Gospel Story Finder

Jesus taught us to love and help each other. One way to do this is by being a good friend. This is something that Carmen does well.
However, Carmen isn’t a normal friend. She is a goat. And she isn’t just a normal goat. Her ears are long and fluffy like other goats, she eats plants like other goats, and she baas like other goats. But unlike other goats, Carmen has a special gift.
When Carmen was born, she was unable to stand or walk. To help Carmen, her owners made her a special walker. She could lie on it with her legs hanging over it and her hooves on the floor to scoot herself around.
Soon Carmen started using her walker to go on walks with her owners. This is when her owners discovered Carmen’s talent for being a friend. One of Carmen’s first friends was a little boy who was afraid to talk. When he met Carmen, he smiled at her and said, “Hello, goat. I like you.” Carmen replied with a “Baa!” This made the little boy smile.
Carmen made other friends on her walks, and soon her owners realized she had a gift for making people happy. They took her to classes where she learned how to be an animal therapist. Carmen and her owners started visiting children in hospitals and people in nursing homes. Carmen helped people feel happier and less lonely. She helped people smile and made lots of new friends.
Carmen isn’t strong enough to walk on her own, but she has an important job to do—and that is to be a friend.

My wife teaches second grade at Rock Canyon School. One of her students this year was somewhat of an outcast. He was different. He had a difficult time writing. He had a difficult time expressing his emotions.

The class members, under my wife’s tutelage, learned that they could help him. She would use pats on the back and hugs as positive reinforcement. Whenever this young man achieved, the entire class would applaud.

It seems that children are always able to respond openly and honestly in terms of their feelings. I asked my young son one time if he was going to become an Eagle like his brother. After much thought he replied, “Nope, I think I’d rather be a duck.” One young second grade student responded the following way when asked to name the four seasons: “Duck, deer, fishing, pheasant.” He received full credit since his answer conveyed a loving relationship with a committed father.

My father grew up on the island of Java in Indonesia. During World War II, he was forcefully separated from his family and interned in a concentration camp, where he suffered unspeakable hardships at a young age.
After more than 65 years of marriage, my mother, who suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, passed away in February. My father, at the age of 92 and still living at home, visited her as often as he could until she passed away. Some time ago he mentioned to my younger siblings that the dreadful experiences in the camp in Indonesia during World War II had prepared him to patiently care for his wife for so many years as she fell ill and deteriorated from this horrible disease and also for the fateful day he had to entrust her primary care to others and could not be by her side anymore. Their motto has been and still is to “Just carry on,” having a perfect hope in Christ to be raised up at the last day and to dwell with Him in glory forever.

Illustration by Dan Burr
I remember it was your typical ward Christmas party: tables covered with red and green butcher paper, dinner served on paper plates, little children running around, and the happy sound of ward members chatting. Somehow, someone had managed to quiet things down to give a blessing on the food, and then everyone ate. The program was about to start.
It wasn’t my ward. I had gone with a friend to her ward party, so I didn’t know many people. We had wanted to leave early, but her mom convinced us to stay for the program.
The first number on the program was by the Primary children, who walked onto the stage wearing gold-tinsel halos on their heads. They sang a song then bumped and giggled their way offstage, leaving a trail of gold tinsel in their wake.
Two pianists then played joyous songs. The first pianist played “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” (Hymns, no. 202) without missing a note. The other, a young boy, sat down at the piano and looked mournfully over his shoulder at his mom, who began to quietly count the beat. The boy sighed, turned to the instrument, and played his best version of “Up on the Housetop.”
Next on the program was one of my favorite songs—“C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.”
I looked up to see a sister with stooped shoulders and one hand held close to her body, walking with an awkward stride to stand beside the piano. She stood with one hip lower than the other and offered a lopsided smile before she began. I admit I wrongfully wondered if the song would be any good.
“When I was but a youngster, Christmas meant one thing,” she sang. The song went on to tell how a child learns how to spell Christmas and discovers what the holiday is really about.
Her mouth was slack on one side, and she had difficulty forming the words.
Cautiously I looked around the room and studied the faces of her ward members. No one seemed embarrassed. In fact, they sat smiling and listening contentedly.
She continued singing and turned her face upward, fixing her eyes on a spot somewhere on the ceiling. After a few moments I looked up too, but I saw only ceiling tiles. When I glanced back at her, though, I noticed tears gleaming in her eyes.
When she finished, the hall filled with applause. Her cheeks flushed red. As she made her way back to her seat, hands reached out to touch her arm or shoulder as ward members expressed genuine gratitude. One sister, sitting close to me, told her what a nice job she had done, to which she quietly replied, “Thank you. I hope He liked it.”
He? To whom had she been singing? Even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. I realized she hadn’t been singing to anyone in the room. She hadn’t performed for the approval of the audience. She had sung to the Savior to praise Him.
Many Christmases have passed since that ward party, and I’ve heard the song “C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s” performed by many well-trained voices. But the version I heard that Christmas, sung by one whose performance was out of the ordinary but truly heartfelt, is the one I remember best.

As a nurse of a busy post-surgical recovery unit, I received a call one day regarding a patient named Bill who had just undergone surgery. He should have gone to a critical care unit but was diverted to me because that unit was full.
The patient soon arrived with his family. I was relieved to see that he was alert, oriented, and in no apparent distress.
After taking his vital signs and familiarizing him and his family with his room, I stepped into the hall to make a note on his chart. Just as my pen hit the paper, I heard a voice say, “Go back into his room.” I stopped writing and looked behind me. There was no one there. I thought I had imagined the voice, when suddenly I heard it a second time—only louder.
I ran back into Bill’s room to discover that his neck had doubled in size, and he was having trouble breathing. Thinking that his carotid artery had been perforated, I applied direct pressure to his neck with my right hand while using my left hand to call the neuroradiologist who had performed his procedure. The surgeon said he would send a team up to get Bill as soon as possible. “And do not remove your hand!” he said.
As I continued applying pressure, I noticed a familiar Church book near Bill’s bed. “You’re a member of the Church?” I asked.
He tried to nod and then told me he was an ordinance worker in the Atlanta Georgia Temple. He then blinked back tears and said, “I’m going to die!”
I told him he was not going to die, stating adamantly, “I’m getting married in the Atlanta Temple next month, and you are going to be there.” The surgical team then arrived and whisked Bill away.
In the excitement of my wedding plans over the next month, I nearly forgot about Bill, who it turns out had had a reaction to medication. But as the matron led me to the sealing room on my wedding day, I saw a familiar face: Bill’s wife, Georgia. When I told her I was about to be married, she went to find Bill. Moments before the ceremony began, the door opened and he entered. After weeks of headaches, nausea, and fatigue, Bill had felt well enough that day to travel to the temple, not realizing it was my wedding day.
Two years later my husband and I were called to be ordinance workers in the Nashville Tennessee Temple. When we arrived at the temple to be set apart, a gentleman held the door open for me and said, “Welcome to the Nashville Temple!” It was Brother Bill.
We served together for three years. Bill told everyone I had saved his life, but I knew that the Lord had saved him. In the process, He had taught me the importance of heeding promptings from the Spirit.

“I have heard that only 2 percent of the population is born with extraordinary talent. Most people have to work to become good!
“Let me give an illustration: Half a century ago a boy of ten was working in Naples in a factory. He longed to be a singer, but his first teacher discouraged him.
“‘You can’t sing,’ he said. ‘You haven’t any voice at all. It sounds like shutters.’ But his mother, a poor peasant woman, put her arms around him and told him she knew he could sing. She could see an improvement already, and she went barefoot in order to save money to pay for his music lessons. That peasant mother’s praise and encouragement changed her boy’s life. He was to become one of the world’s greatest tenors. His name was Caruso.
“You mustn’t give false praise, but instead, be like this mother and find the good. Then give your sister the genuine praise that she seeks.”
Bruce Wendell BarkerJacksonville, North Carolina

Every year since he was three years old, Tommy Tipana had gone into the wilderness with his grandfather, Utak, for a short period of time to learn the old ways of his people. Tommy’s father, however, was a modern Eskimo who lived in a sturdy wooden house and had a snowmobile. He did not approve of the old ways, but he allowed Tommy to learn what he could from Utak.
The year Tommy was ten, Grandfather Utak invited him to go on a trip through Anaktuvuk Pass by dogsled. So, early one morning Tommy waved good-bye to his parents, then snuggled down under a bearskin robe on his grandfather’s sled. Utak cracked the long whip that sent the dogs bounding toward the snowbound tundra, and the journey began.
At the end of the day, Utak and Tommy stopped the team and fed them strips of caribou meat. Afterward Utak tapped on the snow with his ayoutak (long stick used for probing), and they listened for a deep, resounding squeak. “A good spot,” Tommy said, pointing.
His grandfather smiled and nodded. “Yes, the snowdrift is firm and deep here, Grandson. It will make a good igloo. You learn well.”
Together they cut out blocks of snow and stacked them. Then they packed the joints and cracks with loose snow, leaving only a small doorway for them to enter. They built a fire, and all was warm and cozy for the night. Next they cut a hole in the ice and fished for arctic charr. As Tommy and Utak ate their meal, Utak smiled in the light of the fire, for he was pleased with his grandson. “It is good that you learn the ways of our people,” Utak said encouragingly. “Soon there will be few who remember, and the new ways are wrong.”
“Father lives the new ways,” Tommy said, bewildered. “How can they be wrong?”
“Your parents go to the store to buy their food and clothes. They have forgotten how to fish and hunt and tan hides and sew. They have no dogsled, but ride on a snowmobile. All that we need is outside our igloo, Tommy, if we know how to use it.”
Utak slept, and Tommy sat curled in his bearskin, watching the fire. Outside, he could hear the whistling snow as it covered everything with a white blanket. He wondered which way was best—the old way or the new way. Tommy liked them both.
Early in the morning, Tommy and Utak ate and dressed quickly, for the fire was low. Tommy coiled thongs of caribou skin around his boots to make them skid proof. Pulling the hood of his fur coat closely around his face, he crawled out into the blazing whiteness of the new day. The dogs, shaking the snow from their coats, barked and strained at their tethers while Tommy threw them strips of frozen blubber. When they were through eating, Tommy helped them into their traces and waited for Utak. But Utak did not come out of the igloo.
“Grandfather!” Tommy called, kneeling at the doorway. “The dogs are ready.”
“Tommy, come here, Son,” came his grandfather’s faint answer.
Tommy crawled back into the igloo. His grandfather sat leaning against the wall amid their belongings. His hand was massaging his chest.
“Grandfather,” Tommy whispered, “are you ill?”
Utak motioned for Tommy to come closer. “You must leave me here, Tommy. I am a sick old man, and it is the old way to deal with my sickness.”
“I cannot leave you!” Tommy cried. “You are my grandfather.”
“Adjornarmat (that is life),” Grandfather said, shaking his head slowly. “Now do as I say! Leave me here. Take the sled and return to your parents … but do not forget the old ways.”
“I will not leave you, Grandfather,” Tommy replied. “There is much I do not know yet, and you are the only one who can teach me.”
Tommy hurried outside to get a wide strip of baleen (whalebone) from the sled and bring it into the igloo.
“Here, Grandfather, let me help you.” Tommy helped Utak onto the baleen, then pulled his grandfather to the sled. Slowly Utak climbed onto the sled, and Tommy wrapped him in bearskins. Then Tommy packed their few belongings and turned the dogs toward home. His grandfather slept.
The dogs knew Utak was not driving them, and they growled, refusing to pull. Finally, Tommy lifted the heavy whip and commanded them as his grandfather had done so many times before. The whip cracked sharply in the frozen morning air; the lead dog growled one more time, then began to pull. They had a new master now, but he had learned much from their old master.
Back along the frozen tundra the sled raced, mile after mile, without Grandfather to guide it. Nevertheless, the boy remembered all he had learned and drove the sled in a straight line. Late that night, they arrived home.
The next morning Utak awoke in a hospital bed with white sheets. There were curtains at the windows. A nurse was leaning over him.
“Your grandson saved your life, Mr. Tipana,” she said, smiling. “Would you like to see him?”
Utak nodded, and Tommy walked into the hospital room, followed by his parents. He bent and hugged his grandfather gently. “Thank you, Grandfather,” he whispered.
“You saved my life and yet you thank me?” Utak was puzzled.
“For the old ways,” Tommy said and smiled. “If I had not known them, I would not have been able to bring you to the new ways that have saved your life.”
Tommy’s father frowned. “Utak! You must give up the old ways—the new ways are better and safer.”
Tommy simply smiled to himself as his father and grandfather argued about the old and new ways. He wondered why they did not understand as he did that both ways were good. Tommy knew he would live somewhere between them, for he had learned to love them both.

Claire’s friends were here. She grabbed her in-line skates from the shelf in the hallway.
“Bye, Mom!” she called to her mother, who was sewing in the other room.
“Bye, Claire! I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too!”
Mom always said that same thing whenever Claire went off with her friends. She was eleven, about to turn twelve. A few weeks back, Claire, Jessica, Amanda, and Whitney had decided to skate once a week at the Recreation Center downtown. After school on Fridays was Claire’s favorite time of the whole week. And today she even had a cute new outfit on—a red plaid button shirt over a cream tank top.
At the Center, Claire sat by Jessica as they put on their skates. “Let’s try the jump today,” she said.
“And let’s work on our turns,” Jessica said. “Everybody ready?”
The girls hopped off the wooden bench and sailed onto the floor. Claire threw out her arms and caught her balance, teetering around like a listing sailboat. Halfway around the room, she felt suddenly at ease, her feet relaxing inside her skates, her body gliding effortlessly along the glistening sea of wooden floor as if pushed by a wind.
“Hey, Claire, that’s a cute shirt,” said Jessica. “Is it new?”
“Do you really like it? My mom found it on sale.”
It wasn’t long before the girls were ready for the jump. A wooden ramp was set up in the middle of the skating rink, reminding Claire of an ocean wave. The four girls lined up behind her and sped around the rink, building up speed for the jump. Claire hit the ramp and for a split second floated on air a few inches above the floor. “Whee!” The others followed with squeals of delight.
After several jumps, Claire wiped her forehead. “I’m hot. Let’s work on our turns, Jessica.”
The two friends went over to a quiet corner of the rink. Full 360° turns required patience and a lot of slow practice.
“I did it!” Jessica exulted. “Now you.”
Claire took one glide forward and twisted her body, her skates making a half circle. Around she went in a shaky, slow-motion twirl. “I did it, too! But it needs work.”
“You get better every time,” Jessica called over her shoulder, in the middle of another turn. “Is that a tank top you’re wearing underneath your new shirt? Is it new, too?”
“Yes, I got it just to wear under my shirts. I think the layers look cool.”
“They look cool, but it’s hot skating and you’re wearing two shirts,” Jessica pointed out, skating around Claire. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and skate in your tank top?”
Claire finished a turn and looked straight at Jessica. “I promised my mom—” She stopped when she noticed that Jessica had taken off her sweater and was skating in a thin-strapped tank top herself. Her bare arms and shoulders looked cool. Still, she remembered her mother’s words as she left the house. “I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too.” Claire also remembered what her mother was sewing—a prom dress for Claire’s big sister because there weren’t any modest ones in the stores.
“Come on, Claire,” said Jessica. “Look at Whitney and Amanda. They’re wearing tank tops, too.”
Claire braked and stood up straight. “I promised my mom I would only wear the tank top if I wore it under other shirts. Besides I like my outfit just like this. Let’s do some more jumps.”
Jessica shrugged. Claire led the way, sailing around the rink, building up speed for the jump. She hit the wave and flew, her new red plaid shirttails flapping in the breeze.
Be Clean.How truly beautiful is a well-groomed young woman who is clean in body and mind. She is a daughter of God in whom her Eternal Father can take pride.President Gordon B. Hinckley(Friend, Feb. 2001, page 25.)

I was a ballet dancer from the time I was a little girl. I took it very seriously and devoted a great amount of time and effort to it. When I reached middle school, I decided I wanted to be a professional dancer, no matter what it took to get there.
One day, my ballet teacher talked to our class about preparing for our future careers. He mentioned that only a small percentage of people who train in dance become professional dancers and that of those professionally trained dancers, only a very small number end up pursuing ballet as a career. He went on to say that whether or not dancing became our career, we should plan on being the best professionals we could be—the best doctors, teachers, bakers, or what–ever else we were to become.
At this time, my ballet classes were held on the top floor of a building that overlooked the Salt Lake Valley. While my teacher was giving this speech, my attention was drawn to the window—and then to the Salt Lake Temple.
Up to that point, my focus had been on becoming a professional dancer because I was certain that ballet would make me happy. But as I gazed at the temple, I realized that no matter what path my life or career took, being worthy to enter the temple and live in the presence of my Heavenly Father were the only things that were going to fill me with lasting joy.
This realization lifted an immense burden off my shoulders. Ballet no longer had to be my ultimate goal. It was being worthy to enter God’s presence. And unlike professional ballet, there is no limit on how many of us can make it back to live with Heavenly Father forever. Because of the Atonement, we all have that chance.

We are here to make choices and we will make many, many choices throughout our lives. When we are young, our parents help and encourage us, sometimes strongly encourage us, to make good choices. As we get older, though, we must learn to make those choices for ourselves. I recall an experience with my son Jimmy when he was about six years old, an age when you are starting to be more independent and wanting to make your own choices, or at least to have more input on those choices.

Jimmy was in first grade and we were living in Tucson, Arizona at the time. He had a friend in his class at school who had an earring and encouraged him to get one too. Jimmy came home from school and told us that he wanted to get an earring because his friend had one and he thought it would be a pretty cool thing to do. This was nearly twenty years ago, and even though the prophet had not given specific guidance for men not to wear earrings, neither Keri nor I felt that it would be a good thing for Jimmy to do. Not wanting to simply tell him no without an explanation or reason, and not really having a reason other than we did not want him to get an earring, I told him that I would think about it and let him know. After thinking about it for a few days, I sat Jimmy down and told him that we did not want him to get an earring because we needed to follow the example of our prophet and the other general authorities and since they did not have earrings, we should not have them either. I was expecting a little bit of resistance from Jimmy, and I was surprised when he simply accepted the decision and never asked again. A few days later, Keri picked up Jimmy from school and gave one of his friends a ride home. It happened to be the friend with the earring. As they were driving home, Keri overheard the conversation between Jimmy and his friend. His friend asked him when he was going to get an earring and Jimmy told him that he was never going to get one. When his friend asked why, Jimmy replied: “Our prophet does not have an earring and I might be the prophet someday, so I am not going to get an earring.” Though he did not fully understand at that age how one is selected to be the prophet, his heart was in the right place. He desired to follow the prophet and that desire helped him to in his choice to accept mine and Keri’s decision.

Emeline and William both showed bravery recently when their family moved to Texas. Emeline helped William feel excited about moving, but it was still hard to leave friends and relatives behind. There aren’t many Church members in their new school. Emeline says, “Sometimes it’s hard when people do or say things that members of the Church don’t say, but I can be a missionary by being a good friend and good example.”
Since they moved, Emeline and William have seen that while there are new friends to meet and places to see, they still enjoy the same Primary classes and lessons they had before. They still have a bishop, teachers, and a music director, just like in their old ward. And, of course, they still have the singing.

Growing up on a ranch in southern Utah taught me a lot about working with animals and how dangerous they can be. We ran a herd of Hereford cows, including several bulls. I truly enjoyed working the cattle from the back of a horse and generally living a ranch life.
My family was active in the Church, and when we were living on the ranch, we always made the 30-mile trip on a gravel road to town for Sunday meetings. My parents taught me to pray, and throughout my life prayer has helped me through some difficult circumstances.
One day I learned to respond to the promptings of the Spirit quickly, and I believe it saved my life. At least it kept me from serious injury.
I was 14, and I was working not far away from the ranch house one summer day. I finished my work and was headed back through the corral that was enclosed by a very solid pole fence made of juniper posts and poles. Inside the corral was a herd of about 30 range cows, including our prime Hereford bull, Charlie, who weighed 2,000 pounds or more. My dad liked to have what he called “ton bulls,” and that certainly described Charlie.
I was walking along the pole fence, and Charlie was in my way, so I smacked him on his hip with my hand, and he scampered out of the way. I continued on past Charlie a few feet, with my back to him, when I heard what sounded like cows scuffling. I had heard that scuffling sound often and would have thought nothing of it, but something else went through my mind.
Quicker than I could even think about it, I knew I had to leap for my life. I lunged for the top pole of the fence, grabbed it, and yanked myself headfirst over onto the rocks and weeds on the other side. As I was about halfway across I had time to wonder if I had overreacted. I briefly even felt a bit embarrassed. Upon landing, I immediately looked back through the bottom poles to see what had happened, and there was Charlie’s massive head and horns, his nose about six inches from mine, staring at me through the fence with those empty, black eyes. It came to me forcefully that if I had questioned that instantaneous prompting for even the briefest moment, Charlie would have crushed me against the fence.
I learned two things from that experience. First was to never be on foot around a range herd. They don’t know you’re the boss unless you’re on a horse. Second, listen to the promptings of the Spirit without question—without hesitation. Satan is the one who tells you that you are overreacting. Living worthily (keeping the commandments, saying daily prayers, attending church, studying the scriptures) helped qualify me for spiritual gifts, especially a lightning-fast prompting to leap for my life.
I have not yet finished thanking my Heavenly Father for that blessing even though it’s been more than 50 years.

Marco slowed his already slow walk. Somehow he didn’t feel like going home for pranzo (lunch). Usually Carlo ran home with him, but Carlo was angry.
“Why can’t you play in the championship?” Carlo had demanded.
“Because it’s on Sunday.”
“If you don’t play, we forfeit!” Carlo had yelled. “With Guiseppe sick, you’re our only goalie. You have to play!”
When Marco reached home, he was reluctant to go in. But he knew that Mama and Papa were waiting, so he slowly climbed the stairs to their appartamento (apartment).
Mama was already putting food on the table. “I was beginning to worry,” she said with a smile. “Hurry and wash.”
Marco didn’t feel like eating. But after the blessing he bit into the crisp hot bread. Then he dug into the gnocchi (little dumplings) covered with Mama’s salsa. As he savored the spicy goodness, he began to feel better.
“Is anything wrong?” Mama asked. “You’re quiet today.”
“They posted the soccer schedule at school,” he said.
“Oh?”
“I have to play on Sunday.”
Mama and Papa were quiet for a minute. They knew that Marco’s team, the Lightning Bolts, had worked hard for a chance to be the top team in all of Milan, Italy.
Papa looked puzzled. “You mean all the games are on Sunday?”
“No, the quarterfinals and semifinals are on Saturday. The winners on Saturday play the final game on Sunday.”
Marco could see a twinkle start in Papa’s brown eyes. “Cheer up, Marco,” he said merrily. “Maybe your team will lose on Saturday! Then you won’t have to play on the Sabbath!”
Marco smiled too. But the Lightning Bolts were very good. They had a chance to win both games Saturday. “Giuseppe has the flu, and Tommaso hurt his ankle,” he explained. “If we win Saturday, I have to play on Sunday—or we forfeit. What do I do?”
Mama put her arm around his shoulders. “We’ve taught you what is right. If your team wins, I’m sure you will make the right decision. Now eat, or you’ll be late for school.”
At school some of the boys whispered and stared at Marco. Carlo just ignored him. It made Marco hurt inside to lose his best friend.
At practice that night, Carlo finally talked to him. “Have you changed your mind?” he asked angrily.
Marco started to get angry himself. Then he remembered Papa and grinned at Carlo. “I think we’d better work on winning Saturday’s games,” he said. “If you don’t practice kicking, we won’t have to worry about Sunday!”
Friday night Marco felt restless and scared. He wished his parents had told him he couldn’t play. Then the boys would blame them instead of him.
Even though he felt sick inside, Marco knelt down to pray. He prayed hard and then waited for an answer. He waited and waited, but nothing happened. He wondered if Heavenly Father hadn’t heard him. But then a warm feeling came to him. He felt very peaceful. All the restless hurts eased. He knew that everything would be all right.
Saturday morning came bright and clear. There was just a wisp of clouds in the sky. The air was sharp and invigorating. It was a perfect day for soccer.
The Lightning Bolts were well prepared and won the first game easily. Lounging around after a light lunch, they looked at the schedule.
“We play the Tigers!” Carlo groaned. “They’ve got the biggest boys in the tournament.”
“And the fastest,” Marco added. “We’ll really have to play hard to beat them.” Part of Marco wanted to win the game, and part of him wanted to lose—then he wouldn’t have to worry about Sunday.
It was a hard-fought match. The speedy Tigers scored the first goal, but the Lightning Bolts fought back and evened the score. After that, the teams traded goals. They were tied 4–4 in the final minutes of the match, when Carlo headed a pass into the net to put the Lightning Bolts on top.
With less than a minute remaining, Carlo had the ball again. He weaved in and out of the Tigers, heading for the goal. Then he tripped and lost the ball! The Tigers brought it back with swift, sure passes straight toward Marco.
Marco stood in front of the goal as the last seconds of the match ticked away. If he could keep the ball out of the net, the Lightning Bolts would win!
A Tiger forward kicked the ball—hard! It was headed for the corner of the net, just beyond Marco’s reach. Marco’s heart seemed to stop beating. He threw himself to the right with all his strength. The ball bounced off his hands just as the whistle blew. He had done it! The Bolts had won!
Marco’s teammates were jumping and cheering. He picked himself up and brushed off the dirt. He saw his parents walking toward him. They were smiling and waving. The head referee was with them.
“Marco, that was good playing,” Papa said, giving him a hug. Then he said, “I want you to meet Mr. Giovetti.”
“Hello, Mr. Giovetti,” Marco said politely.
“Hello, Marco. That was a fine game. But your father tells me you have a problem.”
“I can’t play tomorrow,” Marco told him. “The team will have to forfeit because we don’t have another goalie.”
“Why can’t you play?”
“Because the game is during my church’s sacrament meeting,” Marco explained, “and I need to be there. But even if the game were later, I still wouldn’t play on the Sabbath.”
“I see.” The referee thought for a moment, then said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
The team gathered around. When Mr. Giovetti came back, he had another man with him. “Marco, this is Mr. Luigi. He is the coach of the team you are to play tomorrow.”
“Hello, Marco,” Mr. Luigi said. “It seems that we have the same problem. Two of our best players were injured today. We still have enough boys to play tomorrow, but we wouldn’t be at our best. I would like to postpone the game. Is that all right with the Lightning Bolts?”
Marco looked around at his friends and the coach. They all nodded. “Yes!” Marco said. “When do we play?”
“Next Saturday,” the referee answered. “Bright and early.”
As Marco walked home, he felt tired but good. His prayer had been answered. Even if the Lightning Bolts lost the championship, he would always remember it as a victory.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to try to read a restaurant menu when you’re blind? How about going through a buffet line in a wheelchair? Joel Williams of the Carrollwood Second Ward did, and decided to do something about it for his Eagle Scout project.
He arranged a special day when teams would visit restaurants in the Tampa, Florida, area, and use a checklist to see how disability-friendly they were. He’d already gotten permission from the participating restaurant managers, of course.
Before the teams went out, however, he set up an “Insight Cafe” in the meetinghouse and assigned each team member a disability with which they would attempt to enjoy a restaurant meal.
When the project was complete, Joel compiled a “Guide to Dining Accessibility,” which is available to the public. It lists restaurants and the handicaps they can accommodate. This was one Eagle project that not only helped the community, but gave tremendous insight to those who participated.

One day I came home from school very sad because I had to write a story and I didn’t know what to write. My mom and I talked about how Heavenly Father could help me if I prayed and asked for help. My mom and I prayed together. The next day I was able to write a story, and it was easy. I was so happy. I told my mom that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. The words just came to me when it was time to write!
Evan N., age 8, Washington

Brian, a Latter-day Saint boy, attended a school run by another church. One day the children were being very noisy as the teacher tried to read from the Bible. She closed the Bible and said, “No wonder there are no prophets on the earth today. You children are so naughty that you wouldn’t listen to them anyway.” Brian had an important choice to make. He could remain silent, or he could tell his teacher what he believed. He gathered his courage, quietly raised his hand, and said, “Teacher, there is a prophet on the earth today. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the United States.” The teacher was very interested in this information and asked him to tell her more about his church. Just like Brian and Helaman’s stripling warriors, you can have a testimony that can give you the courage to choose the right. So, as it says in the scriptures, “Be of good courage, and do it” (Ezra 10:4).

Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.
The stairs were steep at the south end of the terrasse, but Christine took them easily. Hours of volleyball practice had conditioned her to run, and her lungs pulled in air that was crisp and pure. She reached a narrower boardwalk, the Promenade des Gouverneurs, which stretches along the cliffs to reach the Plains of Abraham.
The French love to tell of a great struggle here, when the Chevalier de Lévis, battling to reclaim Quebec, lured the British far from the city and beat them. But those assigned to cut off the retreat failed, and the rest of the army, too tired to pursue, let the enemy escape. British reinforcements arrived soon, and what should have been a French victory turned to defeat.
Christine breathed deeply and let the air out slowly. It surprised her when she thought of a scripture: “Look unto me, and endure to the end, and ye shall live” (3 Ne. 15:9).
“Endure,” she said aloud. “Sometimes you just have to endure.” And then she was remembering again.
It was a routine, the same routine Marie Claude had followed every morning for years. Get up early and care for the animals. Feed Daisy, Belle, and Lady, the horses. Feed Fido, the bull in the barn. Feed three pigs, three sheep, two dogs, four ducks, and any other animals calling the farm home at the moment.
From upstairs, Christine heard Marie Claude come in the house and bolt the back door against the wind. She could imagine her hanging her flannel coat on the peg in the kitchen. Then she heard her pull a chair across the floor and put breakfast dishes on the table.
For as long as Christine could remember, Marie Claude got up early to take care of the animals. But today the routine was different—the movements slower, the pauses longer, the sighs heavy and audible.
And Christine knew why. Last night, Marie Claude had finally told her boyfriend good-bye. He was a decent fellow, a nice man. But he didn’t understand. He’d had the missionary discussions, even been to church a time or two. But all this religion, meetings every Sunday, marriage in a temple—for him it just wouldn’t do.
And now Marie Claude, who loved him and had dated him for a couple of years, who had argued with him before, had sent him away. She sat at the breakfast table, numb, almost crying, wrenching solace from the everyday routine.
At the end of the promenade, there’s a gazebo. To get there, Christine had to mount steps again. Quickly she bounded up them, the end of her run in sight. And as she ran, her mind flashed ahead, like a video on fast forward.
Here was Marie Claude again, but this time she was smiling. Dressed in embroidered chiffon, she sat by a cheery window in a friend’s house, holding hands with an amiable young man in a blue sweater.
It was amazing. When they laughed, it was the same laugh. The smile was the same smile. They looked like each other, they talked like each other. They both had kind eyes. You’d think they were brother and sister, not fiances.
Yet there on the table was their wedding announcement, and it really did seem like a dream come true—“C’est avec joie que nous vous annonçons notre mariage qui aura lieu au Temple de Washington, D.C., mercredi le six mai.” (It is with joy that we announce our marriage in the Washington, D.C. Temple on May 6, 1987.)
André and Marie Claude. They met at church, and fell in love quickly. But after years of struggling to feel right about something that was wrong, it was easy for Marie Claude to do something that felt so true.
At the gazebo, Christine stopped.
She thought about the family. She pictured her mother, joking with the visiting teachers, happily discussing her hobby of decorating cakes. She saw Father, smiling broadly, the proudest sacrament meeting usher the Branche de Québec has as ever had. She imagined Clément, Elder Ferland, teaching missionary lessons in broken English. And she pictured Marie Claude, in her own home as a newlywed, so happy she was almost dancing.
Then she thought of spires of white, rising from a green woodland, and she cherished the promises of eternity.
Christine looked across the ancient battlefields. The rolling hills seemed to be resting, calm now as she was calm. In the distance, a calèche, a carriage, bobbed along the folds of green. From so far away, it seemed to be in slow motion. But in the evening air, she could hear the clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse’s hooves.
She turned and looked again at the river. It was shining still, but it was no longer silver. The setting sun had turned it to gold. And the sailboat, still a silhouette, pulled up to its moorings.
Dusk was past. The time for returning was here.

A coach of the East St. Louis, Illinois, High School took a group of young men and turned them into champions. A St. Louis Post-Dispatch sports editor wrote:
“This is a story Hollywood wouldn’t believe: kids growing up in America’s biggest urban disaster, slugging it out, year after year. No money, no fancy facilities, just a coach who still believes pride and hard work can mean something.”
The coach told his players, “Life isn’t always fair, but we can still expect excellence from ourselves.”
He insisted on hard work from all of his players, the stars included. His team won more than many championships. (See Eugene H. Methrin, “The Stuff of Champions,” Reader’s Digest, Oct. 1991, p. 83.)

In a recent ward conference, our stake president advised us to choose one area of doctrine that we wanted to gain a testimony of and to fast and pray about it. I chose to pray for a testimony of Joseph Smith as a true prophet of God.
I kept praying and waiting for an answer, but nothing came. I grew impatient. I was sincere in my desire, so why wouldn’t an answer come?
After several weeks, my seminary teacher approached me with an assignment. All the institute and seminary classes in our area were to give monthly lessons on Joseph Smith. My seminary teacher asked me to be the one to give a different lesson each month on “A Day in the Life of Joseph Smith.”
I didn’t really want this extra responsibility, but I accepted the assignment. As I began to read the material on the Prophet Joseph Smith, I realized that this assignment was the answer to my prayers. This opportunity helped me to really learn who the Prophet was and what he had done for the Church.
Also, the personal testimonies I read from people who had known Joseph Smith strengthened my own testimony of his divine calling. Because of this experience, I am so thankful for the Prophet Joseph Smith, and I am gaining a stronger testimony every day.

Finally, I will close by telling you of another young man whom I knew well, one whose spiritual life may well have been saved by three college students just like you. At the time they were strangers, but because they were willing to extend themselves, they became critical to the spiritual life of this young student. Here is the story:

A young LDS student attended a large university in the western part of the United States. It was not his choice to do so, and he was very lonesome and very far from home, friends, and lifelong associations. Indeed, he did not know a soul, either at his university or, for that matter, in the entire state. Miserable, lonesome, and feeling lost, he invested himself in his schoolwork, ignoring his mother’s constant requests that he attend a local student ward. Weeks went by, and then even a couple of months without any effort on his part at contacting the local LDS student group. His misery deepened, but he was no more inclined to attend church than he had been on that first Sunday. He was not doing anything wrong; it’s just that he was not doing anything really right, either. Today, if asked, he would tell you that his actions were unexplainable, though at the time they seemed absolutely natural. He was slowly dissolving in self-pity, and he would not let anyone or any influence change his life.

And so it was late one Friday afternoon that Leo, Dean, and Skip knocked on his apartment door. Each was attending the same university, and each was involved in the local ward. They had come to invite this young miserable student to a ward outing. In the face of their unrelenting encouragement and remembering the gentle proddings of his mother, this young student finally consented to attend the ward outing, where, to his surprise, he had a good time in spite of himself.

He continued his activity in the ward, met the girl he would later marry, quickly found his spiritual roots again, formed lifetime friendships with Leo, Dean, and Skip, and went on to a lifetime of service in the Church.

The year was 1950, the university was the University of California at Berkeley, and I was the miserable freshman student. The girl I met, who then had very pretty blonde hair, became my wife. The debt I owe her and others can never be sufficiently repaid. The spirit of love and caring that I felt at that initial meeting with my dear friends has been the spirit that has carried me from that day to this. I cannot deny it, nor should you. It is the spirit that makes all of us one, the spirit that brings us all together—not as strangers, not as foreigners, but as brothers and sisters in this ever-broadening kingdom of God.

In closing, perhaps I should apologize for this very personal anecdote. However, I have recited it here because I believe it illustrates, as much as anything, the importance and timeless relevance of our Savior’s teachings. Whatever the circumstances, remember always his admonition: “If ye are not one ye are not mine” (D&C 38:27).