Gospel Story Finder

Words jumbled in my mind as I desperately tried to concentrate on Dante’s Inferno. I gazed at the living room clock. It was already 10:00 p.m. I had a quiz in the morning on eight chapters of the Inferno that I had not read yet, I needed to write an outline for my English class, and I also had a 6:00 a.m. meeting in the seminary building. I needed to go to bed soon. I read:
Soon as the charity of native land
Wrought in my bosom, I the scatter’d leaves
Collected, and to him restored, who now
Was hoarse with utterance.1
I was finally grasping the concentration needed to endure this dragging night.
… To the limit thence
We came, which from the third the second round
Divides, and where of justice is display’d
Contrivance horrible.
“Hi, Shan,” my seven-year-old sister, Shallen, uttered.
I mumbled a little humph and hoped she would go away. Where was I? Hmmm … horrible … horrible … Aha!
… Things then first seen
Clearlier to manifest, …
I couldn’t concentrate. I felt Shallen’s baby doll face examining my every move. I felt like a prisoner under the careful eye of my annoying little sister. Her sparkling, emerald eyes ignited with excitement when she saw me look at her.
“Today in school my teacher told us that all the second graders are going to have a hero day, and we get to dress up as our hero, and we get to give a report, and it is going to be fun, and we get to wear our hero outfit all day even at recess, and we …”
I knew if my blabbering kid sister didn’t stop talking, I would never finish my chapters, my critical outline, or see the reality of straight-A grades.
I had to do something. Her absence was essential. Neglecting her would hopefully bore her, and she would redirect the “hero day” story to another family member.
My index finger guided me back to my place in the Inferno:
… I tell how next
A plain we reach’d, that from …
“And we get to draw pictures of our hero and …”
Why couldn’t she understand that I was going to be up all night doing my homework? My anger was surfacing, a swelling bubble about to burst, when she actually stopped talking. I was startled. I kept my eyes buried in my book, hoping she had finally discovered my lack of interest.
“Shan,” she whispered in her innocent, sweet voice.
My eyes still fixated on Dante’s words. She paused for a moment. I glanced up to see her head bowed in despair from my lack of attention. My guilt began to build, but I buried my eyes even deeper in the print of the faded pages.
“Shan, I want you to be my hero. Can I wear your lifeguard uniform for hero day?”
My eyes darted from my book to the golden hair that swallowed my little sister’s drooping face. I never dreamed that I was Shallen’s hero—a hero who didn’t even take time for an adorable seven-year-old. My guilty heart crumbled in shame when I realized my selfishness.
I put down my pen and set the book aside. I took my sweet little admirer by the hand and led her to my room. I dressed her in my sun-worn shirt, crowned her with my foam visor, and placed the water-worn whistle that faintly read “Shanda” around her neck. She looked up at me and beamed the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on her face. Her love convinced me that my little sister was much more important than any grade I would ever receive.

Last year I found myself late at night on an airplane bulging with passengers going north from Mexico City to Culiacan. The seats in the plane were close together, and every seat was taken, mostly by the gracious people of Mexico. Everywhere inside the plane there were packages and carry-on luggage of all sizes.
A young woman came down the aisle with four small children, the oldest of which appeared to be about four and the youngest a newborn. She was also trying to manage a diaper bag, a stroller, and some bags. The children were tired, crying, and fussing. As she found her seat in the airplane, the passengers around her, both men and women, literally sprang to her aid. Soon the children were being lovingly and tenderly comforted and cared for by the passengers. They were passed from one passenger to another all over the airplane.
The result was an airplane full of baby-sitters. The children settled down in the caring arms of those who cradled them and, before long, went to sleep. Most remarkable was that a few men who were obviously fathers and grandfathers tenderly cradled and caressed the newborn child without any false, macho pride. The mother was freed from the care of her children for most of the flight.
The only thing I felt bad about was that no one passed the baby to me! I relearned that appreciation for and thoughtfulness and kindness to little children are an expression of the Savior’s love for them.

As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

It was my turn to stop someone and talk to them about the Church. I had been in Germany only two days and I was already terrified of the people and my calling as a missionary.
I frantically searched the street for someone I thought might react positively. I wondered how I was ever going to do this for the next 18 months.
I didn’t want my companion to know how scared I was, so I held my breath and walked up to a woman in her early 40s. But instead of asking her the questions I had intended to, I turned from her and ran. The anticipation was more than I could handle—I had to escape.
When I was finally able to collect my thoughts, the embarrassment swelled inside of me and I desperately wanted to hide. My fear had been exposed, and it was preventing me from being a good missionary.
Unfortunately, as the days went by, my fear did not subside, and I began to worry I would never be a happy, brave, and successful missionary. My fear became the main topic of all my private prayers.
Nothing seemed to help until I had been in the mission field about two weeks. It was a chilly spring morning and my companion was making breakfast. I was sitting on the floor looking up scriptures on missionary work and reading them out loud.
“Doctrine and Covenants 84:88,” I said. “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also.” [D&C 84:88] My voice broke. My mind raced as I realized the support I had as a missionary.
I started again, “And whoso receiveth you, there I will be also, for I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up.”
I had no reason to be afraid of teaching people about the gospel. Heavenly Father was on my right hand and on my left, and his angels were around me to make me strong. From that morning on, whenever a wave of fear came over me, I just imagined those angels all around my investigator, my companion, and me. There was no way I could lose with that kind of support.

“I hear you’ve got a big date for the prom,” my younger brother Max commented at dinner.
“Who said I had a date for prom?” I asked casually, continuing to eat my potatoes and gravy. I could feel Mom’s and Dad’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look up.
“Oh, I heard some of the guys talking,” Max answered. I noticed a mischievous glint in his eyes. Max is only 11 months younger than me, but he towers over me four and a half inches. Therefore, he likes to think of himself as Mean Max. Already as a sophomore he has quarterbacked our varsity football team to a division championship and is now playing first base for the varsity baseball team. “How’d you get Dale Beecher to ask you?” he snickered. “I know Dad can’t afford to bribe him.”
“Max,” I cut in, glowering over at him.
“I heard Dale tell Cory Crandell,” Max insisted.
“But I haven’t told him yes.”
“What?” Max asked, setting his fork on his plate.
“I’m just not going with him,” I shrugged.
Max finished chewing. “Any reason? Or do you have so many dates nowadays that you can afford to turn down lowly guys like Dale Beecher?”
Even for a younger brother, Max really is good looking. More than once my best friend Sandra Bentley has joked about taking Max out.
“Line me up with your brother Beau, and I’ll line you up with Max,” I would bargain jokingly.
“You’ve got a deal. When do you—”
“Don’t you dare say anything to Beau,” I’d threaten. For about ten years I’d had this terrible crush on Beau Bentley. He was a freshman in college, and every girl in town was in love with him. He had been a football and basketball hero, seminary president, and last year’s senior boy voted most likely to succeed.
“Max,” Dad cut in, “let Denise worry about her own dates. Maybe this Beecher fellow isn’t good enough for Denise.”
“Dad, about the time she gets that picky, she won’t ever have a date. Why, I can think of a hundred girls that Dale could—”
“Max,” Dad cautioned from the end of the table.
“So you’re going to turn him down?” Max asked. He looked down the table at Dad, held up his hands in surrender and added, “I’m just asking, not hassling her. Why can’t you go?”
“It’s not like money is our most abundant commodity, Max.”
“Money? Why do you need money to go to a stupid dance?”
I didn’t want to explain what Max already knew. Since Dad had been laid off things had been tight around our place and would be until he returned to work at the end of May, the week after prom.
“A prom isn’t like a regular dance,” I explained impatiently. “You don’t just wear a dress to the prom,” I pointed out. “It has to be a formal, something nice. You have to buy a flower for the guy. I would definitely need new shoes.”
“I think we could help you out,” Mom volunteered.
“Mom, we can’t even buy a jug of milk. We have to drink that putrid powdered stuff from our food storage, and you think we can waste money on a prom formal?”
“It’s your prom, Denise,” Mom went on. “We’ve all planned on your going. You’ve put so much time and work into it, being on the prom committee and all. It wouldn’t be fair if you stayed home.”
“Yeah, we’ll help you, Denise,” Melanie called out.
“Thanks,” I smiled, amazed that the family would really volunteer so willingly, “but I couldn’t feel good about letting you do that.” I could feel a warm blush on my cheek. “This isn’t the last dance of my life. It’s just prom. We really can’t justify throwing money away on the prom.”
“Sometimes there are things a family needs to sacrifice for,” Dad said.
“You don’t go around sacrificing to go to a stupid prom,” I smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t planned on going. Really. It’s just no big deal.”
I was proud of the way I handled things at the dinner table. I had been indifferent about the whole thing. I almost thought I’d convinced myself—until I got to my room, closed the door, and was alone. Then I bawled for the next 45 minutes nonstop.
It was a little after 8:30 P.M. when a knock sounded on my door. “Come in,” I said, quickly wiping away my tears.
The door pushed open and in walked Max. “So, how’s the family martyr?” he greeted, plopping down on my bed.
“What?” I gasped.
“Oh, don’t sacrifice for me,” he began to mimic me, daintily clasping his hands in front of his chest, batting his eyes furiously and using a high-pitched voice. “Sacrifice for everyone else, but oh mercy don’t sacrifice for me.” He snickered, shook his head and then asked in his regular tone of voice, “What are you trying to do, play Cinderella?”
I glared at him. “Max, I’m really not in the mood for your jokes; I have a ton of homework.”
“So you don’t really want to go to the prom?” he asked. “You just want the rest of us to go into mourning.”
I hesitated and bit down on my lower lip. “I’m not going.”
“You don’t want to go?” he persisted, studying me.
For a moment I thought I detected a hint of compassion in Mean Max’s teasing eyes. “If things were different here at home.”
“Denise,” Max cut in. He placed his forearms on his knees. He knit his fingers together and stared at the floor. “How much would it cost to go? I don’t mean if you went out and bought a fancy formal,” he added quickly. “Mom could make you something if she had some material. What would everything cost?”
I shrugged. “Maybe $25 or $30 for material. I really don’t know, though. About the same for the shoes. But I’m just making wild guesses because—”
“You could get by with $80 then?”
I stared at Max, completely baffled. I nodded once. Max stood up, reached into his pocket and pulled out four twenties and tossed them to me. I stared dumbly down at the twenties, unable to think. I knew Max had a little money put away. “I can’t take your money, Max,” I stammered. “You’re saving for a set of weights.”
“Hey, it’s not a gift, Denise,” he said, starting for the door. “I just don’t want you to go around broadcasting our poverty. It’s a loan.” He coughed nervously. “Until you get some bucks to pay me back.”
I could feel tears in my eyes, and a lump as big as my fist in my throat. “And what if I can’t ever pay you back?” I asked, totally bewildered and struggling to keep the sob out of my voice.
He turned and jabbed a finger in my direction and in his best Mean Max tone said, “You’ll pay me back, Denise. I don’t handle charity cases.”
Laughing and crying at the same time, I ran over to Max and threw my arms around his neck and said, “Thanks, Max.”
“Now don’t slobber and bawl all over me,” he growled, pushing me away. “You don’t have to get so emotional over a lousy loan.”
The whole family pitched in after that. Mom started on the dress. Sanford, Valerie, and Melanie pooled baby-sitting money and insisted on buying the boutonniere. Mom fixed my hair. And Dad surprised me by getting me a pair of earrings and a necklace. I knew they must have broken him, but he acted as if it were nothing. And all the while, Mean Max groaned and grumbled about all the fuss over a stupid junior prom.
Friday morning, the day of the prom, during breakfast the phone rang. It was Dale Beecher. “Eh, Denise,” he stammered nervously, “something’s come up.” I held my breath, sensing that my magic was about to crumble. “My Grandmother Hansen died late Wednesday night. Her funeral’s tomorrow in Arizona. Because I was out of town yesterday to the baseball game, I didn’t find out about it until late last night.” He paused. I closed my eyes and fought back the tears. “We’re leaving this morning. I know that’s crummy, especially for prom.”
“I’m sorry,” I heard myself say, “about your grandmother.”
“Whose funeral?” Max asked, looking up from his bowl of cracked wheat cereal as I returned to the table in a dismal, disappointed daze.
“I guess I’m not going to the prom after all,” I answered.
“Huh?” Max grunted in surprise.
“Dale’s grandmother passed away,” I said, reaching for a slice of toast. “The funeral is tomorrow in Arizona.”
The rest of the day I agonized behind a facade of fake smiles and fast chatter, never mentioning to any of my friends that my prom night would never be. After school I went straight home, shut myself in my room and made a weak pretense of study, but mainly I just stared at the wall and told myself I wouldn’t cry.
A little after six there was a knock at the door. “Come in,” I called. Max walked in carrying a corsage in a white box. He tossed it on the bed in front of me. “There’s a flower for you,” he said gruffly.
“What’s this for?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and stuffed his fists into his pockets. “I really don’t care about the money, Denise.” He cleared his throat. “I know you want to go, and—well—you would have probably done the same for me.”
“But the flower, Max?”
“I figured I could take you—if you wanted to go. I know I’m no Dale Beecher, and you might think it’s dumb to show up to the prom with your baby brother,” the words gushed out, “but at least you’d get to see what it’s like.” He blushed. “After all, it’s your prom. You ought to at least show up.”
“But, Max.”
“Hey, if it would embarrass you, I could grease my hair back, paste on a bushy mustache and long sideburns, and wear dark glasses so no one would know who you were with.” He grinned sheepishly and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
The tears I’d held back so well suddenly broke loose. I rushed to Max, threw my arms around him and squeezed, and this time I didn’t let him wriggle away from me.
“Now don’t go get all emotional,” he complained brusquely, trying to pull away.
I grinned through the deluge of tears. “Your asking means more than a hundred proms. But I know how you feel about proms. I won’t put you through all that.”
Max shrugged, relieved. “I figured you’d turn me down, so I have plan two.”
“Plan two?”
“All you’re doing up here is staring at the wall and trying not to bawl, so I came up to rescue you.” Before I could utter a protest, Max took me by the arm and dragged me to the kitchen where Mom, Dad, Melanie, Valerie, and Sanford were sitting around the table with a big bowl of buttered popcorn and cans of pop. He pushed me into a chair, shoved the popcorn in my direction and announced, “After tonight you’ll never want to go to a prom.”
“Where did all this come from?” I gasped.
“We’re having banana splits at midnight,” Sanford called out.
I looked at Max, who avoided my gaze. “Something tells me somebody’s not going to get a set of weights right away.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes a guy’s got to sacrifice. The others chipped in too.”
For the next two hours we forgot all about the prom and gorged ourselves on pop and popcorn. We played Uno and Rook and laughed until we were sick. I had never realized I could have so much fun with my family, especially on prom night.
At 8:30 P.M. when we were just getting ready to set up Trivial Pursuit, the doorbell rang and Sandra rushed in. “Why didn’t you tell me Dale was out of town?” she demanded. “Tami Roth just called and said he had to go to his grandmother’s funeral. Why didn’t you say something? You’ve got to go,” Sandra burst out. “You put the whole prom together.”
“But, Sandra, I don’t—”
“You don’t have time to sit around and gape,” Sandra cut in. “I’ve got a date lined up for you. Beau’s home for the weekend, and he just overheard me saying you didn’t have a date. He spoke right up and said he’d take you, that he’d love to take you. I didn’t pressure him at all. Honest!”
“You’ve got a date with Beau Baby,” Max called out, thumping the table with his hand and standing up. “You landed the big one without even trying.”
Everything was happening so quickly. A few hours earlier the prom had meant everything to me. But the last two and a half hours altered my feelings. I guess the last two weeks had changed that. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. They weren’t even tears of excitement because I could go to the prom with Beau Bentley. They were tears of joy, and I was suddenly glad about Dad’s layoff and Dale’s absence because those seemingly devastating circumstances had helped me discover my family in a way that I never had before.
“What about it, Max?” I smiled over at him. “You spoke first.”
Max took a deep breath and pondered for a moment with that teasing glint in his eye. “Well,” he drawled, “since Beau Baby’s howling at the door, I’ll back out this time.” He shrugged. “I know that will be a real step down for you, but I guess we’d better give Beau a break this time.” Sighing deeply, he dug his fists into his pockets. “I’ll even let him borrow my corsage. I doubt he thought of that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, smiling.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll sacrifice this time. After all, I’m getting used to sacrificing now. But,” he added, raising a finger, “we will expect you home for banana splits. You can even bring Beau if you want.”
I laughed, gave him a quick hug and said, “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Promise.” He swallowed and tried to duck his head. The Mean Max mask was gone. I saw a trace of mist in his eyes, and I knew I would be the luckiest girl at the prom, not because I was going with Beau Bentley but because I had the greatest family in the world.

Basketball season for the Academia Juarez varsity girls began just like any other season: a winning season was their goal. The Church-owned school in Colonia Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico, is unique in that the majority of the sports programs require the players to travel internationally to play their games. Another interesting fact is that the entire 2010–11 varsity girls’ team, the Lobas, are all active Latter-day Saint young women. They stand out because they are just as united off the court as they are on the court.
And they did have a successful season, winning the majority of their games and taking first place in two tournaments. To end their season, they decided to go to the temple together as a team and do baptisms for the dead. Their coach, Bishop Russell Robinson, made the arrangements. He says, “Never have I seen a group of girls who love each other and love the Lord like these girls do.”
As Colonia Juárez Chihuahua Mexico Temple president Robert Whetten met them at the doors of the temple, he said, “I don’t know of anywhere in the world where a competitive sports team makes coming to the temple a priority to cap off their season. This truly is a great group of young women.”

Consider that you are invited to a friend’s house for breakfast. On the table you see a large pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice from which your host fills his glass. But he offers you none. Finally, you ask, “Could I have a glass of orange juice?”

He replies, “Oh, I am sorry. I was afraid you might not like orange juice, and I didn’t want to offend you by offering you something you didn’t desire.”

Now, that sounds absurd, but it is not too different from the way we hesitate to offer up something far sweeter than orange juice. I have often worried how I would answer some friend about my hesitancy when I meet him beyond the veil.
A story related by Elder Christoffel Golden, of South Africa, refreshed my concerns. He was recently in Lusaka, Zambia, attending a meeting of new converts. A well-spoken, well-dressed stranger with a Book of Mormon in hand walked in. He stated he had driven past the chapel many times and had wondered what church met there and what they taught for doctrine.
At the conclusion of the meeting, this gentleman stood up, raised his copy of the Book of Mormon high in the air, and asked, “Why have you kept this book hidden from the people of Lusaka? Why have you kept it a secret?”
As I heard this story, I flinched that one day some friend might ask me, “Why have you kept this Book of Mormon, with its message of truth and salvation, a secret?”
My reply, “I was afraid I would damage our friendship,” will not be very satisfying to either me or my friend.
Brothers and sisters, I pray that we may put our fears and our hesitancy behind us and no more keep secret the great treasure that is ours.

I mention one more example of the incorrect way to accomplish home teaching. President Marion G. Romney, who was a counselor in the First Presidency some years ago, used to tell about his home teacher who once went to the Romney home on a cold winter night. He kept his hat in his hand and shifted nervously when invited to sit down and give his message. As he remained standing, he said, “Well, I’ll tell you, Brother Romney, it’s cold outside, and I left my car engine running so it wouldn’t stop. I just came by so I could tell the bishop I had made my visits.”6
President Ezra Taft Benson, after relating President Romney’s experience in a meeting of priesthood holders, then said, “We can do better than that, brethren—much better!”7 I agree.

Can you remember a moment when someone gave you a gift that changed your life? This October marks 40 years since I received one of the greatest gifts in my life. While I was in high school, I noticed that one of our classmates had a light that was different from most of the other young people. I enjoyed being around him. One day he told me he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Then he offered me a gift: a copy of the Book of Mormon. He invited me to read a few pages and meet with two friends who could answer my questions. Those friends were the missionaries.

When I met with the missionaries, they taught me the doctrine of Christ and invited me to follow the prophet Moroni’s invitation: “When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4).

I read several pages of the Book of Mormon and prayed. Although I did not yet have a deep understanding of all the things that the missionaries were teaching me, I felt in my heart that what I was reading was good and came from God. I received the confirmation of Moroni’s promise: “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moroni 10:5).

After I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, some friends tried to convince me that I had made the wrong decision. But each time I faced such doubts or opposition, I received renewed confirmation through studying the scriptures and praying to stay true to the covenants I had entered into with God. Since then, the Book of Mormon has been my companion and has become an immeasurable treasure in my mortal journey.

One day at church, I was sitting quietly on a bench, listening to the music, and I started to get a warm feeling inside. The warm feeling was the Holy Ghost. I knew it was the Holy Ghost because I could hear the still, small voice telling me that I was setting a good example for the little children. I have felt the Holy Ghost at church on other days, too, usually when I am being reverent, sitting calmly, and listening. I like to feel the Holy Ghost, and I am eager to be baptized so that I can have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Joshua Morgan, age 6West Lafayette, Indiana

It was the third time. Slowly, Doctor Gallagher straightened and shook his head. The four of us—myself, my parents, and my brother Jon—leaned forward expectantly.
“It’s not good,” he said bluntly, nodding toward Jon’s ankle. “Last year or the year before, I would have said to give it a few days of rest. But this is the third sprain on that same foot. This time it needs to be immobilized—for at least six weeks. Otherwise, you take the risk of being a cripple the rest of your life.”
Jon’s face went white. “You can’t do that!” he protested. “The day after tomorrow is our first regional soccer game! If I can’t play, we’ll lose! And if we lose this game, we can’t be in the finals.” His voice trailed off, and I saw the tears in his eyes.
Jon wasn’t being conceited in saying the team would lose without him. He was the goalkeeper for the Hayfield High School varsity soccer team, and he loved soccer more than anything else. I knew that if they won the regional game, there would be scouts waiting for them at the finals, and maybe they would consider him good enough for a scholarship; that was what Jon had always wanted. But if he couldn’t play, they wouldn’t even be able to see him.
When we left the doctor’s office, Jon was on crutches, wearing a plaster cast and an angry, hopeless expression. He sat in stony silence as we drove home.
Once inside the house, my father cleared his throat and put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Look,” he said quietly, “I know you generally don’t go for this sort of thing, but if you like, we could give you a blessing.”
Jon opened his mouth to speak. I opened mine, out of stunned surprise. Jon had never been particularly religious. He was the rebellious “middle child” of our family, given to ridiculing my parents’ conservative ways and our family’s faith in the gospel. But to my complete astonishment, he snapped his mouth shut and curtly nodded his head.
My father called the rest of the family together, and he and the oldest two boys, my twin brothers, put their hands on Jon’s head and gave him a blessing. I don’t remember much of that blessing, but I do remember the warm, sweet spirit that filled my heart when my father said that through Jon’s faith in the Lord, he would be healed.
When we arose, Jon shuffled away without a word. My youngest brother, Christopher, looked up at my mother and voiced the fear that was running through all of our minds. “He won’t be healed unless he has the faith to be, will he?” My mother shook her head in silence. I felt the tears come to my eyes and prayed that somehow the blessing would touch Jon, that he would feel the Spirit of the Lord and gather enough faith to be healed. He could lose so much without faith in God: not just the game and the scholarship, but perhaps his chances for eternal happiness as well.
All of us avoided mention of the subject until the morning of the game, when Jon said abruptly, “I’m going to see the sports trainer this afternoon. He can remove my cast so that it can be put back on if necessary.”
I turned to him, my heart racing. “Then you believe in what Dad said in the blessing?”
He returned my hopeful look with a level one of his own.
“Yeah, maybe I do,” he said shortly, and turned and went out the door.
The regional game began at eight o’clock, and long before then, I was hopping about with anxiety. Jon hadn’t even come home after school. He had gone straight to the trainer’s room and from there to the game. We sat shivering in the bleachers, waiting for the team to appear. Somehow I knew it was going to be all right, but still I didn’t know what to expect.
When they finally emerged, I could easily spot Jon’s dark blue goalie shirt amid the orange and white uniforms. And when I saw him, I grabbed my father’s arm in excitement and wonder.
“He’s jogging to the goal box!” I whispered. And I was even more awed when the game began. He played as though he’d never hurt his ankle, jumping and diving for the ball, kicking it back across the middle line into the other team’s territory, shouting instructions and encouraging the other players. Only once, when he ran out too early to intercept the ball, did a player manage to slip by him and score a goal. Anxiously, I waited for our team to score in return, and as the two hours passed, I sent up short, pleading prayers: “Oh, Heavenly Father, please let them win!” This was Jon’s game, his glory, and I wanted more than anything to have everyone else see and share in his triumph.
But they lost the game. When the final whistle shrilled, I sat, stunned, as the stands around us began to empty. I stared at the dark figure of my brother standing in the goal box. It was too dark to see the expression on his face, and in truth, I was afraid to see it. I didn’t understand. Why, after his miraculous healing, after our prayers had been answered, after Jon had finally found faith in God—why did He allow them to lose the game? I was fighting tears, praying that somehow I would understand and that Jon would, too.
But as he walked toward the short fence that outlined the field, I saw that he was smiling. When he caught sight of us, he sprinted the last few yards and threw his grimy, sweaty arms around the first person he could reach, which happened to be me. Then he vaulted the fence and hugged my parents and brothers.
My father stared at him in astonishment. “Well, I’m glad to see that you’re not too upset about the results of the game.”
Jon flashed him a mischievous grin that slowly became a softer, serious look.
“I’m not really disappointed,” he said slowly. “I wanted to play and I did, thanks to that blessing.”
“Thanks to your faith,” my father corrected gently.
“Yeah, I guess. I lost the battle, but I won the war, huh?” Jon replied, throwing an arm around my father’s shoulders.
Jon never won a soccer scholarship (although as a college freshman, he became the starting goalie for BYU’s Varsity Soccercats). But it didn’t really matter to him or to us.
“I lost the battle, but I won the war.” It was a long time before I began to understand that it doesn’t matter if you don’t win the game itself. What is really important is the struggle that no one sees, the struggle inside our hearts, the fight to find our real selves and the real God. And that’s really all that matters.

Cautiously, I chose my first goal. It wasn’t a very great thing, but it was a persistent problem. I didn’t enjoy attending church. So, morning and night, I would pray: “Lord, bless me to feel about our worship services just the way thou do. Help me to find in them the things that you would find. Help me to participate in the ways that you would.” And unbelievable things began to happen. Sunday became a day filled with light; I found myself hungry to greet the other members of the Church, to share my testimony with them, to learn from the teachers, to express in song the feelings I had no words for, and to partake of the emblems of our Savior’s sacrifice with humility and gratitude. Sunday became a Sabbath. Attending Church did not mean that I had suppressed my desire to rest, read, study, ski, or play. Now it was an expression of righteous, loving desires.
That simple experience made another scripture acquire new meaning. The doctrines of the priesthood had indeed begun to distill upon my soul; as I felt the companionship of the Holy Ghost, spontaneously keeping the Sabbath day holy, “without compulsory mean,” its blessings flowed to me (see D&C 121:45–46). As this astonishing experience progressed, my faith grew and I began to have real hope that from now on my challenges could become changes.

“Breakfast is ready,” Goolie informed her sister as she fastened her long skirt. “Cinnamon harvest begins this morning.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” Sirimova said crossly as she fussed with her hair. “I wish I had found a job in Colombo so I would never have to harvest cinnamon again.”
A sadness filled Goolie. “Cinnamon bark from Sri Lanka (formerly Ceylon) is enjoyed by people around the world!” she said feelingly.
“But the work is too hard,” Sirimova protested.
“Hard work has not hurt us,” Goolie argued. “I love living here.”
Sirimova scoffed. “When you are as old as I am, you will feel differently about living in an obscure village.”
The thought frightened Goolie. “I love our village,” she repeated quietly. Then she quickly finished her breakfast rice.
When there was no school, Goolie could spend the entire day harvesting cinnamon bark. She paused for a breath of fresh air on the veranda of their sturdy house Father had built. The magic of the morning sent happiness tingling through her. She loved the banyon, calamander, and satinwood trees growing among the palms surrounding their house. This morning the first rays of golden sunlight glimmered off shiny leaves everywhere.
How can Sirimova bear to leave such aparadise? Goolie wondered.
Goolie got her tools and hurried down the path to their cinnamon trees. She cut three-year-old shoots about the thickness of a walking stick. Folding her long skirt about her legs, she squatted beside the pile in the peeling area. With her gonakokatha (semicircular blade), she began scraping her first stick, savoring the cinnamony smell. Then she rubbed it up and down with her urachi (brass rod) to loosen the bark. With her talana kokatha (knife), she split the bark the length of the stick and peeled it.
“Perfect!” Goolie exclaimed, proud that she hadn’t forgotten her skills from last year’s harvest. With nimble fingers, she worked swiftly, telescoping the peels inside one another to form a quill. These would remain in the drying area four or five days. Then the quills would be tightened by rolling them on a board before further drying.
Sirimova finally arrived, frowning. The bark split as she attempted to peel her first shoot. “Nothing is going right this morning,” she complained.
“It is not the morning,” Goolie said. “It is you who does not feel happy. Grandfather says happiness is a state of mind.”
“You have been listening to Grandfather too much,” Sirimova accused. “Happiness is having things too.”
“We have all we need,” Goolie pointed out.
“I want more than necessities!” Sirimova declared. “Grandfather is old. He does not understand.”
“You must not speak of Grandfather that way,” Goolie warned. “He loves us. He is happy serving the people of our village, in sickness and in health. And everyone takes their problems to him because he is so wise.”
Sirimova shrugged. “Oh, I love Grandfather, but the world has changed since he was young. Now there are radios and motorcars and movies, and we cannot afford any of these.”
“Father has promised us a piece of fine jewelry when the cinnamon harvest is finished,” Goolie reminded her.
Sirimova tossed her head. “I want many pieces of fine jewelry!”
Goolie thought of Grandfather, her parents, and her young brothers and sister. Everyone was happy except Sirimova. How can I bring happiness to her? she puzzled.
That evening, Goolie went to see Grandfather.
“Your face, my child, mirrors that all is not well,” the old man perceived. “Is it of the heart or of the body?”
Goolie told him of Sirimova’s unhappiness. “It makes me very sad,” she said.
Grandfather took Goolie’s hand in his wrinkled, leathery ones. His eyes shone with wisdom gathered over many years. “Happiness cannot be bought with money. One can develop it only by giving of oneself.”
“But how can I help Sirimova understand, Grandfather?”
“We cannot choose happiness for another,” the old man counseled wisely. “We can only love another.”
Goolie thought long about this. Then she said, “Thank you, Grandfather.”
In spite of everyone loving Sirimova, her unhappiness increased as the cinnamon harvest progressed. Then in late July a letter came informing her of a job as a maid in a new hotel in Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka.
Mother smiled bravely through her tears as Sirimova danced into her arms. Goolie saw Father swallow hard. “This calls for a celebration,” he declared. “We shall go to the botique (gift shop) this very day for a piece of fine jewelry.”
“Thank you, Father,” Sirimova cried. “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Goolie escaped to the veranda. “This is the saddest day for me,” she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes. “Our family will never be complete again. Happiness is gone from my life.”
“Come, Goolie,” Father urged. “You have worked hard. You shall choose a piece of jewelry also.”
“The harvest is only half over,” Goolie protested. “I can wait.”
But Father insisted she go with them.
Goolie’s thoughts were sad as they walked to the botique.
After Sirimova had chosen a necklace, Goolie made her choice.
“You have chosen earrings that match my necklace!” Sirimova exclaimed. “I wish I …”
“Are they not a bit old for you, Goolie?” Father asked kindly.
“They are what I want,” Goolie insisted.
That night before going to sleep, Goolie looked at her earrings and whispered, “They are so beautiful.”
At dawn the next morning, Goolie gathered small pieces of dried cinnamon bark. She packaged her new earrings with some of the fragrant bark before time for her morning chores.
After breakfast, Father brought the bullock cart, and Sirimova put her things into it.
It was a tearful family good-bye. Before Sirimova climbed into the cart beside father, Goolie hugged her sister. “I shall miss you,” she said, trying hard to hold back the tears.
“I shall miss you, too, little sister,” Sirimova said.
Goolie pressed her gift into Sirimova’s hand.
“What is this?” Sirimova asked.
“It is my surprise for you,” Goolie replied. “Do not open it until you get to Colombo.”
“Thank you,” Sirimova said, giving her an extra hug.
“I love you,” Goolie called as the cart lumbered away. And strangely her heart seemed to overflow with happiness.
Have I proved Grandfather’s wisdom—that happiness is found in giving? she pondered.
Then almost as though she were answering her own question, Goolie smiled happily as she waved good-bye.

Chris Rubio, a painter, arrives for work with his wife, Alfreda.
When Chris and Alfreda Rubio’s van broke down recently, they didn’t worry about how they were going to pay for repairs. And it wasn’t because they were wealthy.
“We had the money we needed because we had saved it,” says Chris. “We were good to go. We took the van to get fixed that day without having to think, ‘Oh, no.’ It felt nice.”
It wasn’t always that way. Not long ago, the Rubios would have taken out a loan, used a credit card, or waited until payday to get their van fixed. But that was before they took a course on personal finances offered through the Church’s self-reliance initiative.
Chris and Alfreda met while serving in the U.S. Air Force in Germany and were married in Denmark. Chris finished his enlistment in 2008, and health problems forced Alfreda to retire a few years later. They found the Church shortly after settling in Alabama, USA, but Chris couldn’t find a job. “I was either overqualified or underqualified,” he recalls.
Alfreda found work at an office supply store, but that was their only income. “We were drowning financially,” she says.
“We had a lot of debt and overdue bills, and collectors were calling,” Chris adds. “It reached the point that we began selling off stuff to pay bills. Our car got repoed, and we lost our house. It was bad.”
After they lost their home, the Rubios moved to an apartment in a new ward. They didn’t know anyone, and as their finances waned, so did their church attendance. Chris remembers that the more they focused on finances, the less they focused on faith.
“It was very easy to say, ‘We can’t go to church today because we’ve got to find a job or because we’re worried about bills or because we don’t have money for gas,’” he says.
When they visited with their new bishop about their financial situation, he told them about a Personal Finances for Self-Reliance course that was about to begin in their ward meetinghouse, located just outside Montgomery, Alabama.
“We both grew up in pretty modest families,” Chris says. “We didn’t have a whole lot, so we never really learned budgeting and saving. We lived paycheck to paycheck. Oftentimes, the check would run out after a couple of days and we’d have to go long periods with no money. So we were like, ‘Yeah, let’s take the course. If it’s going to help us in any way, we want to do it.’”
During their course on personal finances, the Rubios and three other families learned how to create and stick to a budget. They learned about debt and how to conquer it. They learned how to protect their families from financial hardship. And they learned about the important role tithing plays in financial self-reliance.
“It changed our whole thinking process,” Chris says. “We learned how to monitor not just our income and spending but also our savings, which we didn’t have at the time. I never thought we would have savings, to be honest.”
The Rubios especially enjoyed the council nature of the course, where participants shared ideas, successes, and failures. The camaraderie strengthened their faith and their efforts to become financially self-reliant, and the course facilitator happened to be able to offer Chris a job.
“It makes a difference when you meet other people in the same situation,” Chris says. “You find out that you’re not alone and that we’re all trying to make ends meet and develop skills to become self-reliant so that we can make things better for our kids.”
As they implemented the financial principles they were learning, their financial situation improved.
“We’re not to the point where we’re rich or no longer have financial worries, but it’s so much easier now to handle our callings and go to church without worrying about finances,” Chris says. “The course definitely changed us spiritually.”
Alfreda adds: “The course tied directly into how much stronger our faith became. We started praying more and reading the scriptures more. We felt that the course’s financial principles and spiritual principles went hand in hand.”
Chris likens those principles to a pair of glasses that have helped him and Alfreda find and stay on the path to spiritual and financial self-reliance.
“Without the class and without learning all the things we did, we wouldn’t be where we are now—financially or spiritually,” he says. “It has been an amazing journey. We learned that you don’t need a lot of money to be rich. We’re spiritually rich.”

One day at school, a friend and I were choosing a book to read together. The book my friend wanted to read was a ghost story. When we had read a few pages, I had an uneasy feeling because I remembered that my mom had told me not to read that book. My brother Ben had read it earlier, and it had bad things in it. After that we chose a different book. I was glad that the Holy Ghost had helped me remember.Laura Jossie, age 9Wichita, Kansas

I grew up in an active Latter-day Saint family in England, the eighth of 10 children. Our faithful parents taught us the gospel and set good examples. But at about age 14, I began to find it difficult to attend early-morning seminary, go to various classes and firesides, and attend youth activities. Most of my friends were not members of the Church and had very different standards from the ones I was raised with.
I began to make bad decisions because I wanted so much to be like my friends and have the so-called fun they were having. By the time I was 15, I was completely inactive in the Church. As I became older, my life grew even more worldly.
At the same time, however, I began to feel something deep down in my soul. Questions about the purpose of life and the destiny of man started to fill my mind. The world I once knew and thought I loved had become a very dark, cold, and lonely place. My soul was not fully satisfied with what the world had to offer. I had a feeling that I should be somewhere other than my hometown, a feeling that I was meant to do something else with my life.
After many weeks of these feelings and thoughts, I decided to pray and ask for help, the first time I had prayed in a long while. I decided to wait until night, when everyone was asleep. After my prayer, I thought and listened, but there was nothing. I continued in this way for weeks until it hit me: perhaps God would not answer me straight away simply because I had been raised in the gospel and unfortunately I had never seriously appreciated it.
One evening I changed my method. Instead of demanding an answer and expecting the Lord to give it straight away, I promised the Lord that if He would answer, I would serve Him as a missionary. For the first time, I prayed to know if the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the Church teachings were true. I felt something so powerful yet so peaceful that it caused me to weep.
I went to my bishop, who happened to be my eldest brother, and asked to serve a mission. I was nervous, but I knew that because the Lord had kept His end of the deal, I had to keep mine. Tears streamed down my bishop’s face as I related my experience.
Then I began dating Kelly, a friend who was not a member of the Church. I related to her my plans to serve a mission. Kelly saw that I had changed and wondered why. This led to Kelly’s having the missionary lessons and joining the Church, and I had the opportunity to baptize and confirm her. At this point I wondered if that missionary effort had fulfilled my service to the Lord. I wrestled with having to go, and I was determined to pray to find out if leaving Kelly and serving a mission was the right thing to do.
I chose a place in the hills on the moors called Saddleworth Dovestones, where I would not be disturbed. I took my lunch, scriptures, and my journal and headed out, climbing to the top to offer the desires of my heart to my Father in Heaven. As I prayed, I listened very carefully for an answer, maybe a peaceful feeling or a burning in my bosom, but I felt nothing.
As I walked back, I noticed a series of rocks on the ground carefully placed to spell out the words “Truth Will Prevail.” “Curious,” I thought, but nothing more. However, when I told my mother, she said simply, “That’s your answer.”
You see, when the Latter-day Saint missionaries first came to England in 1837, they began their labors in Preston. At that time the city was in the midst of a grand celebration of Queen Victoria’s reign. As the missionaries alighted from their coach, they saw a banner overhead proclaiming in bold gilt letters “Truth Will Prevail.”
It became a widely-used phrase in the Church and appeared in various publications. One elder, reporting on his mission to Indiana, wrote in a letter published in Nauvoo’s Times and Seasons in 1841: “Although the Lord has chosen the weak things of this world to preach his gospel, truth will prevail, and will prosper.”1
Trusting the Lord, I turned in my mission papers. On my 21st birthday, along with my birthday post, came my call to serve in the England London South Mission. Due to my years of inactivity, I still felt weak and inadequate. Only later would I understand what that early missionary understood: the Lord may choose the weak things of this world to preach His gospel, but truth will prevail and will prosper.
I went in faith to the temple to be endowed. When I came out of the temple, I met two missionaries who had served in my home ward. As we talked, I described my experience out on the moors. One of the elders smiled broadly and explained that on a particular preparation day, he and his companion had hiked up on the moors and at a certain point felt impressed to place some rocks across the hillside spelling out the familiar phrase “Truth Will Prevail.”
Tears streamed down our faces as we realized what had happened. Those familiar with the area know there are miles and miles of trails amongst the moors. Yet I happened to choose the very spot where the missionaries had placed those rocks. I knew there and then that the Lord had answered my prayer in the hills that day.

“Grandma Rose passed away at about 9:30 this morning.”
I heard the words, but my mind refused to process them. After her four-year battle with cancer, seizures, and strokes, I knew that she deserved to rest from all the pain she’d been suffering. But how could she really be gone?
My denial was shattered by reality when I walked into the funeral home. The body lying on a table no longer looked like my grandmother.
My mom and aunt bravely set about the tasks of dressing Grandma for her funeral and then fixing her hair and makeup. She looked a little better when they finished but still not like herself.
As we drove away from the funeral home, I realized why she was so different: the body was hers, but her spirit was gone. A body without a spirit is an empty shell. Until I saw my grandmother, I didn’t comprehend how literally true that is. Everything that made her essentially who she was had left with her spirit, and her spirit lived on.
The Son of God gave His life for us so we could live forever. I always knew that was true, but I didn’t really appreciate His sacrifice until I lost someone I loved. At that moment, I had never been so grateful to have a Savior.

This old house didn’t look so old anymore once the youth of the Milwaukee Wisconsin Stake finished with it. As a matter of fact, the youth renovated three unkempt and vandalized homes in Milwaukee’s inner city as part of what some say was the best youth conference ever.

“I found out that the Golden Rule really was enforced there,” said Synthia Ridenour, 16. “You slap somebody with paint, and you get it back.” But she and about 150 of her friends learned much more than that. When Synthia accidentally came across the family members who lived in the house saying prayers of thanks, she knew why she was there.

“I know from this project that service brings great happiness,” said Eric Wagner, 16, in the testimony meeting that was held at the end of the weekend-long conference. There had been dances, workshops, and a barbecue, but everyone agreed that the best part was re-doing the houses, and helping the families who lived inside.

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.

Now, many years later, I begin to see more and more the wisdom of his counsel. People do easily misunderstand, like the sweet old sister I met in the ZCMI shopping mall the other day.
“Aren’t you that Dutchman who spoke in general conference a while ago?” I said, “Yes, ma’am.” Then she continued, “Oh, I loved your Holland story about the boy with his finger in the dike.” I remarked, “Well, sister, that was not exactly the subject of my talk; I was talking about saving souls.” But she went on to say, “You know, I heard that story for the first time when I was still in school, and I am so pleased you told it again.”
Brothers and sisters, I have learned not to argue, especially with sisters. So I left this sister with a smile and went on my way, a sadder but wiser man. I had apparently failed to teach so that no one misunderstood.
Therefore, my challenge today is to do better.