Gospel Story Finder

As the headmaster of then Moroni Community School in Kiribati, I was at a business establishment conducting business for the school when the school's business manager came up to me on his motorbike and told me that our four-year old son Jacob had been hit by a motorcycle and was at the hospital. I went immediately to the hospital and found our four year-old son in a crumpled mass with two broken legs, a severe head wound, and with scrapes and bruises all over his body. Jacob and his friends were playing around the school since our home was on campus and his friends had crossed the main road in front of the school where a van bus had stopped for them to pass. Jacob was the last to cross and a motorcycle driver behind the van bus thinking all was clear came around the van the same time Jacob was crossing the road and hit him square on. We did not know if Jacob would survive or not. However, after an Elder from a missionary couple and I gave Jacob a blessing at the hospital, we knew that Jacob would live. He went in for a three hour operation with a doctor that was oftentimes in an inebriated state but all went well in the operation. Jacob was in traction with his broken legs for a month in the hospital. At the hospital following Jacob's accident, I came face to face with the sorrowful motorcycle driver who hit Jacob. There was no anger against this man but only a peace and calm with this man who accidentally hit our son Jacob with his motorcycle. Christ-like love gives us that calm and peace not only in accidental situations, but also in those times when others on purpose do ill things toward us or our loved ones.

Mikel signed his name at the bottom of a clipboard titled “Junior Runners.” A man handed him a bright red number, and Mikel ran back to where his mom, dad, sister, and baby brother sat in the bleachers.
“Ready?” Dad asked.
Mikel pinned the number on his shirt. “I think so.” He had signed up to run in his town’s mile-long race. His family had trained together for weeks, but he still couldn’t believe how far a mile really was!
“I’m ready too!” his sister, Isabella, said. She had a bright yellow number on her shirt. Since she was only in kindergarten, she would run in the half-mile race.
“Junior runners to the track!” the announcer called over the speakers. Mikel felt his stomach do a flip-flop. Dad patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
Mikel smiled back, then turned and headed toward the track. It was time to run.
When the buzzer sounded, Mikel ran just like he had practiced. The mile was long, but Mikel knew he could do it. Even when his shoe fell off during the second lap, he put it back on and finished the race as fast as he could.
As Mikel crossed the finish line, Dad gave him a big hug. “Great job! I bet you’re ready to rest!”
Mikel only nodded, too busy gulping down air to answer. He had a cramp in his side, and he was hot and sweaty.
“Pee-wee runners to the track!” the announcer called.
Isabella bounced up and down in excitement. “My turn!” She jogged to her place at the starting line and waved at Mikel. “I’m going to run just like you!”
Mikel gave a tired wave back. He walked back to the bleachers with Dad.
The race started, and Isabella began her first lap around the track. Mikel settled down on the bleachers. It was nice to sit. His legs felt like rubbery spaghetti noodles.
Isabella was on the opposite end of the track now. They couldn’t see her very well in the crowd of other runners.
As she finished the first loop, Mikel squinted to see her. “Is she okay?”
Isabella was stumbling slowly down the track. It looked like something was wrong.
Dad stood up from his seat. “What happened?” He called to Isabella as she got closer.
The rest of the runners were far ahead. Isabella stopped running. “I fell down on the other side of the track, and I got scared!” she said as she started to sob.
Dad ran out on the track. “Come on, Isabella! We can do it!” Taking her hand, he started running down the track with her.
As Mikel watched them, he felt his noodley legs get stronger. Hopping off his seat, he ran onto the track and took Isabella by the other hand. “Yeah! We can do it together!”
Isabella looked up at Mikel. She wiped the tears away from her cheeks and smiled. Dad let go of Isabella’s hand, and Mikel continued running down the track with her. They were already catching up with the other runners.
Mikel’s legs were burning, and he was out of breath. But he was running—running more than he had ever run before!
Mikel looked over at Isabella as he continued to run. She was grinning from ear to ear.
He smiled and tightened his grip on his sister’s hand. The race was getting easier with every step.

A story from my own family history illustrates this principle. My great-grandfather Joseph Watson Maynes was born in 1856 in Hull, Yorkshire, England. His family joined the Church in England and then made their way to Salt Lake City. He married Emily Keep in 1883, and they became the parents of eight children. Joseph was called to serve a full-time mission in June of 1910, when he was 53 years old. With the support of his wife and eight children, he returned to his native England to serve his mission.

After serving faithfully for approximately two years, he was riding his bicycle along with his companion to Sunday School services in Gloucester, England, when his tire burst. He got off his bicycle to assess the damage. When he saw that it was serious and would take a while to fix, he told his companion to go ahead and begin the Sunday service and he would be there shortly. Just as he finished saying this, he collapsed to the ground. He had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Joseph Watson Maynes never saw his wife and eight children again in this life. They were able to transport his body back to Salt Lake City and have his funeral service at the old Waterloo Assembly Hall. A statement made at his funeral service by Elder Anthony W. Ivins of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles teaches us an important lesson about life, death, and endurance: “This is what the gospel gives us—not immunity from death, but victory over it through the hope we have in a glorious resurrection. … It applies to [Joseph Maynes]. … It is a pleasure, and it is a satisfaction and joy to know that men lay down their lives in righteousness, in the faith, true to the faith.”4

This family story inspires me to try my very best to follow the example of endurance and spiritual stamina illustrated by my great-grandfather. I am equally inspired by the faith of his wife, Emily, whose life after Joseph’s death was certainly a heavy burden to bear. Her testimony was strong and her conversion complete as she spent the rest of her life true to the faith while supporting her eight children on her own.

At last she could rest! It had been a long afternoon, mused the weary pioneer, leaning against the tree trunk. Easing off her muddy boots, she rubbed her feet until the aching subsided. Then, picking up her journal, she wrote:
“Our company traveled six miles today, pushing and pulling over hot and dusty trails. Someone accidently stirred up a nest of bees from a dead log, and one girl was stung 12 times! We had a number of repair stops, and three carts had to be abandoned along the way because of broken axles and wheels. But ours seems to be really sturdy and reliable. I believe we’ll make it all the way to the valley! Several of us learned firsthand today about patience and helping others as we loaded bundles from the broken carts onto our own already heavy, creaking carts.”
The journal entry of the young Latter-day Saint has now joined snapshots, worn shoes, and handcarts as a reminder of the three-day trek that was a major part of the Olympia Washington Stake girls campout last July. More than 100 girls shared dried corn, fruit leather, campfires, and 23 handcarts in an effort to gain a better understanding of the sacrifices and dedication of their pioneer ancestors. The enthusiastic organizer behind the event was Sister Fayetta Johnson, stake camp specialist.
The three months preceding camp were busy ones of preparation on both the stake and ward levels. Because Oakville Branch President Daren Johnson had access to a plane, he volunteered to fly over the areas the girls would cover and map out the trails for them. Leaders and girls experimented with all kinds of pioneer-type food available to find the lightest, most nutritious, and non-perishable food available, since they would need a three-day supply and were limited to 17 pounds for all supplies. Busy ward camp directors agreed to complete camp certification before camp arrived, and members of the priesthood built all 23 carts.
During the trek itself, the girls were required to wear long dresses, and a swim in the lake had to take the place of a hot shower. To make the experience as real as possible, a trading post and shaded bowery were set up along the trail, and on the second day out, the carts were ferried, one by one, across the lake on a raft. The evenings were devoted to campfires, singing, telling stories, and sharing testimonies. When at last the journey was complete, the whole party agreed that they had had an unforgettable experience and that they had gained a new awareness and appreciation of the Mormon pioneers who had braved so much in coming west.

We six Brazilian missionaries had just landed in Argentina and were awaiting flights to our missions. As soon as we entered the waiting area for our departing flights, we wanted to take photographs of the airport runway with the city in the distance. While the other five went to take pictures, I stayed nearby watching our luggage.
After they returned, I looked around and saw a place from which I wished to take a picture. “I’ll be right back,” I told the others.
After I had taken the picture, I heard someone call, “Elder.” I quickly looked around but did not see anyone. Then the call came a second time: “Elder.”
When I looked around again, I saw an old man seated on a nearby bench. When I approached him, he said, “Elder, I would like to receive a priesthood blessing for the sick.”
His request startled me. A man I had never met had asked me for a blessing on my first day in a country where I could hardly speak the language.
In fumbling Spanish, I asked him several questions: “Do you have faith? Do you believe in the power of the priesthood? Do you know The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?”
Somewhat confused by my questions, he responded, “I am a member of the Church, Elder. I am from Salta, in the north. I am alone, I am ill, and I need a blessing.”
I went to get the other missionaries. We introduced ourselves and visited with the man for a minute. Then my companion and I took him to the restroom, where we gave him a blessing.
On that occasion, I had no time to think much about what the man had said to me other than that he needed a blessing. But later, his words “I am alone” deeply touched my heart. He felt alone, but he had a Heavenly Father who knew where he was and that he was ill. Rather than forsake him, Heavenly Father sent missionaries to comfort him, give him a blessing, and remind him that he was not alone.
That experience strengthened my testimony that we have a Heavenly Father who knows us and will never forsake us.

On 23 February 1979 Elder Richards was taken to the hospital, where he remained in critical condition for nearly a month. His obituary was written, and the First Presidency and the Twelve were informed that it was only a matter of hours before he’d be gone. But gradually Elder Richards recovered.
Later, in a meeting of the Twelve, Elder Richards said, “I read in the minutes where you’d received word of my imminent demise, but I fooled you, didn’t I?”

Long ago a woman tearfully told me that as a college student she had made a serious mistake with her boyfriend. He had arranged for an abortion. In due time they graduated and were married and had several other children. She told me how tormented she now was to look at her family, her beautiful children, and see in her mind the place, empty now, where that one child was missing.
If this couple understands and applies the Atonement, they will know that those experiences and the pain connected with them can be erased. No pain will last forever. It is not easy, but life was never meant to be either easy or fair. Repentance and the lasting hope that forgiveness brings will always be worth the effort.

So it was 1986 and I did have two great blessings, and one was the year and half long marriage to my best friend in all the earth and the second blessing was the anticipation of a visit from my parents. Kristi and I lived in Provo, feeling fully actualized as kind of a Bobby and Betty BYU: both of us working on our marriage and family majors, both of us teaching missionaries at the Missionary Training Center, and both of us making 475 square feet of apartment space into a home--our home.

A year and a half into that married bliss, my parents were coming to Salt Lake City for my father to receive back surgery. My father was due for a several week recuperation, which would place him under my mother's direct care and they would both be staying at the home of my wife's parents and within visiting range of two dirt-poor college students.

Near the end of my parents' time with us, my father presented me with a poem. I had received other letters and thoughts from my father over the years, but I had never received a poem. It had my interest. Now my father was a man who would sit by my childhood bedside and explain in vivid detail how cells work, how blood flowed though veins and arteries, how muscle and bone combined to help us run and walk and move. He knew things about stars in the sky, about pine trees in the White Mountains of Arizona. He had been a seminary teacher, turned deputy sheriff; he wore boots and had a shiny badge. He made seemingly endless piles of French toast and homemade syrup every Saturday morning.

Mom and Dad had nine of us, and providing for such a brood saw my Dad take weekend security jobs at ASU football games or lonely midnight shifts securing shopping malls and stores. Those long nights offered him the occasional respite to sit and ponder. During one of these late night vigils, he once penned an 11-point document entitled, "True Happiness: What I Want To Teach My Children." To me, it reads like scripture, for example, this counsel, "Happiness follows effort. It occurs when the mind is at peace with the soul and the heart, when we are one with ourselves. It frequently occurs in the midst of hardship, trial, poverty, pain. It is frequently absent in the midst of wealth, ease, comfort and physical pleasure."[2] My father thought often of his children and how he might teach us principles of happiness, even when he could not be physically present. And once again he was teaching me, this time through poetry.

The poem tells of a young husband and father, who has gone into the mountains near his home to have solitary communion with his Heavenly Father in prayer.

The young man has a plea:
"What gift can I give dear Father,To show my love for thee?"
The Father responds:
"There is no gift that thou canst bringExcept thyself--just thee"
The man is perplexed and seeks to probe further, but the response, "only thyself--just thee" is all he receives that morning and he must head down into the fields of his day's work, pondering over this message from the Lord. Near the end of his day, weary and worn, he returns home and coming up the path is greeted by shouts of joy and hugs from his small child. The heart of this young father is filled near to bursting with love for his child. Slowly, with his little one clasped in his arms, the father turns and looks again at the mountain where earlier that day he had poured out his heart regarding something holy he could offer to the Heavenly Father he loved so much. It seemed to the young man as the last stream of sunlight hits the mountain peak that he felt an answer pierce his heart.

Yes, go to the mountain for comfort,Go to the mountain to prayYet it's here in the valley you're shapingThe gift you will offer one dayWork while that day is offeredGive to the task at handServe with a heart that is openWith love for your fellowmanYes, go the mountain for comfortGo to the mountain to prayBut remember my son it's the valleyWhere you're forging your life for that day[3]

Sometimes it’s a well-meaning person who doesn’t understand. Do you remember the story of little Timmy, the slow learner who was taken to an ungraded school? The teacher asked why he was sent to her. He said, “I was sent because I am a moron. Teacher, what is a moron?”

The teacher said, “A moron is one who does not know all the answers.”

“I guess I’m a moron because there are a lot of things I don’t know. My father must be one, too. Just this morning at breakfast my mother told Dad that he would never learn to eat like he ought to. I like my father, though, because he always says, ‘Timmy, what do you think?’”

The teacher inquired, “What do you think, Tim?”

“Just let a bird sing two notes, and I can tell you what kind of a bird it is. I can tell you its color, what the papa looks like, how many eggs the mother lays, the color of the eggs, and how long it will take for them to hatch. I know all the birds that stay here and when and where they go. I even know when the birds are here and when they are going somewhere else.”

The teacher said, “Timmy, you’re a genius.”

Timmy said, “Teacher, you know more about me already than my teacher did last year. She never asked me what I thought; she always told me what I didn’t know. She must be a moron.”

During this difficult time, I developed the habit of sitting down at the piano at the end of each day and, with one hand, plunking out favorite hymns and Primary songs. I would play “Our Savior’s Love,” “When He Comes Again,” “I Feel My Savior’s Love,” “I Am a Child of God,” and many others, always ending with “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide.” This nightly ritual became a comfort to my family. No matter what the day had been like, if Mom sat down at that keyboard and played some hymns, it seemed all was right with the world—or at least more bearable.
One day when I felt I had had all I could take, I sent the children into the house and sat in the car to have a good cry. After I had calmed down and prayed, I went inside. As I opened the door, I heard the soft notes of one of my favorite hymns. My son was at the keyboard, playing hymns to soothe and comfort me in my distress, as I regularly did for him and his sisters.

I was reared in the Philippines by strict but loving grandparents. My grandfather’s favorite phrase was, “It’s for your own good.” He used it whenever I acted stubborn or failed to finish a chore. He always said that the things he asked of me would help me become better prepared when I grew up. Although I didn’t fully comprehend his words, young as I was, I obeyed—if for no other reason than to avoid further sermons.
My grandparents were religious people. By the time I was five, I knew there was a loving God who blessed us as we obeyed His commandments. Going to church on Sundays was a must, and singing hymns, reading Bible stories, and praying were part of our daily routine. I felt temporally and spiritually blessed. We were happy and content.
Then events came into my life that shattered my peace like the sudden blow of unpredicted bad weather. My grandparents died unexpectedly one Christmas season when I was a teenager. The sorrow I felt seemed to ruin forever the joys and anticipation of Christmas. A couple of months later, my parents’ home burned down. A year later, my mother was in a car accident that left her an invalid. Then my father lost his job.
Tribulations beset me like a storm. With little money, I lost hope of earning a college degree. The demands of household chores drained me of energy.
Confused and battered emotionally and spiritually, I began to doubt God’s existence. I began to ask why He had allowed such adversity to come into my life when I had always tried to obey Him. The whys continued to bother me, and with no answers, I slowly drifted away from the church I was attending at the time. For years I searched other religions for answers and relief, but nothing satisfied me.
One bright summer afternoon, a close friend invited me to meet the Latter-day Saint missionaries. They impressed me with their polite greeting and neat appearance, and I was curious about their name tags, which bore the name of Jesus Christ. Somewhere inside my soul, a soft but clear voice seemed to whisper, Hear their message; it’s for your own good. The familiar phrase echoed in my mind.
As I listened to the discussions, my faith in God’s existence was gradually restored, and I accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ. Following my baptism, I found that my lifelong questions had answers. I read in Doctrine and Covenants 122:5–7 the Lord’s words to the Prophet Joseph Smith: “If thou art called to pass through tribulation … all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good.” I have come to realize that great blessings did come from my trials, for they led me to the true fold of God.
Looking back on my experiences, I realize they truly were for my good—just as Grandfather had said.

Let’s turn to the life of Mary Fielding Smith, wife of Hyrum Smith. This was her first marriage and his second. She came into a family where five children were left without a mother when the first wife died. By June 1839 Mary and Hyrum had been married for eighteen months. During that short period they had been driven from two homes, Hyrum had been imprisoned for six months, Mary had been bedridden for four months with a pregnancy, and now, without financial resources, they were struggling to establish another home. Listen to this excerpt written at the time by Mary to her brother Joseph Fielding:
It is now little more than a month since the Lord, in his marvelous power, returned my dear husband, with the rest of the brethren, to their families, in tolerable health. We are now living in Commerce, on the bank of the great Mississippi river. The situation is very pleasant; you would be much pleased to see it. How long we may be permitted to enjoy it I know not; but the Lord knows what is best for us. I feel but little concern about where I am, if I can keep my mind staid upon God; for, you know in this there is perfect peace.[Don Cecil Corbett, Mary Fielding Smith, Daughter of Britain; Portrait of Courage (Salt Lake City, UT: Deseret Book Co., 1966), p. 99]

They changed our basketball game from Tuesday to Monday. Because it’s a really important game, Coach said we would have a practice on Sunday afternoon.
“I can’t practice on Sunday,” I told him.
“I know that you’re a Mormon,” he replied, “but this is really important. I’ll talk to your mother.”
“It won’t make any difference,” I told him. “I still won’t be able to come.”
All the girls were staring. “Are you going to be in church?” one asked.
“No,” I answered. “My church is in the morning.”
“Well, where are you going in the afternoon?”
“Nowhere, I guess,” I said. “Just home.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“It’s the Sabbath,” I mumbled. After a lot of exchanged looks and rolled eyes, they went into the locker room, leaving me sitting alone on the bench.
I wish I had a close friend.
Friends. Why can’t we all be friends? Today I was walking about Winter Quarters with Mariah Jewett and Leticia Harwood. Oh, how I have wanted to be Mariah’s friend! She is pretty and clever, and she plans dances for which her father plays the fiddle. I love to dance. She promised to invite me to the next one.
While walking, we saw a family arrive in an overflowing open wagon. I love to see more Saints joining us. Tucked in among the household goods was a girl who looked to be about our age. “How exciting! Let’s go welcome her,” I said.
“Wait,” Mariah said. “Don’t go near her. She’s probably got vermin. Look at her dress. Did you ever see anything so ugly?”
I was anxious about the vermin, so I stared impolitely. Her dress wasn’t ugly, only very plain. Just then the girl saw us watching, and she smiled shyly. Was she feeling as I had felt when we finally joined the other Saints? Was she heartsick at losing friends, and hoping to find new ones?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go be friendly.”
“Hazel!” Mariah’s voice stopped me. “If you mingle with that riffraff, I shall be forced to exclude you from my list of associates.”
I am ashamed that I hesitated, thinking of having fun with Mariah at the dance. Then I remembered the great and spacious building in the Book of Mormon, and I knew where I wanted to be.
“So be it, Mariah,” I said, and I left her. Even in the midst of the Saints, life has trials.
It must be my destiny to be a loner. I was walking to an assembly with Melinda and Denise, who are on the basketball team too. We passed a girl just standing there, looking lost. She also looked like a total nerd. Besides her clothes being all wrong, her hair was like my grandma’s. She was obviously new, and my heart ached for her. I knew just how she felt.
I said, “Are you going to the assembly?” When she nodded, I said, “It’s this way.” Melinda and Denise looked at me like, “You know her?”
She began following us, and Melinda muttered, “Get rid of her.”
But I couldn’t. She needed a friend. She followed us up the bleachers and sat down next to me. Melinda and Denise gave me a disgusted look and moved over to the next section.
Good-bye, Melinda and Denise.
All week long I have looked forward to the dance tonight. Life on the trail is so dreary, just plodding along day after day. I don’t think I ever fixed supper faster or cleaned up more quickly than I did tonight. I called over to Sister Fuller in the next wagon to see if she needed help getting ready. She has two small children and a grandfather who has been ill. She replied that she wasn’t going to the dance. Her grandfather was feeling very ill, and someone had to stay with him.
Poor Sister Fuller. She loves to dance and sing and was probably looking forward to it even more than I. “I will watch your grandfather,” I told her. “I can come get you if he turns worse.”
“But you don’t want to miss the dance,” she protested.
“There are plenty of dances ahead of me. Go with your husband and enjoy yourself.”
Her smile lit up her entire face, and she hugged me. “God bless you, Hazel,” she whispered, and she hurried to freshen up.
So I spent the evening taking care of the grandfather and watching the sleeping babies. I heard the music and the happy voices all evening, and missed it dreadfully. But I was not sorry I stayed so that Sister Fuller could go. If I don’t feel happiness in my soul tonight, at least I feel peace.
Talk about anticipation! Thinking about the ward social Friday night was what kept me going all week. Other girls in the ward were sure to be there, and Church is the only place I can relax and not feel different.
Mom and I left early to pick up Sister Grogan. We found her balancing her crying three-year-old on one knee while feeding the baby in his high chair. Her house was a mess, and she was too.
“I guess I’m not going,” she told Mom. “The babies are fussy, and I can’t handle that tonight.”
Mom picked up the crying toddler. “You need this night out,” she told Sister Grogan. “I’ll stay with your children, and you drive on to the social with Trisha.”
Sister Grogan brightened up. “I can’t let you do that,” she protested weakly.
Mom said “Nonsense,” and started to push her toward the bedroom.
I looked at Mom, and she looked as tired as Sister Grogan did. They both needed this night out.
I took the toddler from Mom. “You’re going to the ward social, too,” I said. “I’m staying with the children.”
“I can’t let you do that.” But she looked as hopeful as Sister Grogan had.
“No problem,” I said. “Go have fun.”
I may not have had fun tonight, but I sure feel good inside!

As a young boy, I knew I wanted to be involved with space travel and the great adventure of exploring the “final frontier.” Engineering was a good career to help me. I studied hard and took classes in math, science, and engineering. I also learned that listening, communicating, and public speaking were important too. These skills prepared me to work for the USA’s National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA).
At first I was a space shuttle flight director. Later I became director of the space shuttle program. I planned the shuttle missions to space and managed the missions from launch through landing. I worked with hundreds of engineers, scientists, and astronauts to put the shuttle together and have a successful mission.
Watching the giant space shuttle blast off from Kennedy Space Center was a thrill every time I saw it. With a rush of sounds that shook the ground, the space shuttle roared to life. In just eight minutes, the shuttle soared miles above the earth’s surface, traveling more than 25 times the speed of sound. I loved working with others to accomplish this goal together.
My priesthood quorum and Boy Scout activities helped me develop leadership skills for my career. As I grew, the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ helped me as well. President Thomas S. Monson teaches, “When the time for decision arrives, the time for preparation is past.”* This simple idea helped prepare me for my life and for every space shuttle mission. In my job, I have been able to witness the majesty of the universe and God’s creations.

I have had problems with acne ever since I can remember. I asked Heavenly Father why he gave me this terrible curse. After a lot of prayer, I finally realized that my acne was not a curse from God, but simply a trial.
My advice to you is to see a dermatologist. They have many things that can help you. My doctor has done wonders for me. Also, pray a lot and ask Heavenly Father to help you get rid of the bad feelings you have about yourself. Remember you won’t be cured overnight, but with the help of our Heavenly Father and a doctor things will get better.
Name Withheld

Thanks so much for the article “Picture This” (Sept. 1994). I decided to put a picture of Christ in my locker too. It took me a few days to actually put it up, but when I did I noticed an instant change in myself, in the way I thought about and treated other people. Now every day at school I look at myself in my mirror, then at the picture of Christ, and it reminds me to be as Christlike as possible. Being one of only four members of the Church at my school, I feel like it’s an example, not only to my member friends, but to other people as well.
Cari RickabaughSturtevant, Wisconsin

“Graduation—the lights on the stage dimmed; the time that we had all looked forward to was finally here. The ceremony had been grand; all the pomp and circumstance to fit the occasion had been unfurled. Boy, I sure hoped my rubber nose wouldn’t fall off.” Tim Holst was graduating magna cum laude from the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus clown school. He had even been offered a job with the circus, the Greatest Show on Earth.
“How did all this happen?” he wondered. Tim had been a student at Utah State University studying to get a teaching degree so that he could teach seminary. During the summers he would work in Yellowstone Park in a little summer theater company called the Playmill Theater. Tim was playing, directing, and acting as master of ceremonies for the show when he was spotted by one of the circus promoters for Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. The promoter liked Tim, thought he was funny, and invited him to go to the circus clown school in Florida.
Now Tim had completed the eight-week course in clowning. He had learned the fundamentals of juggling, clowning, acrobatics, gymnastics, make-up, and costuming. The offer of a one-year contract to clown for the circus was appealing. Should he accept? Tim decided not to. He was very close to graduation from college, and he felt that he should finish his schooling. He left Florida after graduating from the clown school and drove back to Utah State University to begin his winter quarter classes.
“Still, I just didn’t feel right,” Tim said. “I felt as though I should get right back to Florida and accept the offer to be a clown for the circus. After much prayer and consideration, and after talking with my parents back in Illinois, I decided to head back to Florida and begin rehearsal as a clown for the upcoming circus season. As I was settling into my new room, there came a knock on my door. I opened the door, and there stood a member of my graduating class, another Tim—Tim Torkildson. He had observed what he thought was something special about me, and Tork (that was his circus nickname) wanted to know about the Church.”
Tork said, “Tim’s life-style was different from anybody else’s, and I wanted to know more about him.”
Tim introduced his friend to the Church, and soon Tork was taking the missionary lessons. After about six weeks Tim baptized Tork in Florida, just a few days before they left on their circus tour of some forty-five cities throughout the United States and Canada. Tim now knew why he had needed to return to Florida. He was to be a “missionary clown.”

The first real test of my young testimony came when I had to decide between going on a mission and playing basketball,” says Dean Reid Burgess. Brother Burgess had spent his freshman year playing basketball for the College of Southern Utah on scholarship.
It was 1965, the height of the war in Vietnam, and not every young man had the chance to serve a mission because of the United States military draft. But Brother Burgess had the chance and the choice. “It took a lot of prayer and a lot of fasting,” he says. “But I knew serving a mission was a real privilege, so I left school to serve.” While serving in the Brazilian Mission, Brother Burgess solidified his testimony of the restored gospel.
Upon returning home, he completed his education at Brigham Young University in business management and graduated in 1970. Some time later, he met Annette Christensen at a BYU student ward. “She was the Relief Society president, and I was the elders quorum president,” he says. “She was always busy serving in worthwhile and constructive ways.” They began dating and were later married in the Provo Utah Temple on 27 December 1973. They have five children and reside in Sandy, Utah.
Brother Burgess, 57, was born in Alpine, Utah, to Reid and Ethel King Burgess on 24 May 1946. He grew up working in the family-owned mercantile store and on their 20-acre (8-ha) farm. His parents taught him the value of family, hard work, and the principles of the gospel—the same values he has tried to teach his own children.
In 1997 Brother Burgess returned to Brazil, where he served as president of the Brazil Belo Horizonte East Mission. His other Church service includes counselor in stake presidencies, stake Young Men president, bishop, and high councilor; all told, he has served with the youth of the Church for more than 24 years.

Early in our married life, when Sister Nelson and I lived in Minneapolis, we decided to enjoy a free afternoon with our two-year-old daughter. We went to one of Minnesota’s many beautiful lakes and rented a small boat. After rowing far from shore, we stopped to relax and enjoy the tranquil scene. Suddenly our little toddler lifted one leg out of the boat and started to go overboard, exclaiming, “Time to get out, Daddy!”
Quickly we caught her and explained: “No, dear, it isn’t time to get out; we must stay in the boat until it brings us safely back to land.” We had a hard time convincing her that leaving the boat early would lead to disaster.

My priests quorum was pretty much like any other quorum. We had an adviser, inspiring lessons by the bishop, assistants to the bishop, and then the rest of us. Our ward was neither huge nor small, but we had a number of members who seldom or never came to any meetings. In one particular quorum meeting we spent a lot of time discussing those young men who had not been to church in a while. Brother Wheeler, our quorum adviser, had prepared a list.
When I was young, many considered me shy and quiet, and I did not especially go out of my way to make noise or be seen. I was not the first to volunteer to visit the young men on Brother Wheeler’s list. All he was asking was for us to pick a name, make a friendly visit, and invite them to our upcoming weekly activities.
Hands went up when Brother Wheeler called out names from this list. He said it was a plus if you were already friends, neighbors, or schoolmates. I started to feel guilty as the list grew smaller and smaller. Finally there was one name left. The other boys were chatting about their plans of how they were going to take care of this assignment. Brother Wheeler looked at the name on the list and then at me. I lifted my hand. Smiling, he wrote down the boy’s name and sketched a map for me. He said the family had moved in a while ago and a visit could really benefit the young man.
We lived in an area of southeast Idaho where it was a mixture of farms and homes. Many of the parents commuted to work in town. As in many communities like this, we were fairly close-knit, and everyone pretty much knew everyone else. But I didn’t recognize the name I was given, nor did anyone else in our quorum.
Sunday passed, and I considered the name I’d received. Monday came and went. I still considered. Tuesday passed, and I considered with increasing gravity. How was I going to approach a total stranger and ask him to come to church?
Wednesday came, and my consideration began to change into worry. The week was already passing by, and all I could consider was a gut feeling of dread. This young man I was to visit had never been seen at church, he had never been seen at Scouts, he had never been seen at school, he had never even been seen, period.
The school bus dropped me off at my house. I pulled out the folded note I had been carrying with me since Sunday. The young man’s house was about two-and-a-half miles from mine. I wanted to get it over with and release this burden. I told my sister where I was going and, with grim determination, headed out.
Imagination fed on anticipation. I pictured a family where the dad answered the door with a shotgun in his hands and vicious dogs were ready to attack. I walked half a mile. I pictured a family that only spoke Russian. I walked along. I pictured a family with so much wealth that they only wore tuxedos and ball gowns. Was this how Nephi and Sam felt while they were on their way to get the brass plates? Or worse, perhaps this is how Laman and Lemuel felt. Suddenly, there I was in front of the house.
I rang the doorbell. I heard heavy footsteps. The door swung open, and an older man stood there. He looked at me. “Hello,” he said.
A rush of relief came over me. He was not holding a shotgun, he spoke English, and he was not wearing a tuxedo. “Uh, can uh …” I looked at my note. I couldn’t remember his name. “… Bill …” I couldn’t think straight. “… play?” I finally blurted out. I felt like a little kid. What kind of word had I used? “Play?”
The man looked very surprised.
“Is Bill … available?” I corrected myself. Did I read the map wrong? Was I at the wrong house? “Does a Bill, Billy, or even a William live here?”
The man’s expression changed from confusion to smiling enlightenment. “Oh, yes, of course. Come in. You must be from the ward. Brother Wheeler called last week and told me someone would be coming.”
An entire flood of relief swept through me. I followed the man through the front room, past the kitchen, down a hallway, to a bedroom. The house was neat and modest. I saw a picture of the Salt Lake Temple on the wall. The Ensign magazine sat on the kitchen table, opened. I saw scriptures on the shelf. “But these people never come to church,” I thought with more than a touch of confusion. And what about Bill, who was a total hermit apparently—and a very lazy one, because it appeared he was still sleeping.
The man softly knocked. “Billy?” he said as he gently opened the door.
Instantly everything was explained. I felt so small. A wheelchair and a hospital bed sat in the center of the room.
An emaciated boy lay there staring out the window. He turned his head to look at us. His eyes widened. “Help me sit up, Father. Do I have company? What is your name?”
I did not have to worry about carrying the conversation; Billy was very good at assisting me with that. I returned regularly to his house for the next several weeks. I brought various games; he especially liked chess. I learned that he was actually a foster child and had not seen his birth parents for years. Billy’s disease was critical, and the older couple he was now with had taken him in so that he wouldn’t have to stay by himself in the hospital. He was a member of the Church but could only remember being baptized.
Brother Wheeler arranged for us to have our priests quorum meet for class at Billy’s home. His bed had been moved to the front room to help accommodate the extra visitors. Our bishop came and even helped bless the sacrament for Billy and his foster parents.
I felt pretty good about the whole thing. Over the past few months I had made a friend, and I had helped this friend make other friends in our quorum. I did not anticipate the phone call I received from the bishop later that week. He told me he had interviewed Billy and found him worthy to hold the Aaronic Priesthood. Billy had asked the bishop if I could ordain him.
We held our priesthood meeting again at Billy’s house the following Sunday. I do not remember what I said during the ordination. I do remember Billy’s smile and the tears he was pushing back—the tears Brother Wheeler, the bishop, and all of us were pushing back.
A few weeks later, Billy was not available for “playing” anymore. His condition had worsened, and he spent most of the time in the hospital. About six months from my first meeting with Billy, he died.
Now what I remember most about Billy is not what I did for him on my visits, but what he did for me. A young man whose name I came to know from a simple list had become one of the most treasured memories of my youth.