Gospel Story Finder

I was taught this by goodly parents. How grateful I am for a father who had the patience to teach me how to work. I remember as a lad, when I was only seven years old, we were remodeling our house and tearing out some of the walls. In those days two-by-sixes were used as studding. To the studs was nailed the lath, and over the lath came the plaster. When tearing out walls, the slats and the plaster were easy to knock off, but, of course, that left the nails in the two-by-sixes.
Each night after the workers had finished, I had the responsibility of gathering up the two-by-sixes and taking them out to the back lawn, where there stood two sawhorses. There I was to make a pile of the two-by-sixes and then, one at a time, put them on the sawhorses, and with a crowbar remove the nails. After the nails had been pulled out of the studs, I was told to straighten them. Finally, I threw the straightened nails into a large green bucket and stacked the two-by-sixes in a neat pile.
Second, as a lad doing the job my father had assigned to me, I was taught not to waste, to conserve resources where possible. When the nails were pulled from them, the two-by-sixes could be used again—and we did use them.
Finally, I was instructed to stack the used two-by-sixes in a neat pile so the workmen could use them the next day. My work was never finished until this was done and the tools were put away.

Jack McConnell grew up in the hills of southwest Virginia in the United States as one of seven children of a Methodist minister and a stay-at-home mother. Their circumstances were very humble. He recounted that during his childhood, every day as the family sat around the dinner table, his father would ask each one in turn, “And what did you do for someone today?”1 The children were determined to do a good turn every day so they could report to their father that they had helped someone. Dr. McConnell calls this exercise his father’s most valuable legacy, for that expectation and those words inspired him and his siblings to help others throughout their lives. As they grew and matured, their motivation for providing service changed to an inner desire to help others.
Besides Dr. McConnell’s distinguished medical career—where he directed the development of the tuberculosis tine test, participated in the early development of the polio vaccine, supervised the development of Tylenol, and was instrumental in developing the magnetic resonance imaging procedure, or MRI—he created an organization he calls Volunteers in Medicine, which gives retired medical personnel a chance to volunteer at free clinics serving the working uninsured. Dr. McConnell said his leisure time since he retired has “evaporated into 60-hour weeks of unpaid work, but [his] energy level has increased and there is a satisfaction in [his] life that wasn’t there before.” He made this statement: “In one of those paradoxes of life, I have benefited more from Volunteers in Medicine than my patients have.”2 There are now over 90 such clinics across the United States.

A Dog Came, Too “Our Dog” traveled across the American continent in 1793 with explorer Alexander Mackenzie. Not a pet, Our Dog retrieved game, guarded the explorers at night, and warned them of bears, wolves, even a two-footed intruder! There wasn’t room for him in the canoes, so he ran along the shore, through forests, and over rocky ground, often miserable from bugs, sore feet, fatigue, and hunger.Ainslie Manson6–10 years

Doug usually nodded pleasantly and then hurried past the two-story building where many elderly people sat on the front lawn. The people were frail and sad-looking, and most of them just sat there in the sun or shade watching the cars and people go by.
One day as Doug was walking home from school, a white-haired man with faded blue eyes suddenly reached out his hands. The sudden movement frightened Doug, and without thinking he moved to the edge of the sidewalk and started running.
Later that night Doug was ashamed of himself. All those people looked lonely, and probably the old man only needed a helping hand to rise to his feet.
The least I could have done was to stop and ask what the man wanted, Doug thought.
The next morning when Doug went out to feed his dog, Fluffy, he found the chain broken and his dog gone. After thoroughly searching the neighborhood, Doug decided to ask some of the elderly people if they had seen his dog.
He hurried around the corner to the Old Folks Home. And there was Fluffy, wildly wagging her tail while the old man who had frightened Doug the day before patted her.
The boy sighed with relief. “Thank you for finding my dog,” he cried as he dropped down on one knee to cuddle his pet.
“No use trying to talk to him, son,” another elderly man called. “He’s from Russia and can’t understand what you say anyway. We call him Nick because we can’t pronounce his real name. He’s nearly one hundred years old!”
Doug was suddenly filled with a mixture of feelings. He was relieved to find his dog but even more unhappy with himself when he remembered how he had felt the day before about this lonely old man whom Fluffy seemed to like so well. He felt even worse when he learned that the man had no known relatives and had never received a letter nor had a visitor.
Doug reached out and squeezed the old man’s arm in gratitude and sympathy. Then he picked up Fluffy and carried her home so he wouldn’t be late for school.
“Dad, do you know any Russian people?” Doug asked at supper that night.
“Russian? No, I don’t,” his father replied, looking surprised. “Why?”
Doug explained how he had met Nick. “He found Fluffy for me, and so I want to do something for him. It must be lonely not being able to communicate with anyone! I’m going to find someone who can speak Russian and ask him to visit Nick,” Doug said with determination.
“I wish I could help you, son, but I can’t,” his father said. “We have people of Polish and Italian descent in town, but I’ve never met any Russian families.”
Two nights later Doug was doing his homework when he thought of checking the telephone book. He found several long and difficult names, but when he called their numbers, he found they were all of some other nationality. None of them knew anyone who could speak Russian.
Doug began to stop by to visit Nick for a few moments every afternoon on his way home from school. The old man always seemed delighted to see him and enjoyed looking at his school work. On Saturday afternoons Doug brought Fluffy with him. Nick just smiled and nodded to Doug, but he talked softly to Fluffy as he patted her. After that he sometimes saved a piece of meat from his lunch for the dog.
How do you go about finding a Russian? Doug wondered, as he left the lonely old man each day.
One afternoon as he returned home, Doug thought of going to the university for help. He knew they had instructors from all over the world who taught different languages. So Doug raced to his room and wrote a long letter explaining about his friend Nick. He addressed and mailed it to the head of the university.
After almost two weeks went by without an answer, Doug had given up hope. But one evening a telephone call came for him. A man who spoke with an accent explained that he was a Russian touring the country with a group of Russian educators. One of the professors had told them about Doug’s letter. The man said he would be happy to go with Doug to visit his friend on Saturday afternoon.
The frail old man was in his chair as usual when Doug and the Russian educator reached the Old Folks Home. Nick was watching for Doug and Fluffy to appear around the corner, and he looked disappointed when he saw the boy wasn’t alone.
Doug smiled at Nick and then proudly said to the tall man beside him, “This is my friend Nick.”
The man bowed slightly, cupped Nick’s trembling hand in his strong ones, and began to speak.
Nick just stared, not daring to believe what he was hearing. His lips trembled and his eyes filled with tears. Then words started to pour out.
Nick’s excitement and his distinguished guest drew a group of other men. One of them brought a chair for Nick’s visitor. Although they couldn’t understand a word being said, they were all smiling as they watched Nick’s faded eyes sparkle while talking and listening.
Nick told the Russian visitor that his correct age was one hundred three and that he had left Russia over seventy years ago. Nick explained he had never learned English because he was a carpenter and had always worked and boarded with emigrants like himself.
The visitor gave Nick several newspapers in his language. He also gave Doug a simple Russian dictionary so he and Nick could really talk together.
Doug lay awake a long time that night. He was too happy to sleep. Finally he got out the new Russian dictionary and looked at the strange new words.
It will be great to talk with Nick, he thought, but we really don’t need words to be friends!

Not very many years ago in a Maori village in New Zealand, a baby boy was born. He soon received a blessing from his grandfather who said in the blessing that this boy would one day become an educational leader among his people. Some of the men in the village laughed at that blessing; it seemed so unrealistic. That boy, Barney Wihongi, earned his doctorate and became president of the Church College of New Zealand. He became president of the Church College of New Zealand at age 35 and had influence among other educators in the country of New Zealand. The promises given to Brother Wihongi as a baby amused some. Brother Barney Wihongi inspired many!

In more than 165 countries of the world, our sisters are being instruments in the hands of God. I think of a ward in Brazil that has an influx of new members every week. The sisters in that Relief Society decided to set a goal to not let even one week pass without each newly baptized sister receiving a visit in her home and a copy of “The Family: A Proclamation to the World” and the Relief Society Declaration. So far they haven’t lost any sisters to inactivity.

While on a flight to Peru a few years ago, I was seated next to a self-proclaimed atheist. He asked me why I believe in God. In the delightful conversation that ensued, I told him that I believed in God because Joseph Smith saw Him—and then I added that my knowledge of God also came from personal, real spiritual experience. I shared my belief that “all things denote there is a God” and asked him how he believed the earth—this oasis of life in the vacuum of space—came into existence. He replied that, in his words, “the accident” could have happened over eons of time. When I explained how highly improbable it would be for an “accident” to produce such beauty and order, he was quiet for a time and then good-naturedly said, “You got me.” I asked if he would read the Book of Mormon. He said he would, so I sent him a copy.

I know all of this for myself. While recovering from surgery to remove two sizeable brain tumors, I experienced periods of melancholy and dismay from the emotional and mental impact of it all. I discovered that I was not as invincible as I once thought I was. Medication did not help, and a relapse or two brought additional despondency. I began to feel sorry for myself.

Then some wonderful things began to happen. Good friends and trusted Church leaders offered their support and understanding, and I began to listen to their counsel and accept their encouragement. Late one night as I shared my gloomy feelings with our youngest son, he said, “Well, Dad, I have always thought that happiness is a decision.” He is right.

I found myself increasingly expressing gratitude for all the blessings I still enjoyed. I discovered for myself that “this kind [of trial] goeth not out but by prayer and fasting” (Matthew 17:21).

I felt the strength, refreshing power, and love of the Savior. With Paul, I came to rejoice in the knowledge that tribulation, distress, and peril could not separate me from the love of Christ (see Romans 8:35).

Sister Groberg remembers with deep appreciation the closeness among the youth of her age in their ward. She gives thanks, in part, to the quiet, powerful influence of a humble, dedicated Sunday School teacher whose life and example made a lasting impression. She explained: “Brother Richard Maxwell was our teacher. He was self-educated,” she recalled. “He never knew his real name, his parents, or any of his ancestors: He had been raised in an orphanage. Someway in his wandering through life, he found the true church. He had such a beautiful testimony that the gospel was what life was all about, and he had a wonderful, understanding way with young people. He loved us,” she declared, then continued with warmth in her voice: “He was able to teach and reach us in his own humble way.”
When Brother Maxwell died of a heart attack, Jean, along with the other youth in the North Hollywood Ward still in their teens, felt so grateful for his life and his love and influence in their lives that they felt they had lost a dear friend. Sister Groberg remembered that her sister, Marilyn, was invited to speak at his funeral. “She went around to all his students to get their feelings for this humble, great man who had become such a friend to each of us. Our feeling for Brother Maxwell,” Sister Groberg said, “was a very special thing.”
These grateful students felt a strong desire to somehow express their appreciation for their friend and teacher. “It took some time after he died to collect the money,” she recalled. “Several months, I believe. We sponsored many projects. We took a little box to all our firesides and finally collected the money we needed. We wanted to buy a redwood tree. We all agreed that a redwood tree, when it grew up, would appropriately symbolize Brother Maxwell’s great strength and stature.” The youth were united in this special project. Someone was responsible for having a plaque made to place at the base of the tree, and others arranged for a fitting program. On the appointed date the members of Brother Maxwell’s Sunday School class gathered together for this special memorial service. Together they planted the tree, which they knew would become in time a mighty redwood. This living tribute stands today tall and stately by the side of the chapel and a beautiful bronze plaque at its base reads, “In memory of Richard Maxwell, our beloved teacher whose example was like the redwood, tall and masterly.”

In fleeing with Joseph from a mob, a young man reported, “sickness and fright had robbed me of my strength. Joseph had to decide whether to leave me to be captured by the mob, or endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rest through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the only road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s herculean strength permitted him to [save] my life.” (New Era, Dec. 1973, p. 19.)

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town on Vancouver Island where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending some time with Latter-day Saint kids. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church. It was nights like this that I welcomed the interaction with them.
As was our habit, we were standing in the foyer of our new chapel chatting with each other. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton, the senior of the two missionaries, approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with him and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded half-heartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He stood there looking awkward and uncomfortable, mostly staring at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We continued conversing for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too cumbersome. We then slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is, except this new boy. We were so caught up in our discussions that we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the bathroom, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, gathered her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a three-mile walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to my older brother about it. Having recently returned from college, he was soon to go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” Laurence asked me after I had blurted out to him the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we crossed Third Avenue into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a street light and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a lady I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I wanted to apologize and to invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes the look of disgust with the way we had just treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted the burden of guilt from me. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart. Inside I knew I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one that I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.
“I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. But he that is an hireling, and not the shepherd, whose own the sheep are not, seeth the wolf coming, and leaveth the sheep, and fleeth: and the wolf catcheth them, and scattereth the sheep. The hireling fleeth, because he is an hireling, and careth not for the sheep” (John 10:11–13).
Whether I cared to admit it or not, I was no shepherd. I had fled like the hireling. I didn’t seek after what was lost until I found it. After only one try, I left the boy in the wilderness to the wolves. In my heart I wasn’t willing to pay the price of being a true shepherd.
Since that incident, I still see that boy in my mind’s eye and I wonder what happened to him. I still feel the responsibility for what I did and what I didn’t do.
I need to be a shepherd and not a hireling and to find joy in serving and including my brothers and sisters, whoever they may be.

The youth of the Southglenn Second Ward, Littleton Colorado Stake, took a personal interest in helping furnish the nursery for the Denver Temple. After all, the temple was literally next door.
The youth chose to build and furnish a dollhouse. They planned the project carefully and, with the help of a ward member, built a sturdy wooden dollhouse. Each class and quorum was assigned certain rooms to decorate and furnish.
The Laurels and priests were assigned to put wooden siding and shake shingles on the outside. It was a challenge to cut and fit each piece properly, and it became a weekly activity.
As each group took a special interest in doing their best on the dollhouse, they had a little side benefit. They learned some points about coordinating colors, arranging furniture, and cooperation. After a thousand hours of labor, the dollhouse was put on display at the ward before it was presented to the temple presidency.

Ethan loved everything about baseball—being in the field, batting, even stretching to warm up. This year, he had spent hours with his dad throwing pitches. He had read and studied and practiced until he was one of the best players on his team.
And his hard work had paid off. He had been invited to pitch for the league’s honors team. That meant his season would last four weeks longer.
But when Ethan saw the team schedule, he felt his stomach sink clear down to the tips of his toes. More than half the games were scheduled for Sundays.
His mother gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Oh, Ethan. I’m sorry,” she said.
Ethan knew that his family didn’t play sports on Sundays, but this was honors! It was a big deal!
“So I can’t play?” he asked, trying not to sound too much like he was begging. Maybe he could make an exception, just this once. Next season he could go back to not playing on Sundays.
“Why don’t you think about it and pray about it?” Mom suggested.
Ethan nodded. He hated to admit it, but he already knew that keeping the Sabbath day holy was more important than any sports game.
By bedtime Ethan had his answer. He wouldn’t play in the Sunday games, so he would turn down the invitation to play on the honors team.
Still disappointed, he knelt next to his bed and said a prayer. He didn’t ask if he should play baseball on Sunday; he already knew the answer was no. Instead, he pleaded, “If there’s a way I can play honors, please help me find it. I really want to play, but I won’t play on Sunday.”
The next afternoon while the team was warming up for their game, Ethan pulled his coach aside. “Coach, I’m happy you asked me to play on the honors team, but I don’t play ball on Sundays,” he said.
“What if you just played the other games?” his coach asked.
Ethan shook his head. “It wouldn’t be fair since I’d be gone more than half the time.”
“OK, Ethan. I understand. I’m sorry you can’t play, but I respect your decision.”
Ethan was glad his coach didn’t seem angry or disappointed. Now that he had made the choice, Ethan felt like a weight had been lifted from him. He knew he was good enough to play on the team, and that would have to be enough for him.
Toward the end of the season, the coach called Ethan away from practice. “Ethan, the other coaches and I think you have earned a spot on the honors team,” the coach said. “We did some rearranging and managed to get it so we only have one game on Sunday. No one expects you to play that game. Would you be willing to play on the team?”
Ethan stared at his coach in shock before yelling, “Yes!” He felt like he was flying as he ran to join his team, knowing he had four more weeks of games ahead of him.
That night he knelt by his bed again and thanked Heavenly Father for giving him the courage to do what he knew was right. “And for letting me play honors,” he added.

Being a member of the Church provided spiritual blessings, of course. But it also gave me some wonderful friends. Around the time of my baptism, several young men my age began coming to church, and we formed a very close-knit group. We started attending every meeting and activity together.

When I was 17, I left my city to go to college. Three of my friends decided to go to college in the same city, and we lived together. This was a great blessing because we could support and protect each other. We encouraged each other to go to church. We also had home evening among the four of us, and sometimes we invited other students who were members of the Church. All of those years at the university, we strengthened each other.

Forty-five years later, those young men are still my best friends. Although we live in different parts of the world, we are always in contact. All six of us served missions.

Tonight I want to tell you about a girl who was a pianist of some promise. When she was quite small, her mother sat with her on the piano bench each day, taught her the notes, and encouraged her to practice while she learned those first pieces.
Soon this wise mother decided she had taught her as much as she knew and that her daughter should begin taking lessons from a professional teacher. The young woman was encouraged constantly, and while in high school she had the opportunity to play part of a piano concerto with a symphony orchestra.
As she entered the hall the night of the concert, there was excitement in her heart. She felt confident and ready because her preparation had been thorough. She took her place at the piano bench. The conductor lifted his baton, and she raised her eyes to watch for his signal.
Suddenly her eye caught the face of someone she knew. It shifted her attention so that, when the conductor gave the cue, she could not respond. Her mind went blank; her memory failed; her fingers froze; she could not think of the beginning notes. The conductor cued her once more; still no response. Finally, after an agonizing pause, someone passed her the music so she could begin.
When the number was over, she rushed from the stage, thoroughly devastated by what had happened. She wanted the earth to open up and swallow her. Anything would do, so long as she didn’t have to face her parents, her friends, the orchestra members, or any of the audience. Suddenly, in one brief moment, her whole life stopped, so she thought. But of course it didn’t. She had to stand up and walk out of that concert hall.
She didn’t die; the world didn’t stop. In fact, there is no record that it even skipped a beat on that momentous day. I know because I was there—I was that girl. I lived to play other pieces and to perform before other audiences because my teacher said I could. And my parents reminded me that I must go on. The humiliation still races through me when I think about it. But I have come to realize that my life did not end that night because, though I had been preparing for a piano performance, I had also been preparing in other ways. Perhaps more significantly, others had been teaching me and preparing me to pick myself up and try again.
My time of preparation had been carefully guided by people who loved me to include experiences with gospel principles. Those teachings were well cultivated inside me so that, when the time of hurt and embarrassment came, I knew I was not alone. I knew there was more to the valued experience of life than playing the piano.

I was baptized when I was eight and attended Primary, but when I became a teenager I fell away from Church activity. At first, I went to a few Mutual activities, but by the time I graduated from high school, I was completely inactive.
During high school, I liked to go to a nearby field after school, lie in the tall grass while watching the clouds go by, and wish to be happy. I was sad because my parents were separated. I didn’t feel peace or happiness a lot of the time, and I didn’t know why. I was a cheerleader, I participated in school government, and I had plenty of friends, but something was missing in my life.
Two years after high school I went on a backpacking trip with friends. Everyone went to sleep early, but I stayed up by the campfire. As I was looking up into the heavens, the thought came to my mind to say a prayer. I looked up and asked, “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And if you are, will you help me to be happy?” It felt as if a huge blanket was wrapped around my shoulders. I felt warm, as though everything would be OK.
A few weeks later, my mom and I went for a vacation to Idaho with her sister. A couple of my cousins invited me to a youth dance at the church, and I had a great time. I danced with a young man who had received a mission call to Korea. He asked if he could write to me, and I agreed.
In his first letter, this young man shared missionary experiences with me and bore his testimony of the gospel. I don’t know whether I was swept off my feet by him or the Spirit. But after all those years of inactivity, I decided to go back to church and check things out.
I roped one of my older brothers into going with me so I wouldn’t have to sit alone. I don’t remember the meeting at all. I just remember thinking, “Everybody must be looking at me and saying, ‘Look, Gretchen is at church. I wonder why.’ ” I was so uncomfortable by the end of the meeting that I planned a quick escape as soon as the closing prayer ended.
That’s when something happened that changed my life forever. Four girls I remembered from Primary ran up and surrounded me. They were so happy to see me at church, and I felt their sincerity. They asked if I would come back later that night to a youth fireside. I agreed and then left for home.
I talked my brother into going with me again. At the fireside, a man stood to speak and said he felt impressed not to give his prepared talk but to share his testimony and then let us do the same. All of a sudden, my whole being felt on fire. I don’t know how long it took me to get up, but I stood and bore my testimony that now I knew why I had been feeling unhappy and lost. It was the gospel that was missing in my life. I knew I needed to make some changes.
Now, almost 30 years later, I am still grateful to those young women who didn’t let me escape the chapel that day. I later met and married a returned missionary in the Idaho Falls Temple. We have four children, three of whom have married in the temple. Our oldest son served a mission, and our last is now planning to go on his. I have served in the Young Women program of the Church. Each time I teach a lesson on service, I share my life-changing experience in hopes that the same will be done for others as was done for me.
I believe my simple prayer was answered on that mountaintop. Heavenly Father does hear and answer our prayers. And my prayer was answered because four girls chose the right. They put their arms around a lost soul and invited her back. There are Gretchens out there who need to be brought back. You never know whose life can and will be changed forever if you will just reach out and be a loving, caring friend.

We all have heroes, particularly when we are young. I was born and grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, in the United States. The most famous sports teams near where we lived were headquartered in New York City. It was the home of three professional baseball teams in those faraway days: the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Giants, and the New York Yankees. Philadelphia was even closer to our home and was the home of the Athletics and the Phillies baseball teams. There were many potential baseball heroes for me on those teams.
Joe DiMaggio, who played for the New York Yankees, became my baseball hero. When my brothers and my friends played baseball on the school grounds next to our house, I tried to swing the bat the way I thought Joe DiMaggio did it. That was before the days of television (this is ancient history), so I only had pictures from newspapers to use to copy his swing.
When I was growing up, my father drove me to Yankee Stadium. That was the only time I saw Joe DiMaggio play. As if I am still there, in my mind I can see him swing the bat and see the white baseball fly straight into the stands at center field.
Now, my baseball skills never came close to those of my childhood hero. But the few times I hit a baseball well, I copied the level of his powerful swing as closely as I could.
When we choose heroes, we begin to copy, consciously or unconsciously, what we admire most in them.

It’s not unusual to see two girls giggling as they try to stay up on ice skates. But how often do they do it while working on Personal Progress? In this case, it’s one of many things young women in the Centerville Ward of the Fremont Stake in northern California have done to help one of their own. The skating activity was tailor-made to fit the needs of Jennifer Beck, who has Down syndrome.
Motivated by the spiritual growth and blessings they had seen others receive through participation in Personal Progress, the stake Young Women presidency prayerfully sought guidance about how to help Jennifer, a Mia Maid. Their prayers were answered when they found the following instruction:
“Value Experiences and Value Projects may be modified according to personal or local circumstances, interests, and needs with the prior approval of parents and Young Women leaders. … After careful consideration by parents and leaders, modifications may be appropriate to meet the needs of young women with disabilities” (Guidebook for Parents and Leaders of Youth [pamphlet, 2001], 19–20).
That was how to bring Personal Progress to Jennifer!
The young women and their leaders were asked to read through the Value Experiences in the Personal Progress book and to select one that they felt they could help Jennifer complete. They were encouraged to modify the selected value experience to better suit Jennifer’s abilities by asking themselves, “What is the intent of this Value Experience? What is it that Jennifer is supposed to learn from this experience?”
Each young woman made a written commitment to carry out the Value Experience they would share with Jennifer. All of the commitments were organized onto a calendar indicating who would meet with Jennifer each month and what experience would be completed. This commitment calendar ensured that Jennifer would experience Personal Progress on a regular basis without being overwhelmed. It also helped the Young Women presidency, Jennifer, and her parents to track what she had accomplished.
Since then, Jennifer has had regular Personal Progress experiences that have helped her feel the Spirit and better understand her own divine nature. “Suppose 23 girls took a special interest in you,” her mother, Judy, says. “When people spend time with Jennifer, she feels a bond that makes her life much richer.”
The young women and leaders who have partnered with Jennifer have also received unexpected blessings. “When I met with Jennifer to complete the sixth Value Experience, in Choice and Accountability, I felt like I received more than I gave,” remembers one of the stake leaders. “Hearing her simple yet pure understanding of the Young Women theme and what it means to be a daughter of God taught me so much about His love for each one of us. I felt her testimony of Jesus Christ when I met with Jennifer to create a collection of pictures of the Savior for a sacrament picture book.”
Laura Dunford worked with Jennifer to teach her the principle of tithing. “We made a little box for savings, one for spending money, and most importantly, one for tithing,” Laura explains. “It was really fun. Jennifer is wonderful, and I love her.”
Emily Topham helped Jennifer perform service. “I knew she liked to cook, so I decided to help her make a pizza dinner for her family. We laughed a lot, and afterward she told me her family enjoyed the yummy food. We were both happy to make someone smile.”
At Christmastime Jennifer was able to participate in a hand-bell concert at an interstake pageant. This was a thrilling experience, one she remembers and often talks about.
Jennifer also recalls working in the ward nursery, learning about service by collecting donations for a humanitarian project, learning about listening to clean music and watching appropriate movies, and of course ice skating.
With diligent effort and some help from her friends, Jennifer Beck completed her Personal Progress goals and received her Young Women Medallion. The young women and their leaders in the Freemont Ward appreciated this opportunity to share spiritual experiences with Jennifer, and they continue to be blessed by her sweet testimony and loving spirit. They truly have become united.

My senior year in high school brought me an experience that taught me much about obedience and prayer. I had joined the Church about six months previously, and now I had my first job with a regular paycheck: I was the projectionist at the downtown movie theater. I loved movies, and getting a salary for showing movies was like getting paid for having fun. Also, the job required my strict attention only about 5 minutes out of every 20, when it was time to change reels. As long as the film didn’t break or something else didn’t require my attention, I was free during most of my time in the projection booth to read, do schoolwork, or simply enjoy the movie.
The job had its downsides. One was that I would be required to work on Sunday nights.
After some weeks on the job I could tell that my spirituality was declining. I was becoming moody and depressed. My schoolwork suffered. But I still thought I had a wonderful job, and I didn’t want to give it up.
I asked my boss, Mr. Harper, if I could have Sundays off. He told me that Sunday was their biggest day, and he couldn’t spare me. A coworker agreed to work in my place on some Sundays. I thought that would be a great help, but my dark feelings, as well as my grades, continued to get worse.
Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I would give what I earned on Sundays to the Church as a special donation. I’d even add an extra 10 percent for good measure. Since I wouldn’t be profiting from my Sunday work, surely the Lord would accept my sacrifice and give His blessing to my activities.
I found myself praying while I was alone in the projection booth one night. “What should I do?” I asked aloud. “Should I keep going as I am now? Should I quit? Should I donate my Sunday earnings?” I truly wanted to know, and my questions were sincere.
When I asked if I should quit, I felt a warmth stir inside me. Was that an answer? If it was, I didn’t think it made sense. Why would the Lord refuse my offering of my Sunday earnings? Surely, I thought, He would consider my sacrifice the best possible option. I must have misunderstood what I felt. (If I had remembered that Heavenly Father prefers obedience over sacrifice, I would not have been so confused [see 1 Samuel 15:22].)
I stayed at the job. I added my Sunday earnings to what I was already paying for tithing and fast offerings. I thought I was doing the right thing. Why wasn’t I feeling better? After several weeks of soul-searching I concluded that I had chosen to do what I wanted to do when I decided to stay on the job, even though it violated the Lord’s commandments. I wouldn’t get better until what I wanted to do matched what the Lord wanted me to do. I enjoyed being a movie projectionist, but I wanted to enjoy being a good Latter-day Saint more. I found someone to recommend as my replacement, and I gave Mr. Harper my two weeks’ notice.
Around this time my priests quorum class discussed what the Lord told Oliver Cowdery about answers to prayer: “You must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your bosom shall burn within you; therefore, you shall feel that it is right” (D&C 9:8).
When I thought about my prayer in the projection booth, I realized that what I had felt when I had asked if I should quit was that promised burning in the bosom. At the time I either hadn’t recognized it for what it was, or I hadn’t had faith that it came from God. Now I knew it had come from Him. I promised myself I wouldn’t be past feeling His words again (see 1 Nephi 17:45).

Every day last autumn when mail was delivered in Baytown, Texas, one six-year-old boy found a letter addressed just to him. “It would make me happy when I wasn’t feeling too happy,” says Lance Brunson, who is confined to his home with complications from a severe skin disease.
The letters were from an “older” friend, seventh grader Sarah Ferguson, affectionately called “Little Miss Sunshine” by Lance’s family. Sarah has been creating and sending letters to Lance since mid-October 1988. “She has really been a bright spot for us,” said Joy Brunson, Lance’s mother.
Sarah first learned about Lance’s condition from her mother, Melanie Ferguson, who had taught Lance in Primary in Baytown Ward, Houston East Texas Stake. Sister Ferguson and Lance’s classmates put together a card to send to Lance after his illness forced him to be homebound. Sarah liked the idea and decided to send one, too—and has kept sending them ever since.
“I try to give Lance something to do, something to make him happy,” Sarah said. She admits she finds some of her ideas in card shops, but her letters are original, with handmade cards, puzzles, quizzes, riddles, and art lessons.
The rare skin disease Lance has is caused by some of his internal organs—kidneys, pancreas, spleen—not functioning to capacity. It causes severe itching and burning and deep peeling to the point that Lance can’t stand to wear any clothes and can only wrap up in a sheet or blanket.
His mother says, “Last fall Lance couldn’t sleep sometimes for two or three days. He would lay for days in the fetal position. We had to carry him to the bathroom. This lasted for almost six weeks. It was his worst time. And during this time Sarah’s letters arrived daily. Sometimes Lance was too sick to look at them, but he would smile when we showed him the letter. And most often that was the only smile we saw from him all day.”
“We didn’t get mail every day, but we’d at least get Sarah’s letter,” Lance said. “Even when she was sick!” he exclaimed. A siege with the flu did not cause her to miss a single day.
Lance’s gratitude to Sarah is spoken with childlike simplicity, “Thank you for sending me all these letters. I love you.”
What does Sarah think about her acts of kindness? “It’s no big deal, really,” she shyly comments. However, the community of Baytown feels Sarah’s heroic efforts are a “big deal.” She was featured in a local newspaper story, and honored by a service organization which awarded her a plaque that now hangs in city hall.
Ask her why she kept sending letters daily for those first few months, she answers, “Because Lance’s mom appreciated it so much and said it made Lance happy. Besides, I know how it feels to be sick and at home. My dad has been sick ever since I can remember. I know how he feels. It gets boring and you need something to keep you busy.” Sarah’s father, Ira, has been going through operations and skin grafts for the past nine years after suffering third-degree burns in an industrial accident.
Sister Brunson expresses her appreciation for what Sarah has been doing for Lance. “She is sacrificing her time, talent, and energy for my child,” she said. “The humble spirit of an incredible young Beehive has richly blessed my household.”
Lance is feeling better now. He attends school and church some of the time, and he was well enough to participate with Sarah and other ward members in the road show last spring. But his trials are not yet over. He has days when he is in great discomfort. And, although he sees Sarah more often now, he still gets a letter at least once a week from her.
Because of the six-year age difference, Sarah and Lance don’t have a lot to talk about with each other. But one night last spring after road show practice Sarah softly said, “Bye, Lance.” And Lance turned and smiled at her and simply said back, “Bye, Sarah.” Lance’s mother comments, “You could see this bond—a look in their eyes that they have shared something. A great deal of love passed between them.”