Gospel Story Finder

While I was serving my first mission to Mexico and Central America, my companion and I received a very interesting final assignment from our mission president. He asked us to leave the mission home and go down to a town in Southern Mexico, where some months before missionaries had been withdrawn due to religious and political persecution. Their lives had been threatened by mobs. A few converts had been baptized, but a real organization of the Church had not been established. As a result, these new members had been left alone, and for months the mission president heard little about how things were going.

We were given a list of names and asked by the mission president to go there, find the people, see how they were doing, and, if possible, locate a place where we could quietly conduct a sacrament meeting. For all those months, they had not had the privilege we take so much for granted of partaking of the sacrament each week.

We arrived early in the morning and immediately searched for the address of the first name on the list. We located her address and passed through a door in a high adobe wall that surrounded a crowded cluster of tiny huts around a central area.

It seemed that everyone there was watching us. Back in the corner was a little grass-thatched hut. The sister we were looking for came to the door, saw us, and easily recognized by our dress that we were missionaries. With tears in her eyes, she rushed to us and greeted us with a hug. We identified ourselves and told her why we were there.

After this brief greeting, she went back into her hut and brought out a clay jar into which she put her hand and withdrew some money she had been saving for months. Even though she had been alone without any Church organization, she had been saving her tithing with faith and hope that someday her tithing would be taken to the appropriate place.

She obviously had many unmet needs; yet, she was handing us money. My first impression was not to accept it and to encourage her to spend it wherever she might need it. Then I realized that it was not my right to do so because she was obeying a commandment. She had gained a testimony that tithing is a divine commandment and was willing to live that principle—even when she was alone.

We need the courage to live up to our standards, especially when there is no one around to check up on us. Then, regardless of where we are, away from home for the first time, in college, in a social setting where there are all kinds of temptations, or any place else—we can stand up for that which we know is true and live consistently with our ideals.

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

During my school’s values-education month, our teacher asked us to write an essay titled “Why am I here?” It had to be a 10-paragraph essay on the topic of our purpose in life. As I read the topic on the board, my heart was filled with comfort and happiness. As a member of the Church, I had known my purpose as a daughter of God for many years. But as I looked at my other classmates’ faces, my heart was filled with sadness. Why? Because they started to murmur regarding the difficulty of the topic. They didn’t have the same knowledge I did.
When I turned in my essay, I realized how blessed I am to be a member of the one true Church. From that day on, my desire to serve a mission and share my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ was strengthened.
I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to be with Him someday. I also know that it is my purpose to serve others.

I thank God for the streams, clear and pure, that have influenced my life: for the goodly parents who taught me the goodness of life—honor and virtue—and who taught me to love the Lord; for the small towns where we made our own fun and adventure; for my widowed mother, who always taught correct principles; for the priesthood and the scouting program; for the chance to go away to college and for the blessing of finding a girl I knew should be my companion. I saw her first at a dance at the Old Mill in a canyon east of Salt Lake. I remember the dress she was wearing. I remember how much fun she was having with her date. I was sitting there with someone else. As I watched this girl dancing by, I asked my date, “Do you know her?”
She said, “Yes.”
I recall saying, “Why don’t you introduce me to her?” Now that isn’t the way you win friends and influence people!
I remember how hard I worked to get a date with her. I would phone her. She would have a date, and I would say, “What time is he coming?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“How about seeing me at six?” I was determined, because I had a deep impression that this was the girl I should marry. I wanted to marry the right person in the right place. I remind all of you who are here that the most important decision you will make in your life is who you marry and where you marry that person. Never forget it. Never deemphasize it.

In Part 1, Sarah Ann describes how her family traveled to the United States from Norway. She hears Mormon missionaries preach and knows what they say is true. Sarah Ann is baptized and promises the Lord that she will always do whatever He asks her to do.

Chardon Point, Iowa, 1849
Sarah Ann was too weak to open her eyes, but as she listened to the crickets chirping nearby she remembered where she was—in a covered wagon camped near a creek in Iowa. Despite painful muscle cramps, Sarah Ann smiled softly, grateful to still be alive.
The crickets were interrupted by the sound of two people talking quietly outside the wagon. Sarah Ann tried to hear what was being said.
“How is she today, Anna?” asked a man with a Norwegian accent.
“I am afraid she isn’t doing well,” Anna said. “Nothing is working. She has a very bad case of cholera.”
Sarah Ann recognized their voices. The man was Canute Peterson. Sarah Ann had known him since she was a young girl. When Canute’s parents died, Mother had welcomed him into their home as though he had been part of the family. The woman, Anna, was Sarah Ann’s nurse.
“I wish that something could be done,” Canute said.
“I do too. Sarah Ann is such a wonderful young woman.”
Sarah Ann let out a cry. The pain was almost more than she could bear. Sarah Ann thought about the events that had led her to where she was now. When she was baptized, she had promised the Lord to do whatever He asked her to do. A short time after that, the prophet Brigham Young told the Saints to gather in the West. Sarah Ann packed a few belongings and joined a wagon team of other Saints. They had traveled 200 miles (322 km) when Sarah Ann became sick with cholera.
A tear rolled down Sarah Ann’s cheek. “I want to live to see the place that the Lord has prepared for the Saints,” she thought.
Meanwhile, Canute walked along the edge of a nearby creek in the woods. As he walked, he felt a gentle prompting from the Holy Ghost to pray for Sarah Ann. He knelt down and prayed that Sarah Ann’s pain would lessen. As he prayed, Canute felt the Spirit tell him what he should do.
“I know that if I give Sarah Ann a priesthood blessing, she will be healed,” he thought.
As Canute returned to the wagon, he could hear Sarah Ann groaning. Anna and the other nurses filled the wagon, making it difficult for him to get close.
Putting all of his faith in the Lord, Canute went to the side of the wagon, put his hands under the wagon cover, laid them on Sarah Ann’s head, and gave her a blessing.
As soon as Sarah Ann felt the hands on her head, she knew whose hands they were even though she couldn’t see Canute.
When the blessing ended, Sarah Ann’s pain immediately stopped.
“I am healed!” Sarah Ann exclaimed.
“You are not in any pain?” Canute asked.
“None at all. It’s a miracle! Thank you for giving me a blessing, Canute. I know that God has healed me through the priesthood power you hold.”
Within an hour, Sarah Ann was up and trying to help others who were sick.
The wagon company was soon able to continue the journey. Sarah Ann felt closer to Canute than she ever had before. As they traveled, the two of them spent a lot of time together. They soon began to fall in love.

Within the week, I listened to one of the brethren who has just returned from the mission field. He has been out nearly five years, and he told of some of the experiences in the field. He told of people that had illness and the doctors did everything they could for them, but they could not heal them. But the humble missionaries, the humble men who held the priesthood, placed their hands upon the heads of those who were afflicted and rebuked their ailments, and they were healed.

In the southern Hungarian city of Pécs, the topic of the first Sunday School lesson after they received the Book of Mormon was Lehi’s dream in 1 Nephi 8 [1 Ne. 8], a story not included in the selections. “The members loved it,” says Elder Brian Blum. “They kept drawing it on chalkboards.”
In Pécs, the books were handed out in a special Christmas family home evening. Elder Blum particularly recalls the reaction of one member, Sister Szücs Krisztina, who had been baptized about three months earlier. “She didn’t get up. She was just sitting there,” he says. “And I was wondering why she wasn’t doing much with her copy of the Book of Mormon. Then I looked down and saw she was crying as she was reading several parts from the Book of Mormon.”

The bishop called Peter to teach Sunday School, and after several trying times, Peter had some good experiences in teaching the Gospel Doctrine class. He was working several jobs to help pay his hospital bills. He had several more operations scheduled, and he was beginning to think seriously about his future. Some friends stopped by one day to ask him to go to a stake dance that evening with them. Although he wanted to go, he refused. It took them six hours of talking to convince him to give it a try.
As I entered the foyer, I noticed that all the kids started looking at me, and I noticed some girls over by the coatrack. A couple of girls whispered (they didn’t know I could hear them), “Gosh, look at that guy. I sure hope he doesn’t ask me to dance.” Once again an ugly feeling shrouded my whole being.
I found a place behind the guys up near the band. I claimed a two-feet-square piece of the gym floor as my territory. I was going to own it for those hours at the dance.
At intermission his friends tried to encourage him to dance. They started pulling him out onto the floor. During the intermission, he resolved that as soon as the band began playing again, he would ask a girl to dance.
As soon as the music started, I remembered my commitment, and putting on mental blinders, I went right out there to dance. I knew if I didn’t do it then, I would be a coward for the rest of the night.
He reached the section of the floor where the girls had congregated. He approached one girl from behind. When he touched her on the shoulder to ask for a dance, she turned, saw Peter, and let out a shriek. Embarrassed, she ran out of the hall, pushing her way through the crowd. It was just like the incident at the grocery store. The band stopped playing; everyone turned to see what was the matter. He returned to his place. His friends tried to comfort him, and the dance started again.
I wanted to shout; I wanted to get out of there. And this small voice deep down inside me said, “Peter, you can’t run now; you’ll be running for the rest of your life.” Another strange thing started to happen. My legs started to move across the floor. I watched myself go out there to ask another girl to dance. I had strength beyond my own power. It was like my spirit was up above me saying, “What are you doing? You’ve got to get back. Are you a glutton for punishment?” As I was walking across the floor, I was having this argument saying yes and no and yes and no. This small voice inside me kept reassuring me. It said, “Peter, you must keep asking them to dance. Don’t turn and run because you’ll be running forever.”
Every dance for the rest of the evening, he asked girls to dance. During the entire evening, only two girls would dance with him. That night as he knelt in prayer, Peter was one bitter young man.
Everything seemed to come together—all the pressure of the people, the way they treated me and gawked at me and pointed at me, and all the operations that were left to be done. I still did not really know if they could correct my eyes and give me some eyelids, a normal mouth, and a nose. This feeling of ugliness came upon me, and in my anger, I said to my Father in Heaven, “There is a scripture that promises that we will not be tempted beyond our capacity to resist. I need that now.” I went to bed. The next morning I was blessed with a peace and a calmness that has stayed with me ever since. And regardless of how the world treated me from that point on, I was normal. My Father in Heaven just gave it to me as he promised. If we live the commandments, he will give us what we need. He gave me a peace and a calmness, so I was normal from that day on. Yes, people would react the same toward me, but I had changed.

It was just an old board Kristen and I had found—maybe ten feet long and just wide enough to sit on. The desert sun had already started to turn the board gray, but even faded it was the perfect addition to our makeshift playground. In fact, other than a lot of sand and a few Tonka trucks, it was the only thing in our playground. Laid across a big rock sticking up in the backyard, that old board became a teeter-totter, kind of like the one at the park by Grandma’s house. Of course, our teeter-totter didn’t go as high as the one at the park. But it was ours.
One day we were teetering and tottering when a couple of men came to visit. I didn’t know what they wanted, but they talked to Mom in the kitchen for a while. Kristen, who was a year older than I was, said they were from church—the new one we had just started going to. One of them was young, and the other had white hair and a white beard. He was the oldest man I’d ever seen. As they were leaving, the old man walked over to us and watched as we went up and down on the teeter-totter.
“That’s a nice looking board you have there,” he said. “Would you mind if I took it with me for a while? I could sure use a board like that.”
We both looked at Mom, who was standing by the kitchen door. She told us to give the man the board. So Kristen and I got off our teeter-totter, and the man put the board in his truck. They said good-bye and drove away.
“Mom, what were those men doing here?” I grumbled.
“They’re our home teachers; the church we went to on Sunday sent them to make sure we’re okay.”
“I’m okay, but I was better when I had my teeter-totter.”
Mom ran her fingers through my hair. “I know, honey. It’s almost dinnertime. Go inside and wash up.”
Most kids would have probably put up a fuss when someone took their favorite toy, but we knew if Mom said it, we should do it.
That night, Mom said the old man’s name was Brother Andelin. My four-year-old mouth had to work to get his name right. Mom said Brother Andelin lived on the other side of town, but would come and visit again.
A few days later, I was on the porch when Brother Andelin’s truck came rattling up the drive.
“Hello, Bobby. Would you like to see what I built out of that board you gave me?” he said, getting out of his truck.
I ran behind him to the back of his truck where he pulled out the board, now painted green with a seat and handle at each end. In the middle on the other side were some steel rings. Also in the truck was a big, wooden, pyramid-shaped box, painted the same color as the board.
“Is your sister here?” Brother Andelin asked. “Run and get her while I set this up in the yard.”
I ran into the kitchen and down the hall. “Kristen,” I yelled, gasping for air. “Brother Andelin brought our board. But he, he—come see.”
Mom followed as Kristen and I ran outside. Brother Andelin had fastened the board on top of the box.
“It’s a real teeter-totter,” Kristen whispered to me. “Is it for us?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“You ask him.”
“Brother Andelin,” I said, stepping closer, “is this for us? For keeps?”
“It’s your board, isn’t it?” he said. “Besides, what am I gonna do with a seesaw? My kids have all grown up.”
Kristen and I climbed on the new teeter-totter. It wasn’t like before. When we went up, we went off the ground way up in the air. Brother Andelin laughed as we played, his teeth smiling from behind his long, white beard.

During her campaign for student-body president, Sue introduced a theme, “Seek for the highest that is in you.” As high school students will do, some started making fun of the theme. But Sue persevered, using the theme for all the activities throughout the year, and the silliness died down. The principal of Mt. Si, Scott Menard, said, “There are always those who will take something positive and try to undermine it. Sue was able to overcome that just by her good-naturedness and by not taking herself too seriously or getting defensive when people would put the theme down. She kept it through every assembly. She didn’t allow the focus to wander, and it became the accepted motto for the students that year.”

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
“For 19 years I had enjoyed Christmas surrounded by family and friends.
“Then, as the Yule season approached in 1960, I found myself half a world away from all that. I had been in England less than three months when, on the first of December, my first junior companion and I were sent to open missionary work in the conservative city of Guildford, an area that had never had Latter-day Saint missionaries. … We were young, inexperienced, and a bit overwhelmed, but we were not fainthearted.
“We knocked on doors in the morning, we knocked on doors at midday, we knocked on doors in the afternoon, and we knocked on doors at night. … And we got in almost none of them.
“So it went until Christmas Eve, when people were even less inclined to hear a couple of missionaries. That evening, weary but devoted, we retired to our one-room rental and had a Christmas devotional. We sang a Christmas hymn and then offered an invocation. We read from the scriptures and listened to a tape recording titled The True Story of Christmas. Then we sang another hymn of the season, said a closing prayer, and went to bed.
“On Christmas morning we kept our morning study schedule and opened the two or three packages that had caught up with us following our transfer. Then we went out to knock on doors. … We didn’t get in any of them.
“For such an uneventful Christmas—clearly the least festive of any I ever had before or since—it says something that those special days in December of 1960 remain in my heart as one of the sweetest Christmases I have ever had. I think that is because for the first time in my life, I found myself understanding Christmas rather than just enjoying it. I think for the first time in any truly significant way, I was getting the message of Christ’s birth and life—His message and His mission and His sacrifice for others.”5

A thin, braided bundle of white, fine linen threads, each 11 yards long, lies in my chest of weaving supplies. The bundle was a section of threads that I intended to put on my large loom as part of a tablecloth I was to weave for the newly restored Joseph and Emma Smith home. I learned an important lesson while winding these threads.
I am a historian at the Church History Library in Salt Lake City and an avid weaver by hobby. When the restoration of the Joseph and Emma Smith home in Harmony, Pennsylvania, was announced as part of the Priesthood Restoration Site, I longed to donate a handwoven item for it. I was pleased to receive an assignment to weave a small linen tablecloth, which would represent one that Emma allowed Joseph to wrap the gold plates in. While no record of the actual tablecloth exists, Emma’s tablecloth was possibly the production of her own hands. I wanted my work to honor Emma’s efforts to support the translation of the Book of Mormon, including her work as scribe for Joseph as he translated. I called the project Emma’s tablecloth.
Although I am an experienced weaver, the white linen thread I received from the textile historian who designed the tablecloth was far thinner than any thread I had previously used. It was difficult to see while I threaded my loom and wove, and it broke easily.
As I began measuring out the white linen yarn on my warping reel1 one Saturday afternoon, I felt a strong impression that this work I was doing was sacred, which I had not previously considered. I continued to measure yarn until it was time for me to leave for the evening session of our stake conference—and the feeling of sacredness lingered. Yet sometime during or soon after the session, I realized I had been measuring the threads 11 yards long each, instead of the required 8½ yards. I would not be able to use the yarn I had measured that afternoon at all and would have to start over.
I wound the threads to the correct length, threaded my loom, and began weaving again. While weaving, I again felt the impression that this work was sacred—but never as powerfully as when I was winding the threads that I could not use.
This is the tablecloth that I made to cover the replica of the Book of Mormon plates.
Photograph by Brent Walton
Through this experience I learned that our hearts, efforts, and intents are of utmost importance. I had made a simple mistake that needed correction, but the Spirit confirmed to me that my effort was still sacred. I keep the incorrectly measured threads to remind me that God accepts our sincere efforts, imperfect though they may be. Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, all our righteous efforts, even imperfect and mistaken ones, can be acceptable to God.

My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.

One of the important things for Stevo in coming to the United States was to have a chance to attend his church. Each Sunday I’d drive him to his meetings. He told me that many years ago his father had worked in Switzerland for a while. During his stay, his dad met some LDS missionaries. He read a book called the Book of Mormon and had been converted to the Church. Stevo called it The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, “nickelnamed” the Mormons.

Three hours after dropping him off I’d pick him up. He always had a group of young kids around him as I pulled into the parking lot. He seemed to like everyone, including me. Even after the rotten trick I pulled on him.

I played “the trick” the evening before school started. The principal, Mr. Sajack, telephoned and asked Stevo to have a short talk ready for the opening assembly. Stevo went to my room and prepared it. Later he read it to me and asked what I thought. I told him that in this part of America we had a special pronunciation for the name of his country and the natives of his land. He took notes.

The next day in the assembly he introduced himself, told them his “nickelname” and then said, “I come from the Sloback Republic and my people are known as Slobs.” Half the auditorium teetered in embarrassment and the other half rolled in the aisles. He just smiled as if it was okay and continued to talk.

Later that day in English class Mrs. Cartwright asked him who helped him with the pronunciation of the name of his country. Then she glanced over at me. Stevo asked, “Why?” When she told him what a “slob” was I thought he would really be mad. All he did, though, was run a hand through that black hair, grin, and say “That was funny joke, heh?”

One night, three weeks after his arrival, I asked him if he had a girlfriend back home. I was curious—and maybe a little jealous. He was quite homely, yet after only three weeks he knew more people at Edgemont High than I did after three years; it seemed like a crowd of girls followed him wherever he went.

Smiling, he said, “No. No one especial, but I have many friends that are girls. The leader of my church, the prophet, once say not to go steady until ready to marry. I pray every night for the Lord to prepare a girl for me to marry after my mission, a girl I can take to the temple.”

Mission? Temple? It sounded like another foreign language. He had me interested, though, so I asked more. His explanation of a mission seemed ludicrous. It was insane for 19-year-old boys to swear off girls, college, and fun for two years to go to some faraway place to share religious beliefs with strangers. I was worried he was going to practice on me, but he just answered my questions.

Then I said, “Stevo, I’m sorry for the dirty trick I played on you when you asked for help on your opening assembly speech.”

“It was a dirty trick, true. But I don’t think you are dirty. I like you, Matt.”

The last week with Stevo in our house passed quickly. The Saturday morning it was time for him to leave you’d have thought someone died. Tim said he was losing his best friend, and Mom dabbed her eyes and said it felt just like when Rodney went away to college, even though he was going only a few miles to his next host family.

As I drove Stevo to his new home, I realized there was something I wanted to say to him. I had been a jerk. Selfish. My own little room, my kingdom, where I could shut the world out and indulge in self-pity, had been so important. So important I almost shut out something that on some level seemed more important than I knew how to explain. I glanced over at Stevo. His large nose pointed straight ahead, serene, knowing exactly where he was going as he continued his journey through life.

I made my decision. I pulled over to the curb and parked under the bough of a large chestnut tree.

“Something is wrong, Matt?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I have a confession to make.” I took a deep breath. “I didn’t like you at all when you came to live with us. And the first time I saw you I didn’t know what I was going to do with you for the next month. You seemed like trouble and a bother. I didn’t even try to hide it. I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I’m going to miss you and our talks.”

“I will miss our talks too, Matt.”

“Stevo, you have something. People always seem to want to be around you. Why? What is your secret?”

“I don’t know any secret, Matt. All I know is from the time I was tiny my mother told me often that if I treated other people as important as I wanted to be treated, then things would always work out. When we found the Church and discovered Christ, it was easy to see that all children of God deserve to be loved.”

“Even people who are trying to kill you?” I asked.

“Them especially. Easy to love those who treat us nice, my father says. Best part is to love those who hate us. That doesn’t mean we try to put ourselves in a place where they can hurt us. We try to understand so we don’t hate them back.”

Then I said, “I wish I had something to remember you by, Stevo. When I am with you, you make me want to be better. I want to change.”

“Matt, can I give you a gift?”

“I guess so.”

Stevo reached into his flight bag and pulled out the Book of Mormon he read nearly every night. He opened it and wrote in it.

I took the book and read what it said. To my best American friend, Matt: To want to change is the first step to be better. This book makes me want change to every day. Perhaps it can do the same for you. Your friend, Stevo.

I set the book down on the seat, put the car in gear, and headed down the street. We drove in silence. When we arrived at our destination, Stevo’s new host family was out front waiting. I helped him with his bags and then did something I had never done before in my life. I gave a guy a hug. Stevo was out of my room, but I knew he would never be out of my life.

I keep Stevo’s book by my bed and read from it often. Mom and Dad wonder why I treat everyone around here better. I even invited Tim to move in with me.

What shocked everyone most, though, was one Sunday several weeks ago I told them I wanted to go to church with Stevo before he returned to his home. That was, however, only part of the truth. The place Stevo goes every Sunday has a spirit of change, and that’s what I want to do. When I grow up, I want to be like Stevo.

One such experience in my life took place nearly thirty years ago when I was a young missionary serving in southern Chile. On a warm summer evening in a small Chilean village filled with humble homes linked by dirt roads, my companion and I were engaged in routine missionary activities. Tucked in my pocket was a trifold organizer that contained our calendar for the week. On this particular evening we were scheduled to teach the second discussion to a newly contacted family. We artfully dodged the barefoot children who were playing soccer in the streets. The smoke-filled air was evidence that most people were cooking their evening meal.

As we approached the small house, the children ran to alert their parents that we had arrived. We entered the humble home, and the family gathered for our lesson. In those days the second discussion was the plan of salvation—one of my favorites. As the lesson progressed I made eye contact with the mother and the father and shared my testimony of the truthfulness of this plan. The normally energetic children sat quietly on the knees of their parents. We spoke about how they had lived before coming to earth and about God’s plan for how they could return to live with Him and their family forever.

As my companion gave his portion of the discussion, I had a profound experience. The Spirit touched my heart in a way I had never felt before. At that very moment I could see with great clarity that this family had divine potential. I was overcome with the Spirit and remember feeling that the Holy Ghost was bearing witness to me in a very personal way that the work I was engaged in was true and that God was the author of this plan of salvation.

I did not know at the time if this family was having the same experience, but my feelings were undeniably from God. The sweet witness was profound and clear. At the conclusion of the discussion I felt an urgency to get back to my apartment and record this special experience in my journal. I did not want to forget one detail.

That evening I carefully wrote about my experience, making special note of the spiritual confirmations I had received. I concluded my journal entry that night with the following sentence: “If someday in the future I ever find myself questioning my faith, please read this journal entry!” This experience is an example of a monument that I raised to help me remember what Heavenly Father had done for me.

Before I discuss principles of good measurement and apply them to our measurements of ourselves and of others, I would like to share an experience my wife and I had with making measurements and some of the lessons we learned in the process.

Early in my BYU career, while sitting in my office, the phone rang, and on the other line was someone I both admired and respected. He indicated that his organization, a National Football League team, had a job opportunity for me. One of my passions is the development of statistical methods for sports and human performance, so it was a job that I had dreamed about, and it was also both professionally rewarding and financially attractive. Indeed, this was a job that I felt completely prepared for, and all of the details seemed to point me in the direction of accepting the position. My wife, Wendy, and I discussed the job opportunity and felt that we should at the very least explore the possibility. We made all the arrangements to fly to the destination city. After a three-day, somewhat grueling experience with high-powered executives, we returned home with far more questions than we had answers.

With the offer in hand, my wife and I weighed the evidence we had gathered over the three-day trip by creating a pros and cons list. We were meticulous about making our list. Our measurement of the pros included financial considerations, opportunities to meet new people, and job-growth opportunities. Our measurement of the cons included moving away from family, the inability to teach amazing students, and no longer working with valued colleagues at BYU. As the day came for us to report our decision, Wendy and I gathered at the door as I prepared to leave for work. We had been praying, fasting, and gathering all the data we could gather, and there we were with lists of pros and cons that were identically long and equally compelling. It appeared to be a statistical tie. We were both exhausted by the process of deciding, so I suggested that the optimal way to make a decision in the case of a statistical tie was—yep, you guessed it—to toss a coin!

While I fully expected my wife to remind me that not everything had to be decided using optimal decision theory and that this really was one more piece of evidence suggesting that I was as nerdy as my profession suggested I was, I was shocked to hear her say, “Okay.” She quickly grabbed a coin from the telephone stand by our back door and flipped it. I just as quickly grabbed the coin out of the air and said, “Okay, but none of this best-out-of-three business—one flip of the coin! Heads, we go. Tails, we stay.” She agreed, and I flipped the coin. I don’t know how many of you have had moments in your life when everything slowed way down, when everything seemed to go in slow motion. This was one of those moments. I saw every rotation of that coin as it went up and then ever so slowly—flip, flip, flip—headed to the ground. With anxious eyes and nervous hearts, we watched as the coin struck the floor, then hit the back door, then rattled around in a corner near the door, and then came to rest directly vertical against the wall!

Now, I’m a statistician, and I’ve flipped enough coins to know that this event has zero probability! We laughed (and cried) together as we realized that we weren’t going to get off that easily. We had work left to do, and the Lord was not going to allow us to miss out on a growth opportunity. We asked the potential employer for a little more time and had one of the most powerful weeks of our married lives together as a trip to the temple and additional fervent prayer and fasting helped us measure weightier evidence than anything we had on our list. We had a sweet and precious learning experience that the Lord had in store for us—on His timescale.

“B.I.O.N.I.C.” proclaim the bright red letters on the large white banner stretched and tied between two trees in the stake park.
B.I.O.N.I.C? That’s an acronym for, “Believe it or not, I care,” a motto 325 young members of three stakes in Roosevelt, Utah, are ready to prove.
“Our purpose is to show the community—not just members, but nonmembers as well—that LDS youth care about where they live,” says Doris Haslem, 17, chairperson of the project.
After an early-morning devotional, cars and trucks are loaded with hoes, rakes, and shovels, and everyone is off to their work sites:
—At Neola, one of the nearby communities, young men and women are busy cleaning up the cemetery.
—At Whiterocks, about 15 miles from Roosevelt, a small picnic area is being cleaned by half a dozen teenagers. Though the hot summer sun is beating down, the youth seem to enjoy working side by side. “There really are picnic tables under here,” one of them jokes as more of the vegetation is chopped away.
Richard Acord, priests quorum adviser for the Neola Second Ward, says, “There were six kids who complained when they first started. But now they’re proud of their work.”
—Back in Roosevelt’s Old Park, Amie Cole and Melinda Lundstrom are trimming and weeding along the sidewalk.
“This is something I’ll remember because I’m helping the community,” Amie says. “You feel good making the park—our park—look nicer.”
—About 20 miles to the northeast, other youth are busy tilling ground in Tridell for installation of a sprinkling system, and planting grass on some community land.
“Youth need to learn how to put in service and have fun,” says Ward Goodrich, second counselor in the Young Men presidency.
By late afternoon, the work is completed, and it’s back to the park adjacent to the stake center. But there isn’t much need to learn about fun. After the initial surprise of getting suddenly soaked, you just pick up one of the more than 2,000 water balloons and go after somebody whose clothes are still dry. And when the balloons are gone, there’s a water slide up on the hill.

I am a missionary recovering from an accident and am in the Royal Perth Hospital in Western Australia. I began to feel quite alone and separated from missionary work until one of the nurses who is a Mormon brought some New Eras for me to read. All I can say is thank you for the spiritual nourishment this special magazine provides. It has given me an extra incentive to convert the youth of Australia and bring them to a realization of the eternal truths embodied in this latter-day literature. Days in the hospital aren’t so mundane now!
Elder Anthony WellerAustralia Perth Mission

In May of 1847, little Peter Weston Maughan was born to Mary Ann Weston and Peter Maughan, English immigrants living in Wisconsin Territory. Later, in 1850, his parents buried him in a dry-goods box somewhere along the Mormon Trail—a trail described by President Hinckley as “a trail of tragedy, a trail of faith, a trail of devotion, a trail of consecration, even the consecration of life itself” (from an address delivered near Riverton, Wyoming, 15 August 1992, quoted in Dell Van Orden, “‘Second Rescue’ of Handcart Pioneers,” Church News, 22 August 1992, p. 3). He had fallen from the wagon seat and been crushed by the wagon wheels. His mother had already lost her first husband from injuries he sustained in a mob beating in England (see Godfrey, Godfrey, and Derr, Women’s Voices, p. 37–38). (They had opened their home to preaching by Willard Richards and Wilford Woodruff, much to the consternation of their neighbors.) His mother wrote the following in her life history about little Peter:

We buried him on a little hill on the North side of the road. The grave was consecrated and then they laid him to rest. Some one had made a nice headboard, with his name printed on, also his age and date of death. This was all we could do, and many prayers were offered to our heavenly Father, that he might rest in peace and not be disturbed by wolves. We turned away in sorrow and grief.

His parents consecrated his grave to God and then turned their faces again toward Zion. Peter’s small body lies as a testament that he was willing and worthy to make the journey to Zion and that he gave all he had, even his life, for the building up of the kingdom of God.

I was destined to be a Gershwin fan. While I was yet in the womb, my mom decided to try out some advice about playing music to unborn infants. Since one of her favorite composers was George Gershwin, I was quite familiar with his “Concerto in F,” “An American in Paris,” and a few others by the time the doctor spanked me. However, it wasn’t until my junior year in high school that George Gershwin really had an impact on me.
Though we lived in Pocatello, Idaho, one of the best piano teachers around taught at Utah State University in Logan, Utah. A series of unusual happenings landed me a tryout with him, and he agreed to take me on as a student. So every other Friday for the next two years, one of my parents would pick me up after school, we would drive 90 miles to my lesson, spend one hour in my lesson, grab a bite to eat, and drive the 90 miles back (usually in time to get me to the high school dance).
Throughout the trip we would talk and listen to either rock or classical music. My parents were understanding enough of my teenage interests to tolerate a good share of my tunes. It was usually my mom who suggested equal time for classical music. When classical time arrived, I automatically reached for the light classic “Rhapsody in Blue.” It became a tradition to listen to it at least once during the trip.
I can’t really say what made the difference that February day, but Gershwin’s “Rhapsody” captivated me as it never had before. Driving down that familiar two-lane highway with Mom, listening to Gershwin for the umpteenth time, I became totally absorbed in the music. My faculties became heightened, and my senses became more acute. I breathed deeply, immersed in the exhilarating thrill of the music. That day I realized that good music would always be a source of peace and enjoyment, even ecstasy, to me.
I glanced over at my mom, and things began to get blurry. I realized one day I would be a parent, trying to instill in my children similar feelings about music, hoping they would respond as I was responding. But more than that I hoped my children would love me like I loved my mom.
The tape ended as we pulled into the parking lot. I gave my mom a quick kiss, jumped out of the car, and walked toward the building. I looked back at her one more time before I went through the double doors.
I’ve looked back many times since.