Gospel Story Finder

One of the fathers he was teaching had what was thought to be an incurable alcohol problem. Every day after work for twenty years, he bought alcohol and consumed it until he could hardly find his way home. He received friendship and encouragement to pray to heaven for help. One day after his work, while he was driving into the countryside with his bottle, a voice came into his heart to stop his car, walk out into the field, and pray to Father in Heaven for help. His simple prayer was heard by his Father in Heaven, and as he stood up and walked back to his car, all desire to drink liquor left his life. The powers of heaven had descended upon him, and he knew that God lived and loved him.

I heard him later stand before the members and testify of the love of God and of my friend and others who had ministered unto him and taught him.

Emilee Dolberg, 12, of Stockton, California, came out on top in several subjects in her grade. She placed first in the handwriting contest, first in spelling, first in the math contest, first in essay writing, and first in the talent competition (she plays the piano).
Emilee went on to compete with individual winners from other schools on a district level. She was first in handwriting, third in math, and first in essay writing. Her essay placed fourth nationally.
Emilee is secretary of her Beehive class in the Stockton Fourth Ward.

When I was nine years old, our family moved into a home with an unfinished basement where my sister and I slept. Sometimes at night as I lay in bed trying to go to sleep, the unfinished walls looked like shadowy figures. These shapes gave me frightening dreams. Sometimes I would sleepwalk through my house and wake up suddenly in a strange place.
One night after sleepwalking, I woke up totally confused and frightened. I tried to scream for help, but no sound came from my mouth. It was so dark, I could not see my hand in front of my face. Suddenly, someone turned on a light, and I could see where I was. My mother must have heard me sleepwalking and came down to the basement to check on me. When she didn’t find me safe in my bed, she turned on the light to look for me.
One simple flick of a light switch and I understood exactly where I was, how much my mother loved me, and how to return to the safety of my covers. Because the shadows scared me, I asked my mother to leave on a light. She agreed. I’m thankful my mother loved me enough to come downstairs and turn on the light.
The night I was sleepwalking in my basement and woke up frightened, I was right beside my sister all the time. She was fine, but I needed someone to help me find the light.

However, just because we have a spirit of gratitude, faith in the Savior, and pray sincerely does not mean we will not have trials and hard times. We learn and grow from the experiences we have here in mortality. I grew up with wonderful parents that exemplified the gospel. My mother taught Spanish and my father was a civil engineer. My father was big and strong. When I was young I loved to have him throw me up in the air then catch me laughing. He carried me on his shoulders and showed me the world. Later he carried his grandchildren the same way.
When I was about six I realized that he was one of the kindest people in the world. One day as we stood in line for an ice cream cone he left me with my sister and walked past the angry customers to the front of the line. He quietly told the frustrated clerk that he would pay the difference between the handful of pennies a messy little boy had spread on the counter and the food the boy had ordered. It was a small thing really, maybe a few dollars, but it made a huge impact on me. I first began to understand the love of the Savior because of the love my father showed.
About a month ago my father died. We had 12 hours from the time that the Life Flight helicopter landed at the hospital for my family to gather. Machines surrounded his bed in the critical care unit. They buzzed and cried out while they traced the electronic patterns of his failing body. At the end, I stood at his bedside with my mother and my sisters, my husband and my children, and we wept. At that moment everything else fell away—all concern with pretense, or positions, or possessions did not matter. The only things that remained important were the covenants that held my family together and the Savior's victory over death.
The next Friday, after work, I walked along the snow-packed streets of Rexburg. I would like to thank the many BYU-Idaho students who stopped to offer me a ride. I'm sure I looked cold walking in the snow and slush, but despite the skirt I was wearing I just felt the need to walk and think. No one could see the invisible hurt and sorrow I was carrying. When I looked up through the swirling flakes I could see the temple, creamy white in the snow. But instead of peace, questions machine-gunned into my mind, not because I doubt, but because I hurt. Where was my father? Is the gospel real? Can these covenants really keep us safe? How will I help my mother? Where is hope? Will this winter ever end? By the time I got home I was numb, even more in my heart than in my toes. I talked, walked, made dinner, and slept numb.
In the morning the sun rose. Outside, as I ran past the snowfields, answers came. Past the despair and pain that seemed to hang in the air, I could breathe in the hope given through the Atonement. Through the Savior's sacrifice my heart could beat, my lungs could fill, and blood could circulate without collapsing under the weight of forever losing someone I loved, because of the Atonement; because of the covenants my father and mother made and spent their lives keeping; because of the covenants I have made and am striving to keep, we can be united as a family again. The Savior and Redeemer knows perfectly how to succor us.

On my way to work at a water park in Mesa, Arizona, I found myself behind a van with a handicap symbol on the license plates and an elderly woman behind the wheel. I thought, “Great, I’m driving behind Grandma.”
I had been gaining on her and was about to pass her, when to my surprise she swerved off the road into the gravel. I was prompted to get off the road immediately. Many scriptures on the Holy Ghost speak of a “still small voice,” but in this case, it seemed to yell at me to pull over.
As I pulled up, the driver fell out of the van face first onto the rocks and didn’t move. I ran to her and gently rolled her over. She looked like she was about 65 years old. She was scratched, pale, and unconscious.
I had my rescue pack on my hip ready for work, so I quickly put on my latex gloves and mask. She was not breathing, so I delivered two rescue breaths. Then I checked for a pulse. She had a pulse but still was not breathing, so I began rescue breathing. After five cycles, I again checked for a pulse and breathing. This time she had neither pulse nor breathing. This meant that I had to start CPR.
Doing CPR properly often means you will break ribs. I will never forget the sound her ribs made when they broke. My training and the Spirit helped me to remain calm and focused during this process. I then continued CPR for two minutes and checked for vital signs. Still no pulse or breathing. I ended up doing three more cycles of CPR before finally she began to cough. I helped her into the recovery position, and at that point I was able to dial 911.
Although we were on a very busy highway, no one stopped to offer assistance. While we waited for help to arrive, I discovered that she had blacked out and didn’t recall why she swerved off the road in the first place. I learned her name and that she was raising two of her grandchildren because their parents had died in a car crash. Finally, a sheriff’s deputy driving by stopped to see what the problem was, and he radioed for an ambulance.
After the ambulance took her to the hospital, the officer, knowing that I was late for work, gave me a police escort—probably one of the only times those police lights might mean good things for me instead of a ticket. Driving home that afternoon, I thought about what had happened. I had acted like the Good Samaritan. I was the only one who pulled over and helped. I have learned from this experience that if you listen to the Holy Ghost, God can make you a powerful instrument in His hands.

Like my parents, I needed courage to live the gospel. I spent one year as a soldier in the German army. Most of the soldiers used bad language, smoked, and did other things I knew I should not do. Sometimes I felt alone, but I always tried to keep Heavenly Father’s standards. My officers respected my commitment and allowed me time off to participate in Church activities.
On the last night of a soldier’s service, the soldier and his friends would drink a lot of alcohol and have a rowdy party. I thought and prayed about what I should do when my last night came. When it did, I told the group of soldiers serving with me, “Let’s do something that has never been done before.” We dressed in our best suits and went to say a quiet good-bye to our army leaders. Our major couldn’t believe it. I felt that Heavenly Father had guided me to find an answer to my problem. Looking back, I can see that the greatest blessings in my life have come by following the counsel of prophets and keeping God’s commandments.

During my years in the military, it was sometimes a challenge to find a Latter-day Saint chapel. With little notice, I could find myself in a new city or even a new country.
One Sunday I found myself in Amsterdam, Holland. At 8:30 a.m. our colonel unexpectedly announced that we had the day off. Already in uniform, I convinced a friend to drop me off at church. In his rental car, we had the following conversation:
Friend: “So where is your church?”
Me: “I don’t know because I’ve never been to this city before. But if you can get us to the city center by quarter to nine, we can find it.”
Friend: “Why? What happens at quarter to nine?”
Me: “That’s when we’ll see the Mormon missionaries heading to the chapel.”
Friend: “I thought you said you’ve never been here before?”
Me: “I haven’t.”
Friend: “So how do you know there’s a chapel here?”
Me: “There’s a chapel here all right and Mormon missionaries.”
Friend: “OK, here we are in the city center. It’s quarter to nine, and I don’t see any missionaries.”
Me: “There they are.”
Friend: “Where? You mean those small figures way up there crossing the street? We can’t even see who they are from here.”
When we caught up to the missionaries, I jumped out of the car and had an animated conversation with them, shaking hands, cracking jokes, laughing, and smiling.
Me: “Thanks for dropping me off.”
Friend: “I thought you said you didn’t know those guys?”
Me: “I don’t. We just met.”
Friend: “People don’t talk like that unless they already know each other.”
Me: “I’ll explain later.”
Friend: “I’m not sure I can find this place again, and you haven’t told me what time to pick you up.”
Me: “The meetings will last three hours. Then a family will invite me to dinner. After we eat and talk a while, they’ll drive me back to headquarters.”
Friend: “You don’t know that someone is going to invite you to dinner and drive you back.”
I reassured him that I would be well taken care of and thanked him again.
The meetings were inspiring. I accepted the first of three invitations to dinner. During dinner we had an enlightening conversation about the growth of the Church in Holland.
I have been blessed to find Church members many times during my life. Sometimes we have met in royal palaces and sometimes in humble huts. Sometimes we have met in abandoned, dusty barracks. Sometimes we have met in hospital chapels. Sometimes we have met in large tents or outside under the open sky.
Wherever we have met, I am always glad I made the effort to find the Church. For as the Lord has said, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20).

Nine years ago I was invited to train at a camp with Navy Seals. This camp was meant to prepare individuals for entering BUDS, military ventures, or test one’s mental or physical ability. It was 50 hours of hard physical work and no sleep. Going into the event, I greatly underestimated how tough it would be. I should have known it was going to be hard when they measured it in hours. We began with 40 participants; I was one of 4 females to participate and was the oldest participant there. If you quit or didn’t pass any component, you were put in a cab and sent home immediately.
It began with a physical test each individual had to pass before being allowed to stay. We then faced a lot of running with heavy ruck sacks filled with sand, carrying heavy logs miles down to the beach, and more physical training than I could ever have imagined doing at one time. No requirement deference was given for age or gender. We all wore heavy boots and combat pants that easily held a lot of sand and water. As night came we once again ran with our heavy ruck sacks down to the beach. We each carried a large pipe filled with sand to simulate carrying a weapon. After getting wet and sandy for what seemed the hundredth time, our commander pointed off into the distance at a very small red flashing light. He said, “You see that light in the distance? We are going to run to that light.” I could barely pick out what light he was talking about and thought he must be joking. That had to be more than 20 miles away. How could I run to that light in the sand, with my heavy ruck, and holding this ever-increasingly heavy pipe? But we started off. Every 15 minutes or so they yelled at us to run into the surf and get “wet and sandy.” My clothes were heavy with salt water and the skin on my legs and back were being worn off by the abrasive sand. Already almost 25% of the participants had quit or failed the training. The group of about 30 had roughly formed into 3 groups as we ran along the beach. I found myself in the middle group and I was mentally struggling with why I was there. My mind was giving me every excuse to quit. “I was too old for this. Why am I carrying the same weight as that college linebacker who is 10 years younger than me? These pants can’t hold much more sand or water.” And the list went on. As hours passed, I realized that the commander was not lying; we really were running to that red light. My heart sank. It was not getting any closer! I couldn’t bring myself to fall to the last group. I knew that if I did, I would fall behind and quit. I was miserable! At a really low point, I looked around at all the other people and found that the person next to me was really struggling too. I made my way closer to this person and we began to talk. He told me his back was cramping up and he was considering walking. I knew if he did that, he would be done. I told the person to rest their pipe on mine as we ran. I began to look for small milestones we could check off. I gave tips I had learned and pep talks when he wanted to stop. The run didn’t seem so bad to me anymore. We began to pass a lot of other people. We began to work together and enjoy ourselves. As the daylight drew near, I realized that we had finished. We made it to the red light! We went on to do much harder things in the subsequent hours, but I never again in that 50 hours doubted myself or why I was there. I learned a valuable lesson in my dark moment: if I was going to survive, I needed to help those around me.

A great burden to me during my growing-up years was the fact that my folks were not active in the Church. I sensed that I was missing out on many of the things that others were enjoying. The depression was on. Jobs were hard to get. Because of this, our family moved frequently. Though we had to do without many material things, that never seemed a hardship to me. But always there was the longing that my parents would feel the importance of church activity. I loved them dearly and it hurt to see what was happening in our home. The Word of Wisdom was not observed. There was not the closeness and solidarity that appeared to be in the homes of my friends. I craved that peaceful atmosphere that was lacking. Fortunately, each place we moved there were good people who would encourage me and welcome me. I came to know the importance of the Church and the gospel. It hurt so much on the day of my wedding when my parents were not able to enter the temple but remained outside while that special ceremony took place. I am happy to report that later, through the help of caring friends and my loving husband, my parents did become active and were able to enjoy those blessing they had missed for so many years.

Just recently my mother and I returned to the neighborhood where we had lived when I was baptized. The area is shabby and forlorn. The house where we lived looked so tiny and run down. A great feeling of sadness came over me, not because of the humble circumstances, but because I vividly remembered how I felt as a child, knowing I was missing blessings that could have been mine.

I have one more way to learn to love. My story begins in first grade. I loved first grade. The windows that were decorated with our drawings for anyone to see who drove down Main Street were changed with the seasons. I loved the smell of chalk dust and pencil shavings. I loved jump rope and tag at recess, and I loved the books the teacher read to us after lunch. In our school, two first-grade classrooms on the first floor were matched by two second-grade classrooms directly above on the second floor. We first graders were not allowed to go up those stairs except on an occasional afternoon visit to the school library, carefully chaperoned by our teacher. But each day I stood on the first floor and watched the second graders clamber up the stairs talking and laughing, the boys punching each other in the arm and the girls giggling and whispering. I longed to go up those stairs, too. Going upstairs to second grade appeared to me to be the ultimate step in maturity. Second graders knew more than we did, and somehow I understood that knowing more would be advantageous to me, so I longed for the day I could go upstairs to second grade.

That day came. I climbed the stairs on the first day of second grade and sat down in my classroom expecting maturity and understanding to unfold before me. I looked around the room and found seated there the same children I had been with in first grade. To my surprise and dismay, nothing, simply nothing, seemed different. It appeared that second grade would not unlock the mysteries of the world. Surrounding me were ordinary children. All of us apparently were no different than we were last year. What a disappointment when I had expected something much more grand.

I have lived long enough now to watch my classmates grow up, marry, raise families, wrestle with the economy, put food on the table, and set one foot in front of the other in doing the best they could. What I couldn’t see in second grade—and often miss even now—was that I was growing, too. Just because the same people were around me didn’t mean we were the same.

As I mentioned, one of my brothers is a Catholic priest; ironically, my other brother disregards organized religion altogether and likes to negate Christian doctrine. I’m careful in my dealings with him to avoid saying things that will drive away the Spirit or fuel the debate. I have also encountered friends who have been critical of my beliefs. Although these kinds of criticisms cause me concern, I have been careful to respond mildly and respectfully. After several such interactions, friends have apologized for their harshness. Their hearts have been softened because of my soft response.

On 10 January 1969, my life abruptly changed. I certainly hadn’t intended to make any changes. I was not active in the Church and was a heavy smoker and drinker; in fact, I had reached the point where I felt unable to function without alcohol. I enjoyed the companionship of my drinking buddies, and the alcohol numbed my senses, making it seem easier to deal with life’s challenges.
But on that January day I did some quick reevaluation of my life. At work I was removing the rind from slabs of bacon with a five-inch boring knife and accidentally sliced a deep cut in my thigh. I started for the door, trying to remove my belt and cutting tools, and fainted before doing either. Co-workers carried me out to the loading dock, placed me in the company truck, and sped off to the hospital. I was losing a great deal of blood, and one man rode in back with me, applying constant pressure to the cut.
Midway to the hospital, we passed over a rough section of railroad tracks, and he was thrown down. By the time he regained his footing and could assist me again, we were both sure I was going to die. Although I was alert, I became extremely cold. I felt and saw a blackness settle over me, and I became very frightened.
I’m dying, I realized. I thought of my wife and children. I can’t die now. I have too much to do.
Right then I determined that if I were spared, I would repent and set my life in order. Immediately the cold I felt was replaced by a satisfying warmth in my body. The darkness fled, and I drifted into sleep. I later learned that more than once I came close to dying on the operation table, yet the doctors were able to save me and my leg.
When I awoke that night, I saw the moon shining through the window. I wept as I thought of my second chance. I felt a strong desire to pray—a foreign feeling to me. I couldn’t kneel, but I poured my heart out to my Heavenly Father. I thanked him for all he had given me and for his patience and mercy.
With the help of a supportive wife and an outstanding bishop, I began making changes I’d never imagined I would make. After being released from the hospital, I attended church with my family. I studied the scriptures and read other Church books as well.
I was ordained a priest and then an elder. Eventually our family went to the temple, where we were sealed for time and eternity.
Other blessings followed. My wife, who had battled with cancer, rheumatic fever, and several other debilitating health problems, felt better than she had felt in years. I had suffered from a hearing loss for most of my life. After much fasting and prayer, I underwent surgery that restored most of my hearing.
My whole life became more peaceful, more enjoyable, more worthwhile. The more I learned and grew, the more I prayed, thanking God for the most fortunate accident of my life.

When serving in Peru as the Area President five years ago, I came to know General Vidal.

General Vidal had just been promoted to be the youngest general in the Peruvian National Police Force, and I had the chance to go to lunch with him. While we were having lunch, he told me an interesting story.

He said that about two years before, while he was still a colonel, he walked into his superior's office, the general in charge of all Peruvian police. There was another general sitting there, who said to him: "Colonel Vidal, you're a Mormon, aren't you? He replied, "Yes, I am." This other general said: "Well, I am Catolico, Apostolico, Romano (meaning I am a Catholic through and through), but I know about you, Colonel Vidal."

Turning to the general in charge of the police force, he said: "I need Colonel Vidal to go to this place and solve a corruption problem that I have there." "I am sorry", the superior replied, "but he can't go because he is straightening out a corruption problem where he is right now."

The other general then turned to Colonel Vidal and said: "Give me the name of another Mormon colonel". And Colonel Vidal did so. "Then I want that colonel to go to this place and solve the corruption problem." "I am sorry", once again the superior said, "but that colonel is also straightening out a corruption problem where he is right now."

Once again the general demanded of Colonel Vidal: "Give me the name of another Mormon colonel." "I am sorry, sir, said Colonel Vidal, "there are no other Mormon colonels."

Now, of course it is true, that there are people in every religion who are people of integrity. But I thought it was interesting that this general, "Catolico Apostolico Romano", had apparently formed such a favorable opinion of Mormons, that he wanted a Mormon colonel to solve his corruption problem. Because those two members of the Church were known to be honest and incorruptible.

It was a true gift to play in the NFL for a coach who shared my faith. Andy Reid came to BYU as a junior college transfer offensive lineman. He was part of the team that won the 1980 “Miracle Bowl” in which Jim McMahon threw the last-second, forty-one-yard bomb that was caught by Clay Brown to beat SMU. Andy was planning to go into the medical field and become a doctor like his mom, but LaVell Edwards saw something in Andy and told him that he would make a great head coach.

When he came to Provo, Andy was not a member of the Church. At BYU he met a girl named Tammy who changed his life. As they started to fall in love, she let him know that she wanted to be married in the temple. Andy wondered what the temple was all about. He loved Tammy enough to find out. Because she was willing to share her faith with him, he studied the gospel, embraced the teachings of the Restoration, and joined the Church. They were married in the temple, and they raised their five kids in the light of the gospel.

Andy’s whole career has been defined by hard work, dedication, and treating others with the utmost respect. Like LaVell, Andy made no distinction between the quarterback, the janitor, the tight end, or the secretaries. He lifted the entire organization. He made sure the workplace was professional and clean, with no evidence of pornography. I thought I was the luckiest football player on earth to have been coached by LaVell in college and Andy in the pros.

For example, Andy did not allow bad movies to be played on the plane or the bus when we traveled. That was different from how many other teams operated. I even took some gentle ribbing from my teammates, who would ask, “What are we going to watch this week? Bambi? ”

I told them, “If you’re lucky!”

After 9/11 Andy spoke to our team about grief and love. It was powerful. The next day he pulled me aside and mentioned how much he enjoyed watching me and my teammates quote Bruce R. McConkie on the news when we didn’t even know it. I asked him what he was talking about. He said, “Yeah, grief and love—I found an old conference report and plagiarized the whole thing!” It was no accident that when he left Philadelphia to become the Kansas City Chiefs’ head coach that he hired Emmitt Thomas as his defensive back coach. Birds of a feather flock together.

During my last year of college, I was definitely burned-out. School was fulfilling, but pushing myself took a toll. It was difficult to participate in meaningful activities outside of classes, and I felt empty and unmotivated to do anything that didn’t involve being graded.
It became hard to focus on the gospel. After studying all day, pulling my scriptures out felt like a chore. I found myself dragging my feet to church, and I could tell I was growing distant from Heavenly Father, though I didn’t want to.
Something had to change. But I felt like I couldn’t ask Heavenly Father for help, because I wasn’t doing enough to be worthy of it. However, I had a subtle prompting to focus on the temple, a confirmation of President Russell M. Nelson’s (1924–2025) promise that “regular worship in the house of the Lord increases our capacity for both virtue and charity.”
Virtue means power (see Mark 5:30; Luke 8:46). And I desperately needed God’s power in my life.
Walking the grounds, sitting in the foyer, and doing proxy work became essential to feeling close to Heavenly Father again. While there, I would envision my relationship with Heavenly Father as tangible and real. And this made a lasting difference.
To have a relationship with someone, you have to make time for them. Temples are the most sacred spaces on earth. Free from distractions and worldly stresses, I could focus entirely on Heavenly Father and His eternal plan for His children.
The Savior taught: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Nowhere is that peace stronger than in the temple. The temple was my harbor during that stormy semester. The divine calm there made a monumental difference in my outlook, and my connection with God started growing again.
A relationship also involves communication. I hadn’t been speaking or listening to Heavenly Father as much as I used to, but the temple helped me start again.
President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, taught that in the temple “revelation comes to us easily if our hearts are open to it and we are worthy of it.” Spending more time there helped me open my heart. I found forgiveness as I repented and mercy lighting my soul as I reached out to my Father in Heaven.
By rekindling the revelation process, I found answers to questions. Paths that seemed murky became lighter, and I knew that Heavenly Father would support me as I kept moving forward.
A covenant relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ is the most powerful bond we can experience. When I received my own endowment, I felt hope that it would bring essential blessings into my life. Participating in those ordinances for my ancestors brought that feeling back during the busy semester. I felt comforted knowing I had Heavenly Father’s power with me as I lived my covenants.
Young Women General President Emily Belle Freeman explained that it’s not the covenant path itself that brings these blessings but our companion along the path. “And this is the why of covenant relationship.” Our covenants connect us to Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father.
Though I felt undeserving of Heavenly Father’s love because of my struggles, He didn’t want me to feel that way. As I remembered my covenants, Heavenly Father was there for me. His divine intervention wasn’t just for after my burnout—He was there to help me through it.
No matter how small my efforts in worshipping in the temple were, Heavenly Father was infinitely gracious, giving me more than I could ever pay back. He gently encouraged me to live up to my covenantal promises, and I kept pushing forward to regain my motivation.
I still struggle to do these things perfectly, but I’m hopeful instead of despondent. I know that Heavenly Father can take my faltering efforts and make miracles. Because of Jesus Christ, I can always repent and ask for forgiveness. I can keep striving to strengthen my bond with Heavenly Father each day.
Worshipping in the temple, living worthy of a temple recommend, and keeping your covenants can strengthen and fortify your relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. These relationships will bring you peace and joy, no matter what your circumstances may be.

When our oldest daughter traveled across the country to a university in Boston, the entire family was concerned and prayed for her well-being. Now, many years later, she fondly recalls a kind bishop who always knew her name and insured she received a calling where she could serve others. Jennifer was called to play the piano in the Tongan Branch Primary. That Bishop was your president, Steven C. Wheelwright.

President Henry B. Eyring has counseled that through callings, "[y]ou can forget yourself and begin to pray for and love those you are to serve." Then, he continues, you will be able to "measure success by the degree to which it changes the hearts of the people you serve." [Ensign, November 2007 at 57] Reach out in your callings to change hearts.

Guilt forced me onto the jayvee basketball team. The fact that I was an embarrassingly tall ninth grader factored little into my decision. The coach, who said my height made me a shoo-in, and my mother, who repeated something I’d heard in Sunday School about developing my talents, combined to make me feel I had no choice.
Actually, I could think of a lot of good reasons to become a star athlete. I wasn’t the fame and glory that made me hesitate; it was something much more basic—my legs.
Playing basketball would mean exposing my skinny, white legs with their bulbous knees to the entire world. My knobby knees, my skinny thighs, my fleshless calves would lose their protective veil of pants. The shiny white skin, long hidden from the sun, would be burnt by hundreds of eyes, including the eyes of the prettiest girl in the tenth grade—Debbie McCulley.
I had spent many hours trying to convince myself my legs did not look that bad. After all, a tall, skinny kid would look funny with short, fat legs. I repeated the arguments over and over, but tryouts came and I still hoped I wouldn’t make the team.
But, because I was the second tallest kid at the tryouts, making the team was surprisingly easy. And, best of all, we were allowed to wear sweatpants, so all that stuck out beneath the ankles of my sweats were my feet.
The sweats kept everyone from laughing at my legs. The sweats and the fact that they were busy laughing at my clumsiness. I spent most of the time discovering how slippery and hard a wood floor could be.
But as the opening game approached, my basketball skills were improving. I bounced the ball on the floor instead of my feet; I made lay-ups instead of fall-downs; and I rarely missed the backboard when I shot the ball. Still, there was no real danger I would be a starter. I wasn’t that good. However, I might get subbed into a game, if it wasn’t too close or if several people got injured. So exposing my legs was still a threat.
The day of our first game came too quickly. As the hours before the game passed, my tension mounted. In the locker room I noticed my legs looked whiter than usual, and I blindfolded them with the team sweatpants before going out to the court for warm-up drills.
I had hoped to sprain an ankle during warm-ups, just a minor sprain that would heal in time for the stake dance on Saturday night. My legs, as a whole, liked the idea, but the ankles wanted no part of it. After all, they had socks to hide behind. Besides, getting injured while warming up is not without its own level of embarrassment.
But the drills went well and even provided a level of encouragement. I managed to avoid missing any lay-ups and, since I only took close shots, I was able to at least hit the backboard. I also had the presence of mind to formulate a plan for avoiding substitution into the game, my strategy of “inconspicuous bench warming.” I would do nothing extreme. I would root louder than my quietest teammate and quieter than the loudest. I would be neater than the sloppiest and sloppier than the neatest. I even applied this strategy to the bench itself, deciding not to sit right next to the coach and not at the far end either. With some judicious maneuvering after a silent pregame prayer (during which I asked for the obvious), I managed to plant myself near the middle of the bench, but not exactly in the middle.
We lost the game, but I felt satisfied—the coach did not even talk to me.
Then the first home game approached. The coach told us the other team looked even weaker than us, and if the starters could run up a quick lead, everyone might get into the game. I managed a weak smile and tried to appear anxious to play, but not too anxious, as I felt my heart sink to my knobby knees.
The next morning started early. I couldn’t concentrate in seminary or school. I spent the day looking at each of my classmates, picturing them laughing at the sight of my outlandish legs. Soon I would be in a gymnasium full of people—including Debbie McCulley—and they all would fall from the bleachers laughing at me.
Eventually it was time for the game, and luck seemed to be with me as the score stayed close during the first half. With no big lead, the coach would want to keep the starters in, so I started to feel much better and resumed a moderate amount of cheering. With less than a minute to go in the first half, my position on the bench looked mighty secure.
Then, as if in slow motion, our center, Josh Pasquali, went down grabbing his ankle—maybe I was too smug and this was my punishment. The coach helped Josh off the court. Suddenly I was the tallest player on our team.
“Get that warm-up suit off, Kendall,” the coach barked. “You’re in for Pasquali.”
My mind raced to think of a way out of this nightmare.
“Kendall, hurry it up!”
I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and took off my sweatpants. I listened carefully for the peals of insane laughter I knew would follow, but all I heard were some scattered cheers and applause. I opened my eyes, laid down my pants, and checked into the game. Could the stands be filled with blind people or could they just be here to watch a basketball game and not my knees?
I made my basketball debut lining up to rebound a foul shot. My teammate missed, but I got the rebound and quickly put my first two points on the scoreboard. Some more cheering came from the stands.
The final minute of the first half went by much quicker than I had expected. Soon I was back in the safety of the locker room, pulling on my sweatpants. On the training table sat our injured center, with the nurse looking at his ankle. She poked and twisted the injured joint for a moment. I felt sorry for Josh as I watched his grimacing face. As I gazed at him, his big feet caught my eye.
“I may have knobby knees,” I thought to myself, “but at least I don’t have to walk around with swim fins for feet.”
I pretended to listen to the coach’s pep talk, but my mind flashed to Debbie McCulley cheering for my basket. True, I did not actually see her do this, but it was her job as a cheerleader to cheer. And besides, I was almost certain I could hear her voice yelling just a little bit louder for me than she did for the other players. Maybe if I could get a few more points, she might not laugh at me if I asked her to dance at the stake dance.
By the time the second half was ready to start I was almost anxious to strip off my sweats and play ball. I had taken my warm-up seriously, even practicing to rebound the shots my teammates missed. I saw sports herodom within my grasp. Then I saw Josh Pasquali come back out on the floor, take a few shots, test his ankle, and check in for the second half.
For the rest of the game, I sat next to the coach and tried to deafen him with my enthusiasm. With a close score the entire game, I did not get back in to play. After the final buzzer sounded I started for the locker room. Looking over my shoulder, I saw Debbie and two other cheerleaders behind me.
“Nice shot, Matt,” Debbie said as she slid past. She had noticed me, and I didn’t even do much that was noticeable.
“Thanks,” I blurted out. “Um. I can dance, too.”
“Great,” she said, heading through the door. “Save me a dance this Saturday.”
“Okay,” I said, and bounded joyously up the stairs to our locker room.
I sat down next to Josh in the locker room, thinking about the dance. I took off my sneakers and tossed them on the floor. They landed beside Josh’s pair. My joy of anticipation for the dance turned instantly to dread as I noticed my sneakers lying beside Josh’s. Good grief! They were the same size! How could I ever go to a dance with such big feet?

Andrew Christofferson, who had returned to Lehi, corresponded with Fia, asking her to come to Utah. She wanted to emigrate, but she didn’t earn enough money to afford the voyage, so Andrew saved until he could send the money for her passage. She traveled to England where she boarded a boat for the United States. As she landed in Boston, an immigration officer noted her poor eyesight and refused her entry; her poor vision would cause her to be a burden on his country. Sadly she returned to England.
When Andrew learned what had happened, he determined to try again. Once again, he worked and saved and sent her the boat fare. He told her to try entry at New York City this time. Again Fia was refused entry because of her poor vision.
As Fia returned once again to England, she was befriended by a group of missionaries on their way to Europe. The missionaries took Fia to the mission home with them in Liverpool, England, where Elder Heber J. Grant of the Council of the Twelve presided with his wife and young daughters. Sister Grant found Fia sobbing in the hall as she waited with the elders, who were to be interviewed by their mission president. Through an interpreter, Sister Grant learned of Fia’s unsuccessful attempts to go to Zion. Also discovering that the young girl had no place to go and no money, Sister Grant felt compassion for Fia and asked if she would like to remain at the mission home to work as a maid. Fia gratefully accepted, though she had never had any experience as a domestic servant.
As they became better acquainted, Sister Grant realized that Fia had received a good education and possessed impressive musical talents. In spite of the fact that she had never done housework before, Fia knew how things should be done. She took pride in her work. Her disposition was so delightful that the whole family soon grew to love her. They marveled at her abilities, her patience, and her sweet spirit. They said she never spoke a cross word but always sang and gave praise to her Heavenly Father for the blessings she had received. Along with housekeeping duties, her first responsibility was the care of the two youngest Grant girls, Emily and Frances. Elder and Sister Grant traveled frequently on the continent, supervising the many areas of the European Mission, and they felt fortunate to know their daughters were under Fia’s care.
Fia believed in cold-water “Swedish” baths. Without a water heater in the bathroom, those who wanted a warm bath had to heat the water downstairs and carry it upstairs to the bathtub a bucket at a time, so Swedish baths were much more convenient. Each morning Fia filled the tub with cold water, tying a bag of rock salt to the faucet and letting the water run over it to simulate sea water. The squirming, protesting little girls were then given their morning “dip in the ocean.” After a quick bath, Fia rubbed them vigorously with a large fluffy towel. They said later that they hated their baths, but they loved Fia so dearly they were willing to endure them to please her.
Meanwhile, in Utah, Andrew Christofferson was unable to forget the lovely girl he’d fallen in love with. He remained single and continued to save money in hopes Fia would one day be able to make a successful journey to Utah.
As the mission term for the Grant family came to a close, President Grant decided to try to get Fia into the United States. He booked passage for her as a nurse for his children and hoped that as he was prepared to support her for the rest of her life, there would be no trouble with the immigration authorities. When their ship landed in New York, the excitement of returning home was nearly forgotten in the concern the Grant family had over whether Fia would be able to remain with them. But things went much easier than they had hoped. The immigration officers asked no questions and made no examinations. Fia was in!
The Grant family arrived in Salt Lake shortly before Christmas 1906. Fia was a most welcome addition. Elder Grant even talked of adopting her legally. Perhaps because of her age this was never done, but she was no longer considered hired help; she was loved and treated as a family member.
When Andrew Christofferson learned that Fia was living in Salt Lake City with the Grants, he wasted no time in calling to court her. Several months later, he asked Elder Grant for permission to marry Fia. Sophia and Andrew were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 14 June 1907 with Elder Grant performing the ceremony.
Andrew took his bride to Lehi to live in a very modest cottage. Circumstances were quite different from those to which she had been accustomed. The adjustments she had to make must have been difficult indeed. But Fia had never regretted giving up a life of ease for the sake of the gospel, nor did she regret giving up life in the comparative luxury of the Grant home for life on a small farm. She was cheerful and pleasant and made the best of her surroundings. She learned many new skills as a farmer’s wife and helped care for her mother-in-law as well.
In time their home was blessed with two sons and two daughters: Grant, Reed, Mia, and Ellen. The first boy was named after Heber J. Grant.
Because the light was very painful to her eyes, Fia seldom went out in public, but people were attracted to her home. She was known far and wide for her warm hospitality. All who came into her home felt her love. They were entertained and fed and, if downcast, were cheered and encouraged.
Aunt Fia’s one sadness was the loss of contact with her family in Sweden. To her knowledge, she was the only family member to have accepted the gospel. She always felt a keen responsibility toward her relatives and ancestors. She did what she could to secure their genealogy and have the temple work done for them.
Her dear Andrew died 17 June 1954. Aunt Fia lived alone in her home until she suffered a stroke a few months before her death. She was taken into the home of her devoted daughter, Mia, and cared for until she died suddenly of a heart attack on 8 May 1961, shortly before her eighty-second birthday.
Aunt Fia left memories that will be cherished by countless friends and relatives, and a legacy that will continue to bless many lives until we again enjoy the privilege of her friendship in the eternities.

Marvin R. VanDam, counselor in the Holladay Twentieth Ward Bishopric, Salt Lake Olympus Stake
The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

Throughout my youth, I attended a lot of firesides. I admit, I don’t recall everything, but one talk has always stuck with me. One of my leaders, who was previously an Air Force pilot, shared his experience with hypoxia—the lack of oxygen to a person’s body, which impacts their brain.
One of my leaders, who was previously an Air Force pilot, shared his experience with hypoxia—the lack of oxygen to a person’s body, which impacts their brain.
The leader explained that Air Force pilots are at risk of becoming hypoxic, so they undergo training where they are exposed to it. In one training session, he was instructed to take his oxygen mask off and then to put it back on when he felt himself becoming hypoxic. But he never put his mask back on—his friends had to do it for him.
After the training, his friends explained that they watched him suffer all the signs of hypoxia—bad decision-making, incoherent speech, and confusion. He said he hadn’t felt any of those symptoms and thought he had been acting normal, even though his friends could see that he was in danger.
Sometimes in life, we may find ourselves heading down the wrong path without always recognizing that what we’re doing isn’t right. We may make bad decisions, act differently, and be completely confused with life—just like hypoxia. The path toward eternal life is a path you can easily stray from if everyone around you isn’t committed to it too (see 1 Nephi 8:23, 28; 3 Nephi 14:13–14). This is when having bad friends can be harmful to your already-hypoxic state. Of course, bad friends aren’t necessarily bad people—I’m talking about friends who won’t put your oxygen mask back on and who are even possibly the ones who could lead you into a state of spiritual danger.
Growing up in Australia, I’ve been exposed to a variety of friends, inside and outside the Church—some were not positive influences. I’ve experienced situations where I felt certain I could stay on the strait and narrow path, but because of the influence of a few bad friends, their actions became the norm for me and I started following them.
What helped me to come to my senses was listening to my parents and Church leaders. I knew they wanted the best for my life and that they could see better than I that I was falling into a state of spiritual hypoxia. I tried to always stand in holy places. I attended young adult activities and church. Even when I spent a lot of my time at university and work, I found good friends. I’ve made a lot of friends who aren’t members of the Church, but who choose the right and are great role models. For example, I met one of my greatest friends in high school. She was always striving to be a better person, and even though she isn’t a member, she helped me recognize when I wasn’t choosing the right path for myself. And that’s what a great friend does.
In Proverbs 13:20 it reads, “He that walketh with the wise men shall be wise: but a companion of fools shall be destroyed.” I completely agree—the friends that you surround yourself with the most are the people who you will ultimately follow. Just as I didn’t realize, you may not recognize when you’re becoming spiritually hypoxic and following the wrong path or the wrong people. It’s important to listen to those who love you and to put yourself in places that are going to invite both good people and the Spirit. When I did these things, I found myself surrounded by better friends every day—friends who support me in my righteous decisions.
No matter where you are in the world, you can find friends who will always put your oxygen mask back on when you struggle to do it yourself. You can find friends who can help you out of the spiritually hypoxic state you may find yourself in. Your friends have so much more of an impact in your life than you may think, so find companionship with those who are choosing the right. I did, and it changed me and my future forever.