surveying the situation, she said, “If we wait, it will be too late to shop at all, for the store will be closed. Drive on!”

As my older brother revved up the noisy motor, so my aching heart beat faster, and I was in agony. I now realized that in making the run for me, my little brother had not only done my work, but had done it at the sacrifice of the trip.

“Let me out!” I cried. But stopping again would only use up more of the precious time, so I curled up in my miseries and hated myself.

I knew then that I would not get out of the car when we arrived in town. But more than that, I would never be able to forget the helpless look of desperation on my brother’s face, and all because he wanted to help me. It was at that moment I learned that unshared success is no victory.

The principle of eternal families changed my life before I was even born. When my dad asked my mother to marry him, she expressed her convictions about going to the temple in a letter that has been invaluable to our family. Part of that letter reads:
“Temple marriage is forever. It lasts beyond death. Children born to parents [who] married in the temple [and] who live up to their vows will rejoin their parents in heaven. The family unit is preserved for time and eternity. Steve, I believe as clearly as I believe the sun will rise tomorrow that this is true. And I also believe that as much as my Heavenly Father loves me, as much as He loves you, He could not preserve any other kind of relationship beyond death because He is a God of truth, bound by His word.
“Steve, if I love you this much, and I have known you only two and a half years, how much more will you mean to me as time goes by? If I can’t answer you now because I can’t face what the consequences might be, how could I ever, ever face them later?
“Without the covenant of God, two people can build their lives together, only to see it all snatched away in an unexpected nightmare. There can be no peace of mind.”
Those words supplied the added encouragement my father needed to join the Church. My mother committed to marriage, and my parents were sealed in the temple for time and eternity. My father’s testimony was strengthened by the peace of mind found through temple marriage—a peace of mind that would become very meaningful years later.

When Joseph Ahuna was attending BYU in the 1970s, he was a member of the performing group Young Ambassadors. As a college student, he traveled throughout the world performing with the group. His specialties were the Samoan fire dance and the hoop dance, popular in Native American cultures.

After he married, he and his wife, Janice, decided their children should learn these same dances. When the Ahuna children learned to walk, they also learned to dance. First came Joseph Jr., then Ruth and David and Angela, and finally Michael and James.

"I’ve been dancing since before I was born," says Ruth, 19. She’s smiling, and she decides she better clarify. "When my mom was expecting me, she started dancing hula with my older brother right up on the stage." Or so she’s told. Ruth doesn’t exactly remember her dancing "debut."

There are many ways in which we can misuse our opportunities. Some time ago I read a tender story written by Louise Dickinson Rich which vividly illustrates this truth. She wrote:
“My grandmother had an enemy named Mrs. Wilcox. Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox moved, as brides, into next-door houses on the main street of the tiny town in which they were to live out their lives. I don’t know what started the war between them—and I don’t think that by the time I came along, over thirty years later, they themselves remembered what started it. This was no polite sparring match; this was total war. …
“Nothing in town escaped repercussion. The 300-year-old church, which had lived through the Revolution, the Civil War, and the Spanish-American War, almost went down when Grandma and Mrs. Wilcox fought the Battle of the Ladies’ Aid. Grandma won that engagement, but it was a hollow victory. Mrs. Wilcox, since she couldn’t be president, resigned in a huff. What’s the fun of running a thing if you can’t force your enemy to eat crow? Mrs. Wilcox won the Battle of the Public Library by getting her niece, Gertrude, appointed librarian instead of Aunt Phyllis. The day Gertrude took over was the day Grandma stopped reading library books. They became ‘filthy germy things’ overnight. The Battle of the High School was a draw. The principal got a better job and left before Mrs. Wilcox succeeded in having him ousted or Grandma in having him given life tenure of office.
“When as children we visited my grandmother, part of the fun was making faces at Mrs. Wilcox’s grandchildren. One banner day we put a snake into the Wilcox rain barrel. My grandmother made token protests, but we sensed tacit sympathy.
“Don’t think for a minute that this was a one-sided campaign. Mrs. Wilcox had grandchildren, too. Grandma didn’t get off scot free. Never a windy washday went by that the clothesline didn’t mysteriously break, with the clothes falling in the dirt.
“I don’t know how Grandma could have borne her troubles so long if it hadn’t been for the household page of her daily Boston newspaper. This household page was a wonderful institution. Besides the usual cooking hints and cleaning advice, it had a department composed of letters from readers to each other. The idea was that if you had a problem—or even only some steam to blow off—you wrote a letter to the paper, signing some fancy name like Arbutus. That was Grandma’s pen name. Then some of the other ladies who had the same problem wrote back and told you what they had done about it, signing themselves One Who Knows or Xanthippe or whatever. Very often, the problem disposed of, you kept on for years writing to each other through the column of the paper, telling each other about your children and your canning and your new dining-room suite. That’s what happened to Grandma. She and a woman called Sea Gull corresponded for a quarter of a century. Sea Gull was Grandma’s true friend.
“When I was about sixteen, Mrs. Wilcox died. In a small town, no matter how much you have hated your next-door neighbor, it is only common decency to run over and see what practical service you can do the bereaved. Grandma, neat in a percale apron to show that she meant what she said about being put to work, crossed the lawn to the Wilcox house, where the Wilcox daughters set her to cleaning the already-immaculate front parlor for the funeral. And there on the parlor table in the place of honor was a huge scrapbook; and in the scrapbook, pasted neatly in parallel columns were Grandma’s letters to Sea Gull over the years and Sea Gull’s letters to her. Though neither woman had known it, Grandma’s worst enemy had been her [very] best friend. That was the only time I remember seeing my grandmother cry. I didn’t know then exactly what she was crying about, but I do now. She was crying for all the wasted years which could never be salvaged.”

Make up your mind what to do in difficult situations before they arrive. For Andrea Bennett, 17, of the Douglas Georgia Stake, turning down alcohol and R-rated movies at her junior/senior beach weekend wasn’t hard at all. “A lot of people were drinking, but when they asked me if I wanted some I just said no. I didn’t even have to think about it. I had made up my mind long before that happened I wouldn’t do those things. So when the offer came there wasn’t even a doubt in my mind what my answer would be. It would just happen. And it did.”

I am one of 13 children in a Latter-day Saint family that has experienced similar problems. We joined the Church 14 years ago, and over the years some of my brothers and sisters have become less active. Many have shown little or no respect for our parents.
My family underwent a great transformation when my youngest sister died following an accident. We realized then that for us to be together again as an eternal family, we needed to change our lives. Five of my less-active brothers and sisters began to attend church again, our attitude toward each other and toward our parents improved considerably, and quarreling diminished. We attended a temple preparation class taught by my brother-in-law, and five months after my sister’s accident, we were sealed together as a family for time and eternity.
Éder José Lagemann,Parque Ouro Fino Ward, Sorocaba Brazil Trujillo Stake

Manasseh Byrd Kearl, born in 1870 and raised near Bear Lake in northern Utah, tells a wonderful story that might be instructional to his descendants, of which I am one. Let me read from his journal:
“That fall father bought some cattle for John Dikens, a very large herd. Dikens had a large ranch on Bear River. … I remember Jimmie was down north buying cattle and he sent father that he needed more money. So father toled me to take some money to him. Mother sewed six hundred dollars in my under clothes, and father put me on a horse and said, ‘Now Byrdie my boy, don’t you get off this horse till you find your brother Jimmie, and keep your mouth shut, and if any one asks you questions don’t reply or tell them where you are going, and do not give this money to any one but Jimmie, no matter what any one tells you.’ Well, when I got to Dingle-Dell, I was toled Jimmie was in Montpelier. So to Montpelier I went to Joe Richs, a friend of father’s, he toled me that Jimmie had gone home. Brother Rich wanted me to go in the house and get something to eat. I toled him no, that father toled me not to get off this horse till I found Jim, and here I stayed. I turned around and headed for home. When I got to Bears Valley, … I could hardly walk. Mr. Potter tried to get me to stop and rest, but I could not stay. At last I got home. Jimmie took me off the horse and carried me into the house. Mother cried to think I had been in the saddle while the horse went over eighty miles.”

After a meeting with our servicemen at DaNang in South Vietnam, we talked with a senior pilot who had come very close to death that day and who was still shaken. He had a request to make, and he made it shyly, not wanting to impose. “I wonder if you might have just a minute when you get home, Brother Hanks, to call or write a note to my 12-year-old son to tell him that I am all right and that his dad is thinking about him. He was ordained a deacon last Sunday without his father there, and I want him to know how much I love him.” Those nearest us need love also.

Australian Corey Karaka knows that each challenge, change, or opportunity can help you grow.
Corey Karaka grew up in a suburb of Sydney, Australia, where, as the oldest of six brothers, he grew up like many typical Australian boys. He played rugby, soccer, basketball, and learned to swim. In fact, he quickly became a good enough swimmer to make it to the national swimming championships at the age of 12, qualifying a year early. As a boy, Corey thought he actually might want to make swimming his career, but then a whole world full of choices started coming his way, and he began taking advantage of some great opportunities.
First was his short opera career.
Opera? Why would a boy who loved sports want anything to do with opera? But Sydney, after all, has one of the most famous opera houses in the world. And Corey just happened to have a grandmother who had been an opera singer. She taught her grandson (in fact, she teaches music lessons to all her grandchildren) to sing while he was still a boy soprano. Corey auditioned and was hired to sing with Opera Australia. He remembers it as a fun time, going to rehearsals and dressing up in makeup and costumes. Corey says, “It wasn’t an intense experience for children. There are scenes where you come in as part of the chorus. It’s a shame that my voice broke, but it was a good experience.” Plus, his mother, Caragh, says, “He put away the money he earned for a mission and university.”

Relating his mother’s sorrow at his rejection of the Buddhist faith for the gospel of Jesus Christ, Elder Komatsu said that he “promised her that if she would permit me to be baptized and later found that through my behavior I had caused her any embarrassment—or committed some shameful or dishonorable act, then all she had to do was ask me to stop going to Church, and I would, without question, obey her will.”
If, however, he were to become a better individual, he asked for permission to continue to attend because it was “the place where I [could] gain an education for an eternal life.” He added, “It is my testimony today that I never had to leave the Church nor cause my mother any concern about my behavior.”