Gospel Story Finder

Payton opened the pickup truck door and stepped out into the snow. Snowflakes fluttered through the air. Payton and her family had just gotten home from visiting Grandpa and Grandma.
Dad looked into the back of the truck. “Where’s Tessa?” Their six-month-old black lab wasn’t on her blanket. “She must have jumped out. No one will know who she belongs to because the tags fell off her collar last week.” Dad climbed back into the truck. “I’ll go look for her.”
Payton imagined Tessa alone in the cold night, and tears spilled down her cheeks. “Mom, what will happen to Tessa?”
Mom hugged Payton. “Don’t worry. Dad will find her.”
Even when Payton put on her warm pajamas, she felt cold inside. The wind blew outside, and a branch scraped against her window.
Payton knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help her puppy. The knot in her stomach loosened, and she felt warm and calm.
“How are you doing?” Mom asked when she came to tuck Payton in.
“I feel better. I know Tessa is OK.”
“How do you know?”
“I prayed, and then I wasn’t scared anymore.”
“I’m glad you chose to pray and listen,” Mom said as she kissed Payton goodnight.
The next morning, Payton jumped out of bed and went to find Tessa, certain her prayer had been answered.
“Where is she?” Payton asked.
“I don’t know,” Dad said. “I looked for hours, but there were no tracks in the snow.”
“But I said a prayer. Why can’t it be answered now?”
“It doesn’t always work that way,” Dad said. “Heavenly Father answers our prayers, but not always the way we want them answered. We have to be patient.”
“Being patient is hard,” Payton said.
“Yes, it is,” Dad said. Then he smiled. “Why don’t we make some signs with Tessa’s picture and our phone number?”
“That’s a great idea!” Payton said.
Dad and Payton made the signs, and they posted them on the roads between Grandpa’s house and their own.
A week went by. Payton and her family prayed for Tessa every day. Whenever they went out, Payton watched for a black puppy with a red collar. When Payton was sad, she thought of the feelings she’d had when she first prayed for Tessa.
Then one afternoon, the phone rang. It was someone saying they had found a black lab puppy with a red collar.
“Let’s go get her!” Payton exclaimed.
“Slow down,” Dad said. “We’re not sure it’s Tessa yet.”
The short drive seemed to take forever. Finally they drove down a long driveway to a red farmhouse. When Dad opened the front gate, a black streak bounded through the snow and knocked Payton off her feet. She giggled as Tessa licked her face.
“It’s definitely Tessa,” Mom said.
On the way home Dad told Payton, “Now we know why there were no tracks in the snow. That family was behind us when Tessa jumped out of our truck. They put her in their car and tried to follow us, but we were too far ahead.”
Mom smiled at Payton. “You were right. Your prayer was answered. Someone was taking care of Tessa the whole time.”
Warmth spread through Payton. She pressed her cheek against Tessa’s fur.
“Heavenly Father was taking care of her, just like He took care of me.”

As my parents reached middle age, my mother encountered early-onset Alzheimer’s. My father was determined to faithfully serve as her caretaker, even when her condition required full-time care. Even through these latter years, my father reached out to me through weekly, and, in some periods, daily, phone calls and letters. I had always had a close relationship with both my parents, but during the last 10 years of my father’s life, we became particularly close. I realized then too that he was equally successful in drawing near to my three siblings in the same way—even given the differences in interests and faiths we chose as we all grew older.
Photograph by Del Benson
My parents and my family lived on opposite coasts of the United States during those last years, and they made two cross-country visits, even though my mother’s Alzheimer’s had advanced to the point where assisting her on a long-distance flight was very difficult for Dad.
At this same time, one by one my children all decided to stop attending church. Two eventually had their names removed from Church records. This has certainly been the trial of both my wife’s and my life. And even though he wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, my father was pained and confused by our children’s choices as well. He was a privately religious man, and he joined us through those years in praying for them.
In 2005 my father passed away after being diagnosed with cancer, and my mother passed away three years later. My wife and I rejoiced in acting as their proxies in providing temple ordinances after their deaths.
I’ve long prayed to understand how best to relate to our children now that they’re adults, some with their own spouses and children, none of whom are LDS. We are emotionally close to all four of our children, and we are grateful that they often reach out in love to us.
I eventually received a very clear answer of how I must conduct myself, possibly for the rest of my life, regarding these adult children. I needed to do what my father had done with me. In spite of the different lives we lived and the different religious perspectives we had, my father was determined to draw closer to me as a father and a friend while I experienced the pain of seeing my children choose different lifestyles and beliefs from mine. I realized I must follow the example of my father, who taught me how to treat children of a different faith: love them completely, just as the Savior would.

As a young man I had an important decision to make. Congressman Milton H. Welling offered me an appointment to the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. This was an outstanding opportunity for a fine education and experience. After careful and prayerful consideration, I declined the appointment and accepted a call to go on a mission. This was a decision that required some sacrifice and greatly affected my life. However, while on my mission I wrote my parents from Boston, Massachusetts, “From my mission I have gained much. … I wouldn’t trade the last two years for anything. They have been wonderful in bringing a realization of life in its true sense.” Yes, my sacrifice, if it could be called that, was bringing forth the blessings of heaven.

When we had five young children, our family struggled to follow this prophetic counsel. It took us about 18 months to finally finish reading the Book of Mormon. Most days we read a page. Each of us read a verse and we helped our youngest daughter, aged four, repeat a verse after one of us read for her. To celebrate, we all went out to eat, and at the table I asked my family what their favourite Book of Mormon story is. The stories included Alma among the Zoramites, the journey to the promised land by Lehi’s family, Helaman and the stripling warriors, Mormon and Moroni, the missionary labors of Ammon, and the conversion of Alma the Younger. Finally, our four-year old daughter added her voice. She said, “Just Jesus!” She taught us a powerful lesson of childlike faith that day.

To celebrate my seventh birthday, I had a party at my house. While we were eating cake and ice cream, some of my friends from my school class started making fun of a boy in our class.
It made me feel sad. I told them that they should not say things like that, because it hurts people’s feelings.
They said it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t there to hear it.
I said, “Well, I’m here, and it hurts my feelings.”
After that, my friends started to talk about something else. I felt good inside and knew that I had done the right thing. I know that Jesus loves and cares about each person on earth. I am trying to be like Him by treating others with kindness and respect.

Frequently the heavenly virtue of patience is required. As a bishop I felt prompted one day to call on a man whose wife was somewhat active, as were the children. This man, however, had never responded. It was a hot summer’s day when I knocked on the screen door of Harold G. Gallacher. I could see Brother Gallacher sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. “Who is it?” he queried, without looking up.

“Your bishop,” I replied. “I’ve come to get acquainted and to urge your attendance with your family at our meetings.”

“No, I’m too busy,” came the disdainful response. He never looked up. I thanked him for listening and departed the doorstep.

The Gallacher family moved to California shortly thereafter. Many years went by. Then, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I was working in my office one day when my secretary called, saying, “A Brother Gallacher who once lived in your ward is here in the office and would like to talk to you.”

I responded, “Ask him if his name is Harold G. Gallacher who, with his family, once lived at Vissing Place on West Temple and Fifth South.”

She said, “He is the man.”

I asked her to send him in. We had a pleasant conversation together concerning his family. He told me, “I’ve come to apologize for not getting out of my chair and letting you in the door that summer day long years ago.” I asked him if he was active in the Church. With a smile, he replied: “I’m a counselor in my ward bishopric. Your invitation to come out to church, and my negative response, so haunted me that I determined to do something about it.”

Harold and I visited together on numerous occasions before he passed away. The Gallachers and their children filled many callings in the Church.

“Why can’t you keep your half of the room clean?” Alicia complained to her new stepsister. “It looks like a tornado just hit the place!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Megan answered. “Anyway, as soon as softball season ends, I’ll have more time to clean up. I may have to spend some extra time in practice for the next few days.” She folded a pair of jeans and put them into a drawer, threw her baseball mitt onto a chair, and put her pajamas under a pillow. “There—a start!”
Alicia sighed. She was glad to have Megan as a stepsister, but they were about as different as night and day. Megan was tall, slender, and very good at sports—but not very good at cleaning her room. Alicia was short, not-so-slender, and very good at cleaning her room—but her athletic skills were limited to being a substitute umpire in the junior girls softball league.
No wonder, then, that after Megan’s dad married Alicia’s mom, patience was in demand in their new home!
Actually it was a new home only for Alicia and her mom. After the marriage, they had moved into Megan’s dad’s house. “Welcome to my jungle!” Megan had said. “Here, let me push some of my junk out of the way. You can have this half of the room, OK?”
Alicia’s heart sank. Her old room had been as neat as a pin. Here, the clutter was unavoidable! On the floor were magazines, socks, baseball mitts, jeans, shoes, softball trophies, pillows, even orange peelings. Well, Mom told me there would be adjustments, she thought. I guess this is what she meant.
There were two more adjustments Alicia had to make. The first one came that weekend. Alicia’s old ward had been small enough that everyone knew everyone else’s first name. That’s where her dad’s funeral had been held three years ago. That’s where she had been baptized, had learned about Heavenly Father’s love, and had prayed for guidance when her mom said that she was going to remarry.
Her new ward was so big! So many people! After Megan had introduced her friends, she felt a little better. Singing the old familiar hymns was comforting too.
“You’ll get used to our new ward,” her mom told her that first Sunday. “Just remember, the important thing is not the building, but the reason for the building—to worship Heavenly Father and to learn to live the gospel.”
The next adjustment came when Alicia went to her new school. All the kids stared at her in her new classes.
Some of them giggled and whispered behind their hands to each other.
The teachers were all nice. And when Miss Younger found out that Alicia had been a substitute umpire at her old school, she asked her to umpire at the softball game that evening. “Megan’s team is playing for the school championship,” Miss Younger explained. “Our regular umpire is sick today. We could really use someone with your experience.”
Alicia wasn’t sure she was that experienced, but Megan had said, “Oh, come on, Alicia! You can do it! Just call them the way you see them.”
“OK,” Alicia had reluctantly agreed.
Now she reminded Megan as they headed out the door for the ballpark, “Remember that during the game I’m not your stepsister—I’m the umpire!”
“Fair enough!” Megan replied. “And you remember that if we win this game, we go to the city championship game next week.” She grinned. “I hope that won’t affect your decisions, Miss Umpire!”
“Why would it?” Alicia asked.
Megan laughed. “Because that means it would be another week before my half of the room gets cleaned!”
Alicia laughed too. “Well, if you win, I’ll clean your half of the room myself.” She quickly added, “But just for one week. And I don’t do orange peelings!”
* * * * * *
The stands were crowded. Alicia’s heart pounded as she took her place behind the catcher. “Play ball!” she called. She hoped that her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
As the game progressed, Alicia’s self-confidence returned. Finally it was the bottom of the last inning. Megan’s team, one run behind, was at bat.
The first batter flied out to the shortstop. The second batter drew a base on balls. After the next batter struck out swinging, Megan—the cleanup hitter—was up!
“Home run! Home run!” her team’s fans shouted.
“Strike out! Strike out!” the other team’s fans screamed.
“Strike one!” Alicia called as Megan let the first pitch go by without swinging.
Megan turned to look questioningly at Alicia but didn’t say a word. She tightened her grip on the bat, took a practice swing, then stepped back into the batter’s box.
The next pitch was right over the middle of the plate. Megan put all her strength into a smooth, level swing. The crack of the bat against the ball echoed over the field like a rifle shot. The ball arced high, headed for deep center field.
The center fielder took off like a small cyclone, but the ball landed just beyond her outstretched glove. Quickly scrambling after it, she wheeled and threw with all her might toward home plate.
The runner on first pounded around second, then third. The ball and the runner seemed to reach home plate at the same time.
“Out!” shouted Alicia, raising her thumb high in the air.
“What? No way!” Megan’s teammates shouted angrily, crowding around Alicia. Their shouting grew louder and angrier. Butterflies began doing flip-flops in her stomach.
Megan pushed her way through the crowd. “Leave her alone! If she called her out, that’s the way it was.” She led Alicia through the crowd. “Come on, Ump, let’s go home.”
Home! The word sounded like music to Alicia. She had a new ward, a new school, a new home—and a new family. She smiled gratefully at Megan. “You can stop calling me ‘umpire’ now. The game’s over. Now you can call me ‘sister!’” She laughed. “And even though your team didn’t win, I’ll still help you clean your half of the room!”

With this prospect before us, consider the following story. A young man, full of ambition and energy, enrolled in a fine university. At the time, he was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. His goal was lofty—he wanted to become a doctor. His aim was ambitious—he wanted to be rich. He wanted to play football, so he sought out the coaches and eventually made the team. Now he could have the recognition and bragging rights unique in the world of university sports. Such were the notions in his head.

But he had given little thought to something that would ultimately dismantle his lofty and vain ambitions—he had failed to lay up in store. He had overlooked the importance of adequate preparation, the requirements of regular attendance and disciplined study, and the college chemistry class. The consequence was swift and merciless. It took less than 90 days. It happened this way:

The day he found his 5-foot 8-inch, 170-pound body on the line of scrimmage opposite a mammoth lineman from the varsity squad, he knew he was in the wrong sport.

Unaccustomed to rigorous study, his eyes and mind refused to function after a brief time in the books.

The capstone of defeat was the final chemistry exam. Suffice it to say that his random answers to multiple-choice questions did not even approximate the law of averages. He failed miserably.

Hard work, a mission that awakened in him a correct vision of life’s purposes, and unrelenting preparation eventually overcame the consequence of this brief period of foolishness. Even today, however, I still have nightmares about that chemistry class.

One day last year, my friend invited me to his house to have a Teddy Bear Tea Party with him and his sisters. I thought they would have pretend tea at this party. Instead, they offered me real tea with honey. I remembered an article in the Friend about President David O. McKay.* Once when he was visiting the queen of the Netherlands, she offered him tea. He politely refused it. I knew that if tea isn’t good for a prophet, then it isn’t good for me. I told my friend, “No thank you. Tea isn’t good for you.” They didn’t know about the Word of Wisdom, and they told me that tea was good for me. But I said, “No thank you,” again. So my friends gave me some water to drink, and we had a good time together.
When I made this choice, I had a good feeling inside. My mom and dad said I was setting a good example for my friends who aren’t members of the Church. I know that Jesus Christ wants me to take care of my body, and I am trying to do that.

My Uncle Ed has always had an infectious love of life. Unfortunately, he also had a deficient pair of kidneys. For several years, Ed had been staving off kidney failure through dialysis. The treatments were painful and frequent. Each treatment wiped him out until the next one, and by the fall of 1995, he seemed to be just a shell of his former vibrant self.
The doctor finally told Ed that if he didn’t get a new kidney soon, his body wouldn’t hold out much longer. Although only one kidney is necessary to sustain life, Ed didn’t want to ask anyone to donate one of theirs due to the risk that inherently accompanies any surgery. But there was no choice. Several close friends and family members were tested to see if their kidneys were compatible. Only one perfect match was found: Ed’s sister, Dottie—my mother.
On December 7, many of Ed’s friends and family joined in fasting and prayer in behalf of him and Dottie. The surgeons who performed the operation were twin brothers. Even more interesting, one of them had donated a kidney to the other. Ed and my mother were impressed to learn that with each surgery, these two doctors did all that they could and then bowed their heads and left the outcome in the Lord’s hands.
On the day of the operation, one doctor removed one of my mother’s kidneys. As he sewed her back up, his brother carefully secured the donated kidney inside Ed’s abdomen.
The surgery was a success, but it remained to be seen if Ed’s body would accept the new kidney. The antibodies in his immune system were suppressed to improve his chances, so Ed had to be isolated in intensive care to protect him from viruses. Even after he was released, he had to remain isolated from everyone except his immediate family. On Christmas Eve, however, Ed received special permission to attend my grandparents’ annual Christmas Eve celebration.
Wearing a face mask, Ed walked in the door, headed straight for Dottie, and enveloped her in a tremendous hug. As they embraced each other, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Everyone could feel the love emanating from them. A sister had suffered in order to give her brother the gift of life. It was a gift of love, a gift of sacrifice, a gift he couldn’t provide for himself.
As I watched them, with tears streaming down my face, it dawned on me: this could be what it will be like to meet the Savior face to face. He did something for us that we are unable to do for ourselves. Only He, being divine, was able to endure a sacrifice so great that the law of justice would be satisfied. And only He, being perfect, was worthy to atone for the sins of all mankind so that the law of mercy could be extended to all who accept Him as their Savior.
As I savored these insights, I recommitted myself to do all I could to show my appreciation for the Savior and His sacrifice. I would strive to live my life as a disciple so that someday I might be worthy to enter His presence, embrace Him, and personally thank Him for loving me enough to make such a sacrifice.

I think of the sincere efforts of an aunt whose acts were never celebrated in the media or recognized in any special way. One of her neighbors was a reclusive woman who had lost her husband. She often engaged in peculiar behavior, which provided us children with opportunities to make fun of her. But seeing that she had neither friends nor family, my aunt visited her frequently, taking her food, talking with her, comforting her. When this neighbor died, only three people attended her funeral: my mother, my uncle, and my aunt.
In this as in many other instances, my aunt gave her best in personal and sincere ways. For my aunt, “Mankind was [her] business” (Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, in Works of Charles Dickens [1982], 543).

In 1989, Jack Rushton was serving as president of the Irvine California Stake in the United States. During a family vacation on the California coast, Jack was bodysurfing when a wave swept him into a submerged rock, breaking his neck and severely injuring his spinal cord. Jack said later, “The instant I hit, I knew that I was paralyzed.” He could no longer talk or even breathe on his own.

Family, friends, and stake members rallied around Brother Rushton and his wife, Jo Anne, and, among other things, remodeled a section of their home to accommodate Jack’s wheelchair. Jo Anne became Jack’s principal caregiver for the next 23 years. Referring to Book of Mormon accounts of how the Lord visited His people in their afflictions and made their burdens light, Jo Anne said, “I am often amazed at the lightness of heart I feel in caring for my husband.”

An alteration to his respiration system restored Jack’s ability to speak, and within the year, Jack was called as Gospel Doctrine teacher and stake patriarch. When he would give a patriarchal blessing, another priesthood holder placed Brother Rushton’s hand on the head of the person receiving the blessing and supported his hand and arm during the blessing. Jack passed away on Christmas Day 2012, after 22 years of devoted service.

Once in an interview, Jack observed: “Problems will come into all of our lives; it’s part of just being here upon this earth. And some people think that religion or having faith in God will protect you from bad things. I don’t think that’s the point. I think the point is that if our faith is strong, that when bad things happen, which they will, we’ll be able to deal with them. … My faith never wavered, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have depressions. I think for the first time in my life, I was pushed to the limit, and literally there was nowhere to turn, and so I turned to the Lord, and to this day, I feel a spontaneity of joy.”

Elder Bettridge served his mission close to home in Leeds, before studying economics at university, entering the world of work, and meeting his wife, Jenny, at a work event in Chicago. After she returned to her home in Australia he visited her there, took her to church and introduced her to the missionaries. A few years later, they were married. To this day, he says that “my best missionary moment was introducing my wife to the gospel”.

While swimming in Provo River, the teenage Tom Monson saw a crowd of vacationers shouting frantically that a member of their group had fallen into the river and was likely to drown in the whirlpools toward which she was being swept. At just that moment, she thrashed her way into Tom’s view. He swam to her side, took her in tow, and made his way to the bank.
“They were very generous in their gratitude and credited me with saving her life,” Brother Monson would later report. “But I think I just happened to be in the right place at the right time in order to give help.”

Nathan and his cousins were playing by a large irrigation ditch. They knew that they shouldn’t play so close to it, but it was fun to throw rocks into the water, and it was cooler near the water on this hot summer day. Suddenly Nathan slipped and fell in. His cousins yelled for help. Fortunately the aunts and uncles were not far away. Uncle Gary jumped the pasture fence, ran to the ditch, and pulled Nathan from the water just before he went into a culvert under the road. Uncle Gary saved Nathan’s life that day.
You can probably imagine how grateful Nathan’s family was to Uncle Gary that summer day. How much more grateful we ought to be to Jesus Christ! His Atonement made it possible for us to live again forever. His Atonement paid the price for our sins if we repent. No wonder we celebrate Easter! In some parts of the world, people greet each other at Easter time by saying, “Christ is risen!” And their friends reply, “In truth, He is risen.” Jesus Christ—our Savior and our Redeemer—is risen! How great is our joy!

Heidi Harris of Salt Lake City wanted to study the Book of Mormon but felt she had time only for schoolwork. Then one night, frustrated by a math problem, she exercised her faith and prayed for help. When she finished, the first thing she saw was the Book of Mormon. “I picked it up,” she says, “and began to read. … I finished a chapter in 1 Nephi, then went back to my treacherous math problem. I found I could solve it.”
After several weeks of reading the Book of Mormon, Heidi found herself achieving more academically. “I still had to do the work, but the reading gave me an extra push. … I was able to understand what I studied, and I had the patience to stick with my work. Not only did my grades improve, but I was easier to get along with and happier than I had ever been” (Liahona, February 1996, 13).

The young adult center in Oslo, Norway, is just one of many centers where young adults are learning how to build the kingdom. Take Mathilde Guillaumet, from France. Missionaries began teaching her at a center in Paris in 2009 after Sister Guillaumet’s friend invited her to learn more about the gospel.
Sister Guillaumet was baptized in 2010 and then moved to Norway for a year, where the local center for young adults continued to play a role in her growing testimony.
“The center really was a home away from home. It was definitely more welcoming than my dorm room,” said Sister Guillaumet. “The center’s missionary couple became like parents—wonderful people to come to for comfort and advice. Both in Paris and in Oslo, I have been able to go to the missionary couple to talk about the gospel, which I couldn’t do at home, considering I am the only member in my family.”

As parental influences diminish, Latter-day Saints still have a God-given responsibility to teach their children to prepare for our family destiny in eternity (see Doctrine and Covenants 68:25). Many of us must do this when not all of our families are traditional. Divorce, death, and separation are realities. I experienced that in the family in which I was raised.

My father died when I was seven years old, so my younger brother and sister and I were raised by a widowed mother. In the most difficult of situations, she pressed on. She was alone and broken, but with the Lord’s help, her powerful teaching of the doctrine of the restored Church guided us. How she prayed for heavenly assistance in raising her children, and she was blessed! We were raised in a happy home in which our deceased father was always a reality. She taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and we would always be a family because of their temple marriage. Our father was just away temporarily because the Lord had called him to a different work.

In our family, we have always been taught to keep the Sabbath day holy. We attend church and try to do other things on Sunday that will help us think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. We write in our journals and read stories from the Church magazines. We avoid activities like going to the park or playing sports.
I was excited to get an invitation to my friend Gordon’s birthday party last year. But when I opened it, I saw that the party would be on Sunday. I showed it to my parents but didn’t even ask if I could go. I said, “I can’t go to his party because it’s on Sunday.” I was disappointed to miss it, but I knew I was making the right choice.
My mom telephoned Gordon’s mom and told her I couldn’t come. Gordon’s mom apologized for having the party on a Sunday. The very next day she wanted to talk to Mom while they were waiting to pick us up from school. She said that their family used to go to a church and that she still believed in prayer. This conversation led to lots of opportunities to share the gospel with Gordon’s family. They haven’t joined the Church, but they still show some interest and they understand more about what we believe.
My mom said if I had not made the right choice about keeping the Sabbath day holy, we probably never would have been able to talk to them so much about the gospel. They respect our values, and this year they had Gordon’s birthday party on Saturday rather than Sunday.

There are bodies all over the place.
And chassis. And engines.
The air shivers with the shrilling of sanders, punctuated by the stuttering chatter of impact wrenches. During a lull, you hear the distant hiss of a spray gun. Somewhere, a compressor begins to chug. The tang of fresh paint hangs heavy.
Look around and you see that this is more than just an ordinary body shop for patching crumples and dents. That tall, square shape in the open paint booth is a 1927 Studebaker. There is a classic red 1956 T-Bird just a few feet to your left. This shop in tiny Glade, Kansas, just south of the Nebraska border, is known across the U.S. for the quality of its auto restoration work.
Outside, in the bright Kansas sunlight, 16-year-old Dean Kester from nearby Phillipsburg alternately scrapes and sands at a patch of filler on a 1969 Camaro destined for the racing circuit. Unlike the nearly finished cars inside his Uncle Ron’s shop, this car is still a dull primer gray. But the process of restoration is under way, and what is there is solid and sound and shows great promise. Just like Dean.
Before they were brought here, each of the cars was just sitting somewhere, slowly deteriorating. Dean will tell you frankly that two years ago, he was sort of the same way.
Dean had been baptized at age eight, but he and his family drifted into inactivity. It didn’t help that he was the only LDS kid in his school.
“Everybody was giving me a bad time about the Word of Wisdom and going to church all the time. Because I wanted to be like my friends, I started doing everything they were doing. I did some stupid things.”
It all came to a head just before Dean’s 15th birthday. “I had a driving permit and then a restricted license when I was 14,” he explains. “One weekend my parents had gone to Salina to get some things. Everybody else was taking their cars out and driving around. I figured I wouldn’t get caught.” The car he totalled was the 1960 Falcon that he and his dad had spent two years restoring. That hurt even more than the fines and loss of his license.
“I don’t know,” Dean reflects. “I was just trying to be like everybody else and I messed up. That’s when Mom decided that we needed to do something. And so we started going back to church.”
“My mom did a great thing for me. I have to give her a lot of credit,” Dean acknowledges. It was in his small branch in Phillipsburg, Kansas, that Dean found the help he needed to start his own personal restoration process.
Dean also gives a lot of credit to Steve Horton, the former Young Men president who is now his branch president. “Brother Horton helped me out with learning what I did was wrong and how to repent and become worthy again.” The other members of the branch are great, too, giving him rides to activities, being friends and good listeners.
It wasn’t easy to get back into the church-going habit. “I was used to sleeping in on Sundays,” he says. So what has it all done for him? Dean grins as he says, “It’s done a whole lot. I feel a lot better about myself. I always told people I was this really great person so people would like me. Even when I was first coming back to church, I was saying that stuff. But then my mom helped me again. She said, ‘If you want people to think something of you, you’ve got to do it; you can’t just say it.’ And so I started trying to act the way I wanted people to think of me and to remember me.”
When you restore a car, the changes go deep. It isn’t enough just to sand and prime and paint. You go right down to solid, bare metal. What isn’t sound gets replaced.
For Dean, starting with bare metal has meant a number of things. He’s learned to live the Word of Wisdom. He’s learned to serve and is now first assistant in his priests quorum presidency, eagerly looking for ways to help activate other youth. Going to the temple to do baptisms for the dead has also been a real blessing for Dean. “That really strengthened my testimony,” he says. In fact, he has challenged his whole family—his dad, Vernon; his mom, Linda; and his brothers, Nathan and Kevin—to get ready to go to the temple as a family. And he keeps working on them.
“He’s changing all of us, getting us more and more involved in the Church,” says his dad.
None of this means that Dean is through working on himself, of course. For example, there’s the matter of school. “I’m not a straight-A student,” he laughs. “But I’m getting better. In the eighth grade I had that same old problem of wanting to be like everybody else,” he goes on to explain. “All the kids that I thought were my friends were just trying to get by. Well, when I started coming back to church, I decided that I wanted to be myself, so I started getting better grades. I’m just now getting out of the habit of doing only what I have to to pass a course I don’t like. But this last semester I did really great. It was one of my best report cards in a long time.”
As he openly answers questions about himself and his feelings, Dean continues to work on the Camaro, shaping and smoothing it, bit by bit—just like he’s shaping and smoothing himself with the help of people like his parents and branch president. Among the things he’s still working on are his own feelings about a mission. “I know I should go,” he says, “and I’m saving money for a mission.”
He’s quiet for a minute, working harder at a stubborn piece of body filler. The Kansas wind continues to ripple the rolling wheat fields on the other side of the road. The only sounds are the rasp of sandpaper, the metallic noises from inside the shop, the passing of trucks on the highway. Then Dean continues:
“Of course, two years ago, if somebody would’ve asked me if I was going on a mission, I would have laughed. But now, it’s like, sure, I want to go on a mission. I just don’t know when. By the time mission age comes, I’ll probably go.” The more he talks, the more you hear in his voice that he really does know. But it is a big step to come right out and say it.
And that’s okay. Dean has already taken some big steps. Like the Camaro, he isn’t finished yet. But he’s solid. And he’s taking shape. And he shows the promise of being a winner in the biggest race of all.