Gospel Story Finder

I was born in a small community on the northern island of Hokkaido, Japan. When I was five years old, my father was killed by an attack from an American submarine. As a little boy I became bitter toward Americans. I grew up that way, not really knowing what had happened to cause the war.
When I graduated from junior high school, we were so poor. My mother could not afford to send me to senior high school, so I decided to go to work in order to fund my continued education. There was no work in our small village, but I found a job producing tofu (bean curd) nine hours away from home in Muroran, where my mother was raised.
Every day in Muroran I got up by 4:30 a.m., made tofu until noon, and then delivered it to various stores until 6:00 p.m. After work I washed, changed, ate, and ran to night school. I returned home about 10:30 p.m. and jumped into bed at 11:00 p.m. Because of my exhausting schedule, I soon lost all of my energy and became ill.
I was staying in the tofu shop owner’s home, but I quit my job and asked my uncle to take me in so I could finish my first year of high school. Despite medication, I remained sick. I didn’t know what to do, and I became desperate and felt that I might be dying. I prayed hard, saying, “If there is a God, wilt Thou bless me that I might be able to get well.” Then I prayed something somewhat presumptuous: “If I am cured, I want to repay Thee.”
While I was at my uncle’s home, two foreigners knocked at the door early one evening. They were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One, Elder Law—the senior companion—had been a farmer in St. Anthony, Idaho, USA; the other, Elder Porter—a new elder—was from Salt Lake City. It was cold, rainy, and nearly dark, and they were ready to go home. But for some reason they persisted in knocking on doors.
When they knocked on my door, I was alone. I answered the door and said, “No, thank you.”
These young men were humble and persistent, but I said again, “No, thank you.” Then I added, “You folks killed my father.” I was still bitter.
Undeterred, the elder from Idaho asked my age. I said, “What does my age matter? Please go.”
He replied, “I want to tell you a story about a boy your age who saw your Heavenly Father and your Savior, Jesus Christ. We want to share that story.” I almost froze at the door.
I said, “I’ll give you 10 minutes.”
Those 10 minutes touched me deeply and changed my life. The story the missionaries shared was so profound and beautiful. I found out that I am a child of God and that I came from Him.
The elders came every day because I was sick. During their discussions with me, the missionaries taught me the beautiful gospel of the Restoration. I found my Savior. The gospel gave me hope and the will to live. A few weeks after the missionaries knocked on my door, I was baptized.

Scott learned about raising guide dogs at an assembly at school. “The speaker brought three dogs to give a demonstration. I thought it would be neat to raise one. I went home and asked Mom and Dad, and they said they would have to talk about it. Mom went to a guide dog meeting one day, and they decided to let me try it.”
Scott’s mother, Kay, had some reservations. “I was leery at first because it is such a commitment. The dog has to be in the house and sleep right beside the child’s bed at night. But we’ve loved the experience. We take the dog everywhere, to visit Grandma, to family reunions, to the grocery store, or whenever we come to town.”

A Young Women teacher I know taught the Laurels in a very remote area with few Church members. The slim prospects for eternal companions discouraged her girls terribly. She taught them to cultivate a vision of their future home and marriage, urging them to pray actively for their future companions, who were surely alive somewhere. She taught them to live worthy of such a dream, every day, every night. All six of her Laurels ultimately found and married righteous young men in the temple.

At Brigham Young University we have had some great athletic coaches. We have them now and we have had them in the past. One of these of long ago was Eugene L. Roberts. He grew up in Provo and drifted aimlessly with the wrong kind of friends. Then something remarkable happened. I read you his own words. He wrote:
“Several years ago when Provo City was scarred with unsightly saloons and other questionable forms of amusement, I was standing one evening on the street, waiting for my gang to show up, when I noticed that the [Provo] tabernacle was lighted up and that a large crowd was moving in that direction. I had nothing to do so I drifted over there and went in. I thought I might find some of my gang, or at least some of the girls that I was interested in. Upon entering, I ran across three or four of the fellows and we placed ourselves under the gallery where there was a crowd of young ladies, who seemed to promise entertainment. We were not interested in what came from the pulpit. We knew that the people on the rostrum were all old fogies. They didn’t know anything about life, and they certainly couldn’t tell us anything, for we knew it all. So we settled down to have a good time. Right in the midst of our disturbance there thundered from the pulpit the following [statement]:
“‘You can’t tell the character of an individual by the way he does his daily work. Watch him when his work is done. See where he goes. Note the companions he seeks, and the things he does when he may do as he pleases. Then you can tell his true character.’
“I looked up toward the rostrum,” Roberts continued, “because I was struck with this powerful statement. I saw there a slim, dark-haired fierce-eyed fighting-man whom I knew and feared; but didn’t have any particular love for.”
As he continued, “[the speaker] went on to make a comparison. He said: ‘Let us take the eagle, for example. This bird works as hard and as efficiently as any other animal or bird in doing its daily work. It provides for itself and its young by the sweat of its brow, so to speak; but when its daily work is over and the eagle has time of its own to do just as it pleases, note how it spends its recreational moments. It flies in the highest realms of heaven, spreads its wings and bathes in the upper air, for it loves the pure, clean atmosphere and the lofty heights.
“‘On the other hand, let us consider the hog. This animal grunts and grubs and provides for its young just as well as the eagle; but when its working hours are over and it has some recreational moments, observe where it goes and what it does. The hog will seek out the muddiest hole in the pasture and will roll and soak itself in filth, for this is the thing it loves. People can be either eagles or hogs in their leisure time.’
“Now when I heard this short speech,” said Gene Roberts, “I was dumbfounded. I turned to my companions abashed for I was ashamed to be caught listening. What was my surprise to find everyone of the gang with his attention fixed upon the speaker and his eyes containing a far-away expression.
“We went out of the tabernacle that evening rather quiet and we separated from each other unusually early. I thought of that speech all the way home. I classified myself immediately as of the hog family. I thought of that speech for years. That night there was implanted within me the faintest beginnings of ambition to lift myself out of the hog group and to rise to that of the eagle. …
“There was instilled within me that same evening, the urge to help fill up the mud holes in the social pasture so that those people with hog tendencies would find it difficult to wallow in recreational filth. As a result of constant thinking about that speech, I was stirred to devote my whole life and my profession toward developing wholesome recreational activities for the young people, so that it would be natural and easy for them to indulge in the eagle-type of leisure.
“The man who made that speech which affected my life more than any other speech I ever heard, was President George H. Brimhall. May God bless him!” (Raymond Brimhall Holbrook and Esther Hamilton Holbrook, The Tall Pine Tree: The Life and Work of George H. Brimhall [n.p., 1988], pp. 111–13).
That simple story, told by a great teacher, turned around the life of a drifter and made of him an able and gifted leader. I repeat it tonight because I think that most of us are constantly faced with a choice of whether we wallow in the mire or fly to lofty heights.

Allow me to illustrate this: Patricia, my beloved wife, loves to drink coconut water and then to eat the coconut. During our first visit to Puebla, Mexico, we went to a place where we bought a coconut. After drinking the water, my wife asked them to cut the coconut and bring her the flesh to eat. When it came, it was reddish. They had sprinkled it with chili! Sweet coconut with chili! That seemed so strange to us. But later we learned that the strange ones were my wife and I, who did not eat coconut with chili. In Mexico, however, it is not rare; it is very normal.
Now it is not odd for either my wife, Patricia, or for me to eat coconut with chili and avocado with sugar—in fact, we like it. However, exaltation is something much more transcendent than a sense of taste; it is a topic related to eternity.

Illustration by David Habben
Gabi and her friend Milo were playing in the dirt in her yard.
“Hey, look at this,” Milo said. He had what looked like a rock in his hand, but when he squished it, it turned into powdery dirt.
“Whoa!” Gabi said. “Are there more of those?”
They dug through the dirt and found several more clods.
“Watch this,” Gabi said, and she threw a dirt clod high up in the air. It sailed over the chain link fence and landed on the neighbor’s driveway, breaking in a big smear of dust.
“Awesome!” Milo said, and they took turns throwing the clods and watching them explode.
Suddenly Gabi heard a car driving up.
“Oh no,” she said. “Someone’s coming. Hide!”
They ducked around the edge of Gabi’s house just as the car pulled over the driveway and into the garage. They giggled nervously. They heard the car door open and shut.
“Who threw dirt in my driveway?” they heard a voice say. Gabi knew that must be Mrs. Fietzer, her elderly neighbor. “How am I going to clean this up?”
Milo laughed quietly, but Gabi didn’t feel like laughing.
After Milo went home, Gabi went inside and tried to play with her dolls, but she couldn’t get Mrs. Fietzer’s sad voice out of her head. Mrs. Fietzer lived alone, and old age made it hard for her to do many things, including cleaning up her driveway.
Gabi hadn’t meant to be rude to Mrs. Fietzer, but now she realized that throwing the dirt had been mean. She felt sad and sorry for what she had done.
Then Gabi remembered a lesson she had had in Primary about repentance.
“When you do something wrong,” her teacher had said, “you need to first feel sorry about it. Then you apologize and ask for forgiveness and make it better if you can. Then you promise not to make the mistake again.”
I can make this right! Gabi thought.
Gabi went to the garage and grabbed a big push broom. Then she got to work sweeping the dirt off the driveway. It took a long time, but finally the driveway was clean again.
Then Gabi rang Mrs. Fietzer’s doorbell. When Mrs. Fietzer opened the door, she seemed surprised to see Gabi.
“Well, hello there,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Fietzer,” Gabi said. She felt scared, but she prayed for courage. “I was the one who threw dirt onto your driveway earlier today.”
“Oh, was that you?” Mrs. Fietzer asked. She looked a little sad.
“But I cleaned it up!” Gabi said, lifting the broom in her hand. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Fietzer. I promise I won’t ever do it again. Will you forgive me?”
A smile spread across Mrs. Fietzer’s face. “Yes, of course I forgive you,” she said. “Thank you for cleaning it up.”
Gabi looked at Mrs. Fietzer’s big mulberry trees and had an idea.
“Can I help you rake your leaves in the fall too?” Gabi asked.
“That’s very sweet of you,” Mrs. Fietzer said. “But you don’t have to. You already made up for what you did.”
“But I want to. Please?” Gabi asked.
Mrs. Fietzer agreed. Gabi said goodbye and skipped all the way back to her house. She was glad that when she did something wrong, she could make it right again.

What took a short six months to destroy took years to rebuild. For the next full year I worked very hard to prove to the good kids that I was one of them. Every time I thought I had succeeded my past would come back to haunt me.
The summer after I was in tenth grade our girls’ church basketball team won the regional play-offs. We would be going to the area play-offs 1,000 miles away. We would be traveling with the boys’ team that won the regionals. I couldn’t believe what my coach said about me after that trip. She said that when we left home she had been sure she’d be sending me home early. After all she’d heard about me, she was just sure that I would get into some kind of trouble. She said she was surprised and pleased to discover that I was the best-behaved girl on the trip. I couldn’t believe it! I realized people were still judging me by the friends I’d had over a year ago. I’d never done any of the things people were saying I’d done in the past, but because of the people I’d associated with, the places I’d been seen, and the way I had dressed, everyone assumed I’d done the same awful things my friends had! I was guilty by association. Everywhere I went people were watching, testing me, judging me—all because of some choices I’d made in the past. It was so unfair, yet something I had to live with. You can’t fix a ruined reputation overnight.

In an effort to light their part of the world, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Dhaka, Bangladesh visited and delivered donations to six organizations that serve the needy in that country.
Members gathered at the church at 10 a.m. on 8 December 2018 to organize into groups and plan their service, then left to make visits throughout the afternoon, with some traveling two hours away.
All told over 2,000 items were donated to orphans, elderly people, and others in need.
According to Kris Johnson, the purpose of the activity was to perform Christlike service to the community, and to strengthen the love of Christ in Church members.

When Greg returned from his mission, he finished up at Ricks, then went on to BYU. He never had satisfied his dream of becoming a student body president, but the thought of presiding over BYU’s 27,000 students seemed overly ambitious to him. His sister Kristie was convinced he could do it though. She helped him find a running mate, served as his campaign manager, and after a lot of hard work, Greg was elected by one of the biggest margins in BYU history.

“That really helped prepare me for where I am now,” Greg says. And actually, he is quite surprised to be in this position at Harvard. He’d already satisfied his goal of serving as a student body president, and knowing how many hours he’d put into the position at BYU, he didn’t think he could handle it at graduate school. After much prayer and a lot of requests from fellow students, however, Greg decided to give it a try. A lot of hard work went into that election too, and it paid off.

Even though Greg has won a multitude of other awards and titles, he feels that some of his greatest satisfaction comes when his accomplishments put him in a position to answer questions about the Church. “I’m constantly being questioned about our beliefs,” he says with a smile. “And I’m always happy to talk with anyone.”

And they’re usually happy to listen. Fellow students scrutinize Greg a little closer than they do other classmates. Not only is he their president, but he’s also one of a handful of LDS people they might know.

Tomorrow he’ll probably be walking Wall Street, but today, on the brisk Monday afternoon, his class discussions are finished and he walks over to one of the numerous meetings he has each week. Many students call out to him, greeting him by name. Some glance at him with a mischievous look in their eyes and call out, “Hi, LARRY!” That’s Greg’s first name, but he hates to be called that and they know it. On the first day of class this year, the student body gave him a standing ovation and shouted out, “Larry! Larry! Larry!” It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously with classmates like that.

Still, many of them ask him how he’s accomplished what he has. “My theory of success,” he tells them, “requires two things—that you work hard, and that you pray hard.” Greg slides into his seat at the head of a large conference table, and the other student body officers begin to file in. He is prepared. He should be. He was up until 2 A.M. making use of his theory of success.

Sister Rinne received her first missionary assignments after she moved to Jyväskylä, where she served twice as a district missionary. “In those days there were so many baptisms in Jyväskylä you could hear the roar of the water,” she recalls. “The Lord just sent us the people who were ready to hear the gospel.”
One of Anna-Liisa Rinne’s companions as a district missionary was Sister Kerttu Harinen, who has many good memories of that time. “Sister Rinne was my first companion in missionary work. I myself was still a little timid. I grew at her side and received courage enough to serve as a district missionary for many years afterwards. Our first investigator was baptized before we had been companions one month. We had asked that we could practice our missionary discussions with a family whose father did not belong to the Church. So it happened that as the result of our ‘practice’ the father of the family was baptized.”

One day at school, a few of my classmates were making fun of another student by calling him names. It looked like fun, so I joined them. For a few weeks, I made fun of him with my friends.
Several weeks later, the boy told me how he was feeling. He was hurt by our words, even though he pretended like he didn’t care that we were making fun of him. He said he cried every night. I almost cried when he told me. I wanted to help him and decided to apologize for what I had said to him.
So the next day, I went up to him and put my arm around his shoulder. I said, “I’m really sorry that I made fun of you.” He nodded at my words, and his eyes filled up with tears. But the other kids were still making fun of him. Then I remembered what I learned in my Primary class: choose the right.
So I told my classmates, “Stop making fun of him! Do you guys know how hard this has been for him? Please say you’re sorry for what you have done and be his friend.”
But they wouldn’t change that easily. Instead, they were mad at me and said, “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden? You made fun of him too!”
I still felt bad for what I had done before. So I said, “I already said sorry to him. I want you to understand how he feels and stop making fun of him too.”
One of them said sorry, and the three of us became good friends. A few people still make fun of him, but he feels better because he has us. I will choose the right by helping a friend in need.

Juanita and Miguelito live with their parents in a small house in Guatemala. They love each other very much. Each Sunday Juanita and Miguelito go to Primary and learn about the Savior and His teachings.
The Veliz family just moved into a big house close to Juanita and Miguelito’s house. Juanita and Miguelito like to play with the Veliz children. The Veliz children have toys that are bigger and more expensive. Their toys seem to be more fun, too.
One day Juanita and Miguelito were alone in the Veliz’s playroom. Miguelito put a toy racing car he liked to play with in his pocket. “Don’t say anything,” he told Juanita. “They have so many toys. They will never know if I take just one.”
“Miguelito, one of the commandments is ‘Thou shalt not steal’ (Ex. 20:15). Don’t you remember what Sister Campiz said in Primary?” Juanita asked.
“Sister Campiz said when we keep the commandments, we show Heavenly Father that we love Him and are willing to obey Him,” Juanita continued.
Miguelito kept playing. He pretended he didn’t hear his sister. “You choose!” Juanita told him.
After a few minutes, Miguelito took the car out of his pocket and put it with the other toys. He smiled at Juanita.
Before they went to bed that night, Juanita heard Miguelito praying. “Heavenly Father,” he said, “I am thankful to have the commandments to help me choose between right and wrong.”

Not far from the vast expanse of the Ohio River lies a small town on the outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky, called Anchorage. Once a farming community where a riverboat captain established his last portage, it has become home to families of many diverse faiths.
It was there in church, at home, and while exploring the marvelous world beneath the woods of sycamore, oak, maple, chestnut, and willow trees that I learned one of the fundamentals of Christianity: that Jesus came as the master teacher, instructing us in the ways of goodness and integrity.
My parents were good folks, faithful in their church. They taught me how to be a good person and that there are certain things that are right, such as being kind to others, and certain things that are wrong, such as stealing. On the other hand, they also taught that what one person believes to be true is just as valid as what someone else believes to be true, even if those beliefs differ in fundamental ways. In this philosophy, as I understand it, there are no eternal principles true for everyone, just personal viewpoints that intelligent people have the right and obligation to determine are true for themselves.
Because of those underlying tenets of moral relativism, I had a difficult time believing what the Mormon missionaries taught me about the need for the Atonement, priesthood authority, and prophets. Indeed, my journey to conversion took me six long years of constantly challenging and questioning who I was, what I believed, and whether there could, in fact, be a God who had established eternal principles of truth and error, sin and consequence.
Remarkably, I did receive a spiritual confirmation, but it did not come until I was humble enough to accept it. First came a witness of baptism, then of the Book of Mormon, then of Joseph Smith as a true prophet. Additional witnesses followed, line upon line, regarding today’s prophets and apostles.
Eventually, there came a point in my life when I didn’t just believe the gospel was true—I knew it. The culmination of many little witnesses created a foundation upon which my faith was sure, a bulwark against which challenges to testimony break.

He had no trouble getting up. The alarm would go off, and Chris Muraski was wide awake. Things to do, you know.
No, getting up was never the problem. Being where he was supposed to be was.
Here’s the scoop. At 5:30 A.M., Chris would get dressed, grab a banana, head out the door, and go straight for a couple of blocks. He then had a choice. He could continue driving for another block until he arrived at Libertyville High School in this Chicago suburb. Or he could hang a left and go to Libertyville’s civic center for early-morning seminary.
For two years Chris never used his turn signal on that morning drive.
As a freshman he attended seminary. He even went for part of his sophomore year.
But come on. He was an outside linebacker and he wanted to get stronger. Early-morning weight lifting—extra work on his own—would make him a better player. It was something he had to do.
Midway through that second year of high school, Chris decided he’d skip early-morning seminary even if it would make him a better person.
During the two years he was in the weight room, Chris got stronger and became a solid high school football player, playing for a very good team. The weight lifting was paying off. Unfortunately, injuries began occurring—more specifically, concussions.
“It’s ironic because that’s when the concussions started—when I stopped going to seminary,” he says.
The concussions, bruisings of the brain due to hard hits, were a bit scary because of both pain and memory loss.
The first concussion came during Chris’s sophomore year. He took a hit to the head that forced him to sit out the second half of a game. “It was like waking up from a dream. I couldn’t remember the plays before. I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go. It took me 10 minutes to pull it all together,” he remembers. “I wanted to go back in during the fourth quarter but the coaches wouldn’t let me.”
Then during the second game of his junior season in 1997, after being cleared to play, Chris took another hit to the head and the result was another concussion. This time it was a bit more serious. It was a kickoff return, and Chris came in for the tackle. Much of that play is a foggy memory, but he does remember this vital statistic: the guy that leveled Chris was six-foot-six and 250 pounds.
“The guy that hit me was huge. I just went full blast into him, and that pretty much ended my season right there,” he says.
It’s worth mentioning that despite the extra work in the weight room, Chris only tipped the scales at a lean 152 that year. It was hardly a fair fight.
After sitting out much of the season on doctors’ orders, Chris played in one more game, then sustained a third concussion in practice. “That was it. I didn’t know if I would even be able to play the next year. The doctors were concerned, and I didn’t want to mess up my brain,” Chris says. “I didn’t feel very confident that I’d be fine, that I wouldn’t have any more problems.”
Chris, at the time a priest in the Buffalo Grove Second Ward, Buffalo Grove Stake, thought often about his love for football. Would he ever play again? Would there be any long-term effects from the blows to the head? These were all questions a high school junior didn’t want to face.
That summer Chris’s bishop approached him. He didn’t want to talk about football. Instead he asked him, “So, Chris, how’s seminary coming?”
But the bishop already knew the answer. When he asked Chris if he would start attending again, Chris said, “No, probably not.” The weight lifting was still too important. At least that’s what he thought.
“I was still active. I was going to church every week. I wasn’t in the gutter,” he explains. “But I wasn’t doing all the little extra things.”
Like going to seminary.
Chris began thinking about his choices, about seminary, about his future. And it wasn’t like he disliked seminary the one year he did regularly attend.
Later the bishop approached Chris again. He had something important to tell him. Chris said that the bishop talked to him and promised him that if he would go to seminary, the Lord would bless him and he wouldn’t have problems with concussions. But Chris needed to aim for 100 percent attendance.
“When he said what he said, I thought, I’ll do it. So I put my faith in what the bishop promised me right there.”
On the first day of seminary to begin the 1997–98 school year, there sat Chris Muraski.
He’d finally made the left turn.
Chris missed exactly one day of seminary last year—because of a conflict with wrestling. But he made that day up. He also didn’t miss one football game during a year when he was one of Libertyville’s team captains. Last summer he earned a spot on an Illinois all-star team that traveled to Australia.
And he never came close to getting another concussion.
“I regret putting lifting in front of seminary,” he says now. “Every morning I was at seminary I felt I was in the right spot, and I got that spiritual flavor that kind of gives you that boost. I feel more spiritual. My testimony has grown from it, from striving to be better.”
Once upon a time Chris was bench pressing 240 pounds. Today it’s down to 200.
Yeah, he may have lost 40 pounds off his bench press, but after returning to seminary, Chris was still plenty strong.

Sister Glazen smiled at Tyler as she nudged him toward Jason’s bedroom door.
“Tyler,” he heard Jason call, “is that you?” His best friend’s voice sounded normal, considering he had been in the hospital for two months.
“Yeah, I’m here.” Tyler’s voice squeaked.
Tyler would never forget the day the Bishop had come into his Primary class and told them that Jason had been hit by a car and seriously injured. The bishop had added that the doctor believed that Jason might never walk again.
Beth raised her hand. “Bishop, didn’t you give Jason a blessing?”
“Yes, his dad and I blessed him that night.”
“Then he’ll be all right,” Beth said.
“You have great faith, Beth. Heavenly Father truly blessed Jason, and I believe that he will live. But I can’t say whether it’s His will that Jason walk again. The Lord’s will is not always our will.”
Bishop Johannsen’s words hit Tyler like a sledgehammer. Jason? Not walk? It didn’t seem possible. Jason could jump higher and run the court faster than any other kid on the basketball team!
“Jason needs your help,” the Bishop said. “Will you all pray for him?”
Tyler had been praying for Jason for two long months, but his friend still couldn’t walk. …
Bright sunlight filled the bedroom. Tyler had to blink before he could see Jason sitting by the window. But what was Jason sitting in?
A wheelchair! It was black with big steel and rubber wheels. Jason looked so small in it! Tyler tried to smile but couldn’t.
“Thanks for coming.” Jason looked up at him.
Tyler sat on the bed. “No problem. How do you feel?”
Jason shrugged. “You heard that I can’t walk?” Tyler nodded. Jason continued, “My spinal cord was injured. I can feel a little bit in my legs, but the feeling is sort of fuzzy. Dr. Miller says I might get some movement back in them if I work hard.”
Tyler felt an ache in his chest but managed not to cry. After all, he wasn’t the one who couldn’t walk, who’d never play basketball again.
The room was quiet for a few seconds before Jason said, “Tyler?”
Tyler felt his lip quiver. “What?”
“It’s been a real long time since I’ve been down to the playground. Would you push me there? Mom said it would be OK … if you wanted to.”
Tyler stood up and pointed at the wheelchair. “How do I work this thing?”
Jason smiled. “First, I release the brake, then you grab the handles and push. I can do it myself by pushing on the wheels, but you need the exercise.”
“Oh yeah? You’re the one who never could do chin-ups in PE,” Tyler teased, surprised he was able to kid around.
“Look whose talking!” Jason joked back, “A guy who can’t do five chin-ups!”
“I can too!” Tyler said. “I’ll prove it at the playground.” Jason looked happy.
Sister Glazen held open the door as Tyler pushed Jason outside. “I’ll come for you soon,” she promised. “I wouldn’t want you to miss lunch.”
When the boys reached the playground, they saw Ian, Juan, and Beth playing basketball. Ian dribbled the ball off his foot when he saw Tyler pushing Jason across the asphalt.
“Surprise!” Jason called with a wave.
The other kids stopped playing. Tyler worried that their glum faces would make Jason feel bad, so he blurted, “Jason thinks I can’t do five chin-ups. Excuse us while I teach him a lesson.” Tyler jogged the wheelchair to the chin-up bars.
“Prepare to apologize,” he told Jason, jumping up and grabbing the bar. His palms burned as he pulled himself up. He did ten chin-ups before collapsing on the grass.
“Not bad,” Jason said, surprised, “but you’re still not as good as me.”
“What are you talking about?” Tyler panted. “You never could do more than eight or nine.”
“That was before the accident. Now I can do twenty.”
“How can you do chin-ups when you can’t even get out of that wheelchair?” Ian asked.
“I’m not glued to this thing. Besides, chin-ups are part of my physical therapy. You wouldn’t believe all the exercises I have to do every day!”
“You exercise?” Beth was surprised.
“Of course. I have to strengthen my arms so I can do things for myself, like transfer out of my wheelchair. My physical therapist also helps me exercise my legs and back. To tell the truth, it hurts a lot sometimes, but I need to be strong so I can do all the things I want to do.”
Tyler stood up. “What do you want to do?”
Jason grinned. “I want to beat you at one-on-one basketball again.”
The other kids stared at Jason. Did he really expect to play basketball again?
Jason understood their thoughts. He began pushing himself toward the court. “Tyler, would you get the ball for me, please?”
Tyler retrieved the ball and walked toward Jason.
“No—pass it to me.”
Tyler gently lobbed the ball to Jason. “Not like that,” Jason said, firing the ball back to Tyler. “Pass it to me like you mean it.”
Tyler looked at the other kids, shrugged, then passed the ball hard. Jason caught it easily.
“See—I don’t break.” Jason wheeled himself to the free throw line. “Watch this.”
He shot the ball.
They all watched as it sailed through the air—and fell short of the basket. Tyler started after it, but Jason said, “I’ll get my own rebound.” Bending at the waist, Jason picked up the ball and shot again … and again, … but missed every time. His friends stared. Jason had never missed this often before. Jason was just as surprised. His head fell to his chest.
Beth said, “Jason, we don’t care if you can’t shoot a free throw. We’re just glad you’re here. My mom says you’re lucky to be alive.”
“Funny,” Jason replied, “I don’t feel very lucky.”
Wanting to help Jason, Tyler prayed silently. Then, remembering what the bishop had said that day in Primary—“The Lord’s will is not always our will”—he said softly, “Jason, there must be some reason Heavenly Father let this awful thing happen. Sure, it’ll be hard to learn to play basketball from a wheelchair, but you can learn.”
“Tyler’s right, Son,” said a gentle voice behind them. “You can learn.” Jason’s mother had quietly joined them. “In fact, this has been a lesson for us all—a lesson about the difference between being lucky and being blessed. You weren’t lucky to be in that accident, but you are blessed. Just look at the kind friends you have.”
Jason raised his head and looked at the people around him. He locked eyes with Tyler, then whispered, “I’m scared.”
“Me, too,” Tyler admitted softly.
Sister Glazen paused, then said, “Remember that scripture in the Book of Mormon—the one about our weaknesses becoming strengths?”
“I remember it,” Juan said. “Does that mean Jason’s legs will become strong again, since they’re weak now?”
“I don’t know what the Lord’s will is for Jason’s legs, his mother said, “but it looks like His will, at least for now, is a wheelchair.”
Jason and his friends all nodded slowly. Then Jason spoke. “I think the scripture means that Heavenly Father will strengthen me when I need it. I never really understood what faith is until now. I need Heavenly Father like I never have before.” Jason looked at his mother, then at Tyler, then at his other friends. “I need all of you, too. I need you to help me learn to play basketball from this chair.” He paused, thinking. “But what I need most is for you to keep praying for me.” His smile was small, but real.
Tyler smiled back. “Sure thing!” He turned Jason’s wheelchair toward the chin-up bar. “Right now you’re going to prove that you can beat my ten chin-ups.” His smile turned into a grin. “And tomorrow we’ll all meet back here, same time, for a little basketball practice.”

In a previous general conference, Elder Benjamín De Hoyos spoke of such an event. He said:
“Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, [a companion and I] were invited to participate in a radio talk show. … [One of the program directors] asked [us], ‘Why does the Church have such a long name? …’
“My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior. … The program director immediately and respectfully responded, ‘We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.’”

At a recent stake conference, I noticed on the front row a family including a girl of ten who has palsy and is deaf. Her father held her so that she would not slide off the bench. Their tenderness touched me deeply. When the meeting ended, I motioned for them to come up to me, for they were holding back. The father turned so that I could see Heidi’s face, which was buried into his shoulder, and he said with a smile, “She’s under there someplace.”
Indeed she is under there someplace. All of them are under there somewhere.

After a hurricane in Florida, USA, Eleanor’s home was damaged. Her neighbors’ homes were damaged too. So Eleanor and her siblings did their own Helping Hands project in the neighborhood. They invited their friends to come along too! Together they helped an older couple clear away a large tree that was blocking their front door. Eleanor helped clear branches out of the way and helped move pieces of the tree as it was cut up.
The neighborhood friends worked hard for days to help clear trash and tree branches from roads, driveways, and yards. When more volunteers came to help after the hurricane, Eleanor gave up her bedroom so they’d have a place to stay. Eleanor said, “I follow Jesus by helping others, and I loved helping with the hurricane cleanup. It made me feel good. It even stopped feeling hard because I felt so happy.”
Eleanor followed Jesus by inviting others to help. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus served.

As Sister Simpson and I walked along lower Queen Street in Auckland, New Zealand, the other day, we came to a particular place not far from the wharf. There we paused for a few moments as I related to her the incident that took place at that very spot during my first mission.
I could still see in my mind’s eye a very old Maori couple who stood at the curb with thousands of others waving farewell to the Maori Battalion as they marched down to their troop transport and off to war.
The old couple became very excited as one young soldier glanced their way with a big smile. From their Maori conversation, it became apparent that this was their great-grandson going off to war.
His would be an atomic war with sophisticated equipment capable of killing by the thousands—so unlike the Maori wars of the late 1800s that the old Maori had participated in as a young tribal warrior.
Soon the boy was gone from view, and it was then that the old man turned to his wife and said (perhaps a little cynically), “Katahi kua pakeha tatou,” which in effect means, “So now we are civilized.”

After receiving an invitation to “come and see,” I attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the first time at the age of 26. I had recently separated from my first husband. I had a three-year-old boy. And I felt powerless with fear. When I entered the building, I was filled with warmth as I perceived the faith and joy of the people surrounding me. It was truly “a refuge from the storm.” Three weeks later, I made the baptismal covenant with Heavenly Father and started my journey as a disciple of Christ, although my life has not been perfect along that journey.
For me to receive those eternal blessings, many physical and spiritual elements had to be in place. The gospel of Jesus Christ had been restored and preached; that meetinghouse had been built and maintained; there was an ecclesiastical structure, from the prophet to local leaders; and a branch filled by covenant members was ready to embrace me and my son as we were brought to the Savior, “nourished by the good word of God,” and given opportunities to serve.