Gospel Story Finder

I lived this exact experience while deciding whether to accept a job offer here at BYU–Hawaii.

BYU–Hawaii Job Offer
In 2006, I was invited to be the university budget director. Most people think that is a job only an accountant can do. But I am not an accountant! I had a few accounting classes and worked in the BYU Budget Office in Provo for six years, but I am not a trained accountant.

While I loved my experience at BYU in Provo, I had left BYU and the Church Educational System two years earlier to work in private industry as an international sales and marketing manager. Part of the reason I left BYU is because I was regularly being approached with job offers to be the “controller of this” or the “chief financial officer of that” – jobs that typically require accounting expertise. I realized the longer I stayed, the more I would be limited to accounting related roles.

When I received the invitation to work at BYU–Hawaii and return to the Church Educational System I was eager because I love the mission so much, but also concerned what this might do to my career path. Surely anyone looking at my resume would presume that my efforts in sales and marketing had been unsuccessful and I was back where I belonged – in “accounting.”

Laurie and I prayed fervently, fasted often, and went to the temple multiple times trying to receive guidance. None came. The heavens seemed completely sealed.

I agonized over this decision. I was invited to visit the campus with my wife so that we could “feel the spirit of the place” and help us make our decision. This only made things more confusing.

I did feel the spirit of BYU–Hawaii and loved the thought of being here, but I also realized how very far away it was from everyone and everything I was familiar with.

Upon returning home, I had an unusual experience at work and another one at a ward function that I interpreted as God directing me not to accept the job. Absent any other direction from heaven, I decided to decline the offer.

While I was typing the email to announce my decision, a clear message came into my mind: “Don’t worry about your career. Do what is best for your family.” I stopped typing. After some additional thought and discussion with Laurie about what would be best for our family, I deleted what I had typed and replaced it with a message accepting the position.

Our experience at BYU–Hawaii has been life changing and I am so grateful God directed us here. My career has been fulfilling and I have had opportunities and experiences both at work and outside of work that I could not possibly have anticipated. I am so very grateful that God allowed me to exercise my agency, but also provided guidance when I was about to make an unfortunate choice.

There is one important lesson beyond the one Elder Scott described so accurately. Notice the divine directive that came into my mind was not, “Accept the job at BYU–Hawaii.” It was “Don’t worry about your career. Do what is best for your family.” God did not tell me how to respond to the job offer. He required me to exercise my agency to decide what was best for our family. But He also provided additional perspective and the comfort I needed to make the right choice for our family.

One of the biggest adjustments to life as a missionary is having a companion with you all the time. He or she may come from a different country, speak a different language, or have a different perspective on doing missionary work together. Missionaries have to learn to be comfortable spending so much time with someone else. And they have to learn how to teach together. Elder Juilfs recalls, “We had one lesson that was really rough. We had different ideas and were going against each other. But we learned how important it is to teach as a companionship and let ideas flow.”

Brad came into this life as innocent as any child, but it didn’t take long for us to realize that he was different. He couldn’t go to nursery without my husband or me with him because he was too aggressive. As he grew older and played with other children, he needed constant supervision. When we sought help, we were told that we just had to be more consistent with him. We did everything we could think of: we researched online, read parenting books, and asked doctors and family members. Finally, when Brad started school, he was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, or ADHD, as well as a host of other problems.
For the first time we felt we had hope. Now that we had a diagnosis, we could start a treatment plan. We were hopeful that Brad would respond well to a medication that had helped others. Unfortunately, Brad’s behavior on medication was worse than without it, so he had to stop. I felt the last bit of my hope drain away.
One day when Brad was six, I faced one of his many daily tantrums. I wanted to give up. I went to my room for a moment to myself, and tears rolled down my cheeks. I prayed for the strength to be able to face the approaching bedtime routine. How could I keep doing this, day after day? I felt like I was past what I could endure. Did Heavenly Father understand how hard it was? If He truly loved me, I reasoned, He would remove this burden from me and give my son a normal life. Those thoughts and feelings surrounded me as the trial I faced seemed to get worse instead of better.
I thought I understood trials. We were supposed to go through them like a pot being heated in a kiln. We’d go in and out of the fire, and then life would go back to normal until the next round of heating and tempering. But I had been facing this trial for years, and it was not going away. I felt the weight pressing down on me, and the feeling of helplessness brought me to my knees.
I then knew that the place I needed to go for comfort and understanding was the temple. By inspiration, I realized that we do not get to pick what trials we have in this life or how long they last. What we can control is the way we think and act when trials come.
I realized that the reason I was feeling sorry for myself was because I was allowing self-pity to fill my mind. The first thing I decided to do was stop any negative thoughts that crept in, such as “This is unfair,” “I can’t do this,” “Why can’t Brad be normal?” or the worst culprit, “I am such a bad mother.” I worked hard to stop the negative voice in my head, and I saw that my real voice became more patient and loving when I was dealing with all of my children.
I also encouraged positive thinking. I began to think, “You are doing great,” and I would give myself a compliment, such as “You kept your voice low and didn’t yell. Way to go!”
After a particularly hard day, I asked my husband to give me a blessing. During the blessing I was reminded that I am a daughter of God, that He is aware of me and my needs, and that my son is a son of God. Brad was God’s son first, and my husband and I have a partnership with God in Brad’s behalf. I realized that I had not been using all the tools that the partnership provides for me. My husband and I had researched and discovered many resources to help us, but we forgot the most significant one: prayer.
I began to pray daily about how I could help Brad. When he was having an emotional meltdown, I would say a quick prayer for inspiration before approaching him. As I relied on God for my support and for inspiration for my son, I got a glimpse of what I could be and what I could do for him. I strived to follow Alma’s words: “And this is my glory, that perhaps I may be an instrument in the hands of God” (Alma 29:9).
The changes were immediate. I was flooded with ideas and ways to help Brad. I used family home evening as a tool and prayed for ideas about what to teach. I also read the scriptures with more intent and recognized the great parenting advice they contain. I began to be filled with hope and comfort.
As I continued to put into practice the idea that my husband and I are partners with God in parenting our children and using the tools that He has given us, I began to rely on God more and more. I realized that my knowledge of parenting could only go so far, but a loving Heavenly Father, who knows all things and loves my son more than I do, could help me become a better and stronger mother. And though I still sometimes falter, I know where to look for help. I understand now that some trials may not have a time limit on them, but if I keep my eye on eternity, God will help me.
When times were tough, I learned to take time to feel joy in the little moments—the gifts—that are given to us. When my son cannot help but give me a kiss, I am grateful. When I watched my son ride the bus without anyone to sit with, I was blessed to have this scripture come into my mind: “I will go before your face. I will be on your right hand and on your left, and my Spirit shall be in your hearts, and mine angels round about you, to bear you up” (D&C 84:88). I knew that Brad was not alone and never will be.
We are an eternal family, and with the help of people who love us and our loving Heavenly Father watching over us, I can appreciate the small gifts given to me daily and feel the joy and happiness that we are meant to have. And with those small blessings and the help of the Lord, I can become who I am meant to be, no matter how long it takes.

Trent sat high in the oak tree, dangling one leg over a thick branch. When Jared and Tom called to him from below, he didn’t even hear them. He was daydreaming about a book he had been reading. His Grandma Jessop had given him Pioneer Children for his birthday. After reading the book for a while, he had left it on his bed and climbed the tree to think about the pioneer children and their amazing experiences.
One boy in the book had saved his two little sisters when their house and fields caught fire. Another had found food for his family because his father was away fighting in the war.
The stories told about the many dangers that the pioneer children faced—bears, coyotes, Indians, even starvation. Trent wished that he had lived then. He would have met the challenges! He could outsmart Indians or scare away coyotes. As a Boy Scout he had learned how to make a cave in the snow where he could keep himself and his little brother warm if they got lost, just like a girl had done in one of the stories. He would share a piece of bread with a hungry child, even if it were all he had.
But it would never happen to Trent. His mother could buy him anything he wanted in the supermarket—any type of bread, fresh fruits and vegetables year round, even cookies and candies.
Finally, the voices below broke through Trent’s reverie.
“Trent! What’s the matter with you?” Jared called. “Have you gone deaf or something?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve been hollering at you to come down,” Tom said.
“What for?”
“Who knows? We’ll just walk around till we find something to do.”
Yeah, I’ll bet, Trent thought. Jared and Tom were his best friends, but lately they were often into some kind of mischief. Trent climbed partway down the tree and then dropped to the ground.
“What were you doing up there, anyway?” Jared asked.
“I was thinking about this book I’ve been reading,” Trent answered. “It’s all about—”
“A book!” Jared sneered. “Don’t you have anything better to do than read books?”
Trent looked searchingly at Jared, trying to see past the dark eyes and freckles that he had come to know so well. Tom, too, was almost as familiar as a brother, although he had moved into the neighborhood only six months ago.
“What’s with you, Jared?” asked Trent. “You used to like to read. You used to like the other things I like too.”
Jared just ignored Trent’s question.
“Hey, look,” Tom said, pointing. “Here comes Reggie. Let’s have some fun with him.”
Trent winced.
Reggie was huffing and puffing up the hill on his bike, sweat beading on his forehead, a paper sack held tightly in one hand. Reggie tried his best, but he just couldn’t do a lot of things very well, and he attended a special class for slow learners.
“Hey, dumbo,” Tom said as Reggie neared them, “dumb kids aren’t allowed on this street. You’ll have to go back around the other way.”
Reggie stopped and straddled his bike. He looked around, confused.
“What’s the matter?” Tom went on, “Don’t you know the way?”
Jared snickered. Reggie was older than they were. He was stronger, too, but he looked afraid.
“What’s in the sack?” Tom asked.
“Candy.”
“Mmm, let’s see,” Jared said, grabbing the sack away from Reggie. “Maybe you have my favorite kind of candy in there.”
Jared dumped out the candy, and he and Tom began dividing it between them.
Reggie blinked a few times, and Trent saw tears in his eyes. “My daddy gave me the money,” Reggie quavered. “I earned it.”
“Ha!” Tom jeered. “What did you have to do to earn it? Tie your own shoes?”
“Button your own shirt?” Jared added.
Trent felt tears starting in his own eyes. He didn’t want to go against his two best friends, but he knew what he had to do. “Stop it!” he shouted.
Tom and Jared looked at him, surprised. Even Reggie looked surprised. Trent grabbed the candy out of his friends’ hands.
“Aw, c’mon,” Tom said. “We’re just having a little fun.”
“Well it’s not much fun for Reggie, is it?” Trent asked as he handed the sack and candy back to Reggie.
“No,” Reggie said, wiping the tears off his cheeks.
“Come on,” Trent said, his hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “I’ll walk with you.”
As they walked, balancing the bike between them, Trent and Reggie talked. They talked about bicycles and allowances, and Reggie told Trent about his new puppy.
When they waved good-bye, Trent felt good about what he’d done. He realized that although he hadn’t faced starvation or bears, as the pioneer children in his book had, by standing in his against his friends to help Reggie, he had acted with courage too. It was just another kind of courage.

We just recently had our third child, a baby girl named Faith. During the delivery, my wife was having some complications and we were scared for our baby. I gave Julia a blessing. Then she asked me to sing to her. The Spirit brought peace to both of us. Soon baby Faith came safely into the world. It was a miracle, and she definitely lived up to her name. Faith’s beautiful smile brightens my life. I can’t express in words how much she means to me.

You will be proud of me because I am going to memorize all the Articles of Faith before you come home. Mom is helping me. I already know the first two. I told Mom that I want to do the hardest one next, so we picked number thirteen. Every day she tells me part of it, and I repeat it until I have it memorized.
But maybe you can tell me something, Reed. Why do we believe in being chased by an elephant? Last night when Ben, Natalie’s date, came to get her for a movie, I told him that we believe in being chased by an elephant. Natalie told me not to be silly. But I was serious.
I think that I’ve figured out the mystery of being “chased by an elephant.” Sometimes things sound different from what they really are. What sounded to you like “chased by an elephant” is really “chaste, benevolent.” Those are big words, and they’re not easy to understand. Chaste means to be pure and clean in the things that we think and do. Benevolent means to be kind and loving in everything that we think and in our treatment of people and all other living things. Keep up the good work in your memorizing. I’m proud of you.

One night after I came out of the church, my new silver CTR ring fell out of my pocket. My dad and uncle shined the headlights of their cars into the bushes, but I still couldn’t find it. I was feeling sad. My mom said we should have a family prayer. After the prayer, I walked through the bushes and felt a prompting to look down. There was my ring under a bush! I know that my prayer was answered and that yours can be, too.Brian Seegmiller, age 10Fairfield, California

Throughout my life, I believed that there must be a spiritual link between my ancestors and me.
My grandparents often told stories and showed pictures of my ancestors, and I felt closer to them each time we discussed them. My family and I were not members of the Church, but my grandma still taught me to pray daily. And through those prayers, I started to believe in God and in the idea that my departed ancestors were somehow living on.
In Hungary we celebrate a holiday the day after Halloween called All Saints’ Day. On this occasion, everyone visits cemeteries where their loved ones and ancestors are buried, and we lay flowers on their graves and light candles to remember and honor them.
When I was little, I felt privileged to have an even deeper connection with my ancestors, as I was actually born on All Saints’ Day. It was always an extra-special day for me.
But I would also often complain about visiting my ancestors, because I didn’t want to spend my birthday in cemeteries. I didn’t see what was so unique about visiting the same graves every year, especially when they belonged to ancestors whom I hadn’t ever met.
As I’ve grown and gained a testimony of the gospel, however, I’ve come to know much more about God’s plan of happiness and the sacredness of family history work. I know that everyone can and should treasure their ancestors and strive to have a deep connection with these vital members of our families.

“Well, my dear daughter, it all depends on where you want to go!” the father answered as he gently led her by the arm over to mother’s nearby quilting project. “Let’s take a little tuft of this cotton upstairs to your room and put it on the turntable of your record player.” He molded the cotton with his fingers into a small ball as they entered her room and walked over to the record player. Then he placed the ball on the very edge of the turntable and said, “Now turn it on.
She did so, and after three or four revolutions the little cotton ball went flying out into the room.
“Turn the record player off,” the father directed, “and put the cotton at the center of the disc. Now turn it on again.”
She did as she was told, and round and round the turntable went. But this time the tuft of cotton did not move.
“That is what I mean by centrifugal and centripetal forces,” the father continued. “One force causes an object to flee from the center, and the other directs an object toward the center.”

The big husky leaped at Jack Norbon, who tumbled backward in the snow, struggling with the dog. They wrestled in the soft drifts, play-growling at each other.
Finally Jack shouted, “Enough, Nanook!”
The dog stopped, panting. His amber eyes glowed with affection for the boy, who scratched Nanook lovingly behind his ears.
Jack glanced at four other huskies tethered nearby. “A guy never had better friends than you,” he told them.
The dogs yelped and leaped when he spoke, but all the while they eyed a large pan of food he had brought.
Jack visited each animal, dishing out gobs of cornmeal and dried fish cooked together.
“You might not have won any ribbons at the Alaska State Fair last week,” the boy said fondly, “but you aren’t built for speed, just good old-fashioned hard work.”
The dogs were huge Mackenzie River huskies—broad of shoulder with deep chests and wide feet. Strong muscles rippled under their think fur, and Nanook, the smallest, weighed ninety pounds. Jack had purchased them from a trapper when they were pups.
When he had finished ladling each animal its share, Jack gave them a final pat and returned to the house. He was hungry himself, for he had worked hard all day helping the family to get ready to leave for town so Jack could attend a regular school. Until now, he had taken lessons by correspondence. “Lessons by mail are fine,” his mother had said, “but a thirteen-year-old boy needs friends.”
Jack admitted it would be a nice change. He did get lonely sometimes, even with the dogs. Town was twenty miles from the small mine that his father owned, and Jack rarely saw anybody his own age.
As Jack entered the living room, his father looked up from a book he was reading. “I’m proud of the way you helped today,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, hemmed a minute, and added, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sell your dogs, Jack.”
The boy stared at his father, scarcely understanding. “Sell them? But why, Dad? I don’t understand.”
“We can’t have dogs in town, son. Out here where they earn their keep it’s different. But we just can’t afford to have them lying around in town.”
“But, Dad, they’re my best friends. I can’t sell them!” exclaimed Jack.
Dad’s voice was firm. “If the mine had paid better this year, we could have kept them. As it is …” Then in a reasoning voice he added, “Jack, they eat like horses. You know that.”
The boy groaned. He knew his dad was right. “If only they had won some prize money at the races last week,” he agonized.
“It would have helped,” agreed his father. He put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I know what they mean to you, and I’m really sorry.”
“It’s all right, Dad.” Jack sighed. “If the dogs can’t pay their way, I shouldn’t expect anybody else to do it. But I wonder where I can sell them.”
“Ron Snite at the Weasel Mine has offered $500 for them.”
Jack drew back. “Old Snite! Dad, he beats his dogs. I’ve seen him do it.”
“We’ll make him agree not to.”
“I don’t think he’d live up to the agreement. He thinks all dogs are brutes and that’s the way he treats them.” Jack was growing desperate. “Can I try to find another buyer first?”
His father nodded. “Of course. You have a week before we’ll be moving.”
When Jack sat down to eat supper, he found that his appetite had vanished. The thought of Snite getting his beautiful team made him feel sick. There just has to be another buyer somewhere! he thought.
The next few days were hectic for Jack. Helping with the packing and trying to interest people in the Mackenzies forced him to keep long hours. He traveled all over the territory, trying to find a place for his team, but the answers were pretty much the same, “Sorry, Jack, just haven’t got any place to keep those giants.”
For the first time, the boy was sorry the dogs weren’t racers. “Then you’d be smaller, and not so much of a problem,” he said to Nanook. “People don’t want to fuss with big dogs.” Even when Jack pointed out that Nanook was one of the best leaders in the country, the answer was always, “No, thanks.”
One day Snite himself paid Jack a visit. His little beady eyes glittered evilly. “Your dad promised me those dogs,” he growled. “I hear you’ve been trying to sell them elsewhere.”
“They’re mine till they’re paid for,” replied Jack evenly. “Until then I can sell them to anybody I choose.”
Snite grinned, revealing yellow, snaggly teeth. “I’ll get them,” he vowed. “Nobody but me can feed those monsters.”
Yeah, thought Jack glumly, the reason you can feed them is that you won’t feed them enough. And his heart ached when he thought of what could happen to them.
The day after Snite’s visit, Dad went to town to look after their new house, leaving Jack and his mother alone.
His plan was to return the following day, but that night a terrible storm raged across the land. The snow whipped into great drifts and the wind lashed and howled until daylight. The storm left telephone lines strewn through the trees, and the town road had practically disappeared.
“Dad will be lucky if he gets back in a week,” said Jack at breakfast.
“I suppose that makes you happy,” his mother replied with a knowing smile.
“I just hate to sell the dogs to Snite, Mom.”
“I know, son, but you can save the money for college. Years from now, the dogs will be helping you like the good friends they are.”
Jack admitted that that was true, but somehow the thought didn’t cheer him much. The money wouldn’t make up for the damage to the team if they were sold to Snite.
That evening Jack went to feed the dogs. Because darkness comes early in the Alaskan winter, he stumbled through the drifts to visit each animal. He had just reached behind Nanook’s ears for a goodnight scratch when he heard a scream from the house. It was his mother’s voice.
Floundering across the yard, the boy crashed through the door. His mother was lying on the floor, pale and in much pain.
“It’s my leg,” she gasped. “I was cleaning the shelves above the sink and slipped off the chair.”
The leg was bruised and swollen, and there was a peculiar bump halfway up the shin. “I think it’s broken,” she said weakly.
Jack knew he shouldn’t try to move his mother if her leg were broken, so he put a pillow under her head and covered her with a blanket. Meanwhile, his mind was racing frantically. What shall I do? The telephone lines are down, so I can’t call town for a doctor. And the mine vehicles could never get through the drifts.
Whenever his mother moved, she moaned, and Jack knew he was going to have to do something quickly. “I’ll go to town and bring back a doctor!” he declared.
“It’s dark and twenty miles to town,” protested his mother. “I’m afraid you couldn’t make it.”
“Nanook can find his way blindfolded,” Jack assured her. “And something has to be done now, Mom.”
Jack swiftly hitched up the dogs, then checked back in the house to make sure the stoves were stocked with fuel. He covered his mother with more blankets and answered her anxious eyes with a grin. “Don’t worry, Mom. Those dogs and I can go anywhere in the world.” Then he kissed her and dashed to his waiting team. “Mush!” he cried, and the dogs leaped at their harnesses. Though it was pitch black, the team swung out unerringly onto the drifted highway.
“Haw!” yelled Jack, and Nanook, who was in lead position, turned left toward town.
Through the inky darkness they sped, the sled bursting through three-foot drifts in billowing sprays. Over hills and down long valleys the dogs and boy swept. Sometimes Jack rode on the rear runners, but most of the time he ran behind with his hands on the handlebars. It was so dark, he couldn’t see the shoulders of the road, but Nanook held a true course.
An hour passed, but the team’s strength didn’t flag. If anything, their speed increased as they warmed to the job. The night was cold, but Jack was soaked with perspiration as they pushed forward at a mile-eating pace.
Racing dogs might be faster, he thought, but they’d have lost this race. This is a trail that only dogs with stamina can handle.
At one place on top of a huge drift the sled tipped over. Jack tumbled in an avalanche of snow, and the sled landed on top of him. He felt a sharp stab of pain, but quick testing proved he’d only pulled a muscle.
On through the night they lunged, and the boy and his team reached town in just over two hours. Jack ran to the nearest store and called his father at their new home.
“I’ll get Doc Nelson,” his dad answered after Jack explained the problem. “He has a motorized snow car that will go anywhere. You come on to the house.”
But by the time Jack reached their new house, his father had already gone. The boy unhitched the dogs, scrounged some food and water for them, and then bedded them down. “You’re winners,” he said proudly. Then he put his arms around Nanook’s neck and added, “I’m sure going to miss you, my friend.” The husky lavished warm licks on him.
Late that night when Jack’s father returned, he looked tired, but happy. “Mom’s going to be all right,” he said. “Thanks to you, she’s in the hospital resting.”
“No, Dad,” Jack shook his head. “It’s thanks to the dogs.”
Dad considered a moment, then he went to his desk and wrote a note. He gave it to Jack to read—“Mr. Snite, sorry, but we plan to keep the dogs. Ten thousand dollars couldn’t buy them now. John Norbon.”
“You were right, Jack,” said the boy’s father. “You could never sell such good friends.”

Leonard and Vera Chisango of Zimbabwe experienced challenges even with effective planning. They had prepared to serve missions their whole married life, and they knew their pensions and investments could sustain them for their first mission at the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. But while they were serving, the economy suddenly took a huge downturn, and their investments were greatly reduced.
With the help of their family, the Chisangos stayed on their mission. The blessings of that sacrifice were gratifying: their son’s business performed well, their daughter was promoted at work, and their children learned to work together in support of their parents.

As one of the best center forwards his age, this young man is said to have the ability to score from anywhere. Surprisingly, football didn’t interest David when he was young. “My older brothers had to push me into playing with them to make up the numbers,” he remembers.

But by age 11, David’s talent for the sport was obvious. Selected as the best player in his school, David was chosen to play for his hometown of Bolton. As one of the best players for Bolton, he was picked by scouts to play for Oldham Athletic. When his four-year contract with Oldham ended, Manchester United couldn’t wait to have him.

As the only Latter-day Saint on the team, he has the opportunity to raise his standards high. “The other players respect me for my beliefs. They don’t tease me about my social life when I don’t follow them to the pubs. They know I don’t drink, and they respect that decision.”

In order to keep his testimony strong, David actively attends Sunday meetings and weekday activities. “I’ve recently been set apart as a stake missionary, and I serve as a home teacher,” he says. His work as a stake missionary should have a positive effect on those in the Manchester area—many of whom follow Manchester United and may recognize David.

“The Church plays an important role in my life,” David says. “Participating in seminary helped build my testimony growing up.” Arising at 6:00 A.M. daily, David attended early-morning seminary for four years. His mother, who has taught seminary for 13 years, taught his older brothers with him.

“My brothers set good examples and uplift me,” says David. The Brown brothers wrestle and tease each other, as brothers do, but their teamwork is apparent. They care for each other and desire to see one another succeed. One by one, his three older brothers have left to serve missions: Bryce to Oklahoma, USA; Gary to London, England; and Paul to Leeds, England. As each brother graduated from seminary and left to serve a mission, the class became smaller. By his final year of seminary, David was the only student in his mother’s class. However, he didn’t mind. He continued to strengthen his testimony by studying the scriptures.

As his teacher and mother, Sister Brown has seen David’s testimony develop. “He’s got courage to live the gospel no matter what anyone else says,” she declares.

A favorite scripture that keeps David strong in the face of adversity is Doctrine and Covenants 82:10: “I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.” David says, “I know that when I apply this principle in my life, everything else will fall into place.”

An area in which he has put the Lord first is in Sunday matches. Though football tournaments are often scheduled on Sunday, David decided at age 11 that he wouldn’t play on the Sabbath. His coach and manager respected him for this decision and worked around it with him. David relates how the Lord blessed him for his obedience: “In England, matches are often postponed because of bad weather. At the end of one season, all the Sunday matches that had been deferred were played midweek instead. I was able to play in all six games—and I scored 32 goals.” As a result, David earned the title of top scorer for the season and a reputation as “the boy who never plays on a Sunday.”

David enjoys spending the little free time he has relaxing at home with his parents and brothers. He says, “My best friends are my brothers.” They are all close in age: Bryce is 25, Gary is 22, Paul is 21, David is 18, and Stephen is 15. With no other priesthood holders between the ages of 15 and 20 in their ward, they encourage each other to be active in the gospel.

A key to David’s success is hard work. His mum recalls how independent David wished to be as a boy. “He has always been a worker,” she says. “Whether it was homework or seminary booklets, he would just get on with it without being nagged. David coined the phrase in our house, ‘I’ll do it on me own,’ for which we always tease him. David has the ability to work hard at whatever he does.”

For others who are striving for success in any endeavor, David offers the following advice: “Try hard in anything you want to do, and always put the Lord first.” His determination to be a star football player has set him on a course for greatness. But greatness won’t come solely from developing the athletic talents he’s been given. By following the examples set by his brothers, parents, and team members, David will do what he does best—work hard, put the Lord first, and keep his eye on the goal.

“Mom!” The high-pitched wail made me wince.
What now? I wondered. The children had gone to bed, and I was going about my evening activities. My husband was at a late meeting.
I went upstairs, bracing myself for what I thought was another argument between siblings, and found my youngest child, Michaella, with red-rimmed eyes. “My ear hurts, Mom.”
Oh, no, I thought. Why does this always happen at night? I couldn’t justify the expense of an emergency-room visit for an ear infection, so I used all the home remedies I knew and tucked her in. “Try to sleep now,” I said. “I’ll call the doctor as soon as her office opens in the morning.”
Downstairs again, I felt anxious and could not concentrate. I went to the kitchen and halfheartedly began to wipe the counters. Then with a sudden motion I threw down the cloth. I headed back upstairs to check on Michaella, moving softly in case she was asleep. I stopped halfway up. Through the open door at the top of the stairs, I could hear sobs.
I could not take it. I couldn’t just stand by, helpless, while my child suffered. I sank down on the stairs, tears running down my face. I prayed. I pleaded. I trembled as I told the Lord I would do everything I could to help my daughter and then I would leave the rest up to Him. After taking a few deep breaths, I climbed the rest of the stairs, sat on my daughter’s bed, and smoothed her damp hair.
“It hurts bad, Mom.” The usual dimple in her cheek wasn’t there. Her face was pale. Fatigue and pain had made dark smudges under her eyes.
I decided I would not wait until my husband returned; I would risk looking like an overanxious, overprotective, and overreacting mother. “I’m going to call our home teacher, OK?”
Michaella nodded.
I made the call, feeling somewhat awkward. When I asked our home teacher if he would give Michaella a blessing, his answer was, “Of course.” A short while later he arrived, smiling, as if driving out late at night was his favorite thing to do.
While he performed the blessing I felt hope lighten my heavy heart. I thanked him as he left, then put Michaella to bed again. She was asleep within minutes.
The next morning she seemed so much better, I was tempted to skip calling the pediatrician. But I had promised the Lord I would do everything I could.
Later that morning, I watched the doctor closely. She peered through her scope into Michaella’s ear and said, “You didn’t get much sleep last night, did you?” It wasn’t really a question; it was a statement.
“She slept straight through the night,” I said.
I took a mental photograph of the doctor’s astonished face.
I knew then that we had had our own little miracle. No seas were parted, no lepers cleansed, no dead raised. It had simply been a night of peace, without pain, for a little girl.
For me, it was enough.

In Malawi, Africa, everyone had to walk. There were very few cars. One afternoon, the Spirit whispered to Elder Henderson to give a ride to a young man walking along the road. Elder Henderson invited Steven, his wife, and his two small daughters to come to church that Sunday. They came, and we taught them the gospel and the blessings of making covenants or promises by being baptized into the Lord’s true church. They were baptized. However, Steven and his little family soon faced some hard challenges. When the landlord found they were seeing Mormons, they came home one day to find all their furniture on the road, and they were kicked out of their house. Then Steven faced some hard temptations at work and made some mistakes.
When Elder Henderson and I flew back to the Utah, we were a little discouraged. Many hungry children had been fed from our factory and our little church group was meeting each week, but could it last without us? Maybe we did more bad than we did good. Maybe it would have been better if we had not come.
Months later, we heard that the Church was growing. A few years later, we heard that our convert friend Steven had returned to church. He had forgotten some of his baptismal covenants and had made some mistakes, but the Lord had not forgotten His part of the covenants. Even though Steven was lost for a time, the Holy Ghost reached out to him and helped him remember the promises he made. Steven repented. He paid back the people he hurt. He confessed his mistakes to the branch president and became a stronger husband and father. Soon Steven and his family were back in church each Sunday and helping others to learn about the Savior’s plan of happiness.
Two weeks ago, we received an email from Steven:
“This morning I went to lead at a new church group, which will soon be organized into a branch. This will be the fifth branch in the capital Lilongwe. As I was sitting there in front and watching these members who have been walking many miles every Sunday to the Lilongwe branch, I was filled with the Spirit, and I was reminded of you. In a few days to come, Lilongwe will be organized into a district (like a small stake). The Church in Lilongwe is growing so fast that we cannot even understand it. I will always remember that Saturday afternoon when you gave me a ride and introduced the Church to me. Steven.”
We learned from this experience that teaching Steven and the Ntoloas is not our work. It is Heavenly Father’s work. We are His servants, and if we are willing, He will use us to bless many, many people.

When Henry and Mary entered Salt Lake City on September 15, 1866, it had been more than four years since they had seen their mother. Henry walked proudly at the head of the train, his clothes in tatters, his hair sticking out in all directions. In honor of the occasion, he was wearing a pair of boots, many sizes too large, that he had discovered in a burned-out pony express station.
His mother was nowhere to be seen. When the company halted for the last time, Henry sat on a crate in a wagon, heartsick, watching the happy reunions between loved ones. At last he saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl approaching. He went to her and said, “Hey, Mother.”
“Is that you, Henry?” she asked. “Where is Mary?” Mary was hiding inside a wagon, ashamed of her ragged clothing. The family was finally reunited. However, there was sad news. During her journey to Utah, Sister Roberts had watched her baby, Thomas, weaken and die. She had buried him in a donated breadbox coffin along the way.

We know the Lord makes His servants bold. The young boy Joseph who saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, in a grove of trees was transformed into a spiritual giant. Parley P. Pratt saw that when the Prophet Joseph Smith rebuked the vile guards who held them captive. Elder Pratt recorded:
“On a sudden he arose to his feet, and spoke in a voice of thunder, or as the roaring lion, uttering, as near as I can recollect, the following words:
“‘SILENCE, ye fiends of the infernal pit. In the name of Jesus Christ I rebuke you, and command you to be still; I will not live another minute and hear such language. Cease such talk, or you or I die THIS INSTANT!’”
Of that experience, Elder Pratt wrote, “Dignity and majesty have I seen but once, as it stood in chains, at midnight, in a dungeon in an obscure village of Missouri.”3

My friends, let's go back in time to late November of 1989. I was a senior attending Malad High School (Idaho); the Oakland A's had just won the World Series; popular hairstyles were spiked for boys and big hair (i.e. lots of Aqua Net) for the girls; Milli Vanilli was at the top of the pop charts; cell phones and the Internet were not available to the common man; and would you believe Robin Williams, the guy who played Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire, inspired a nation with this phrase from the movie Dead Poets Society: "Carpe diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your lives extraordinary."
With that background, I would like to tell a story that my mother wrote about a family trip to Oregon.
It was very cold, about 34 degrees, with sleeting rain through the Columbia River Gorge. Da'lynne, Laura, Zane, Dad (Richard), and I (DayOnna) were in the gray Starcraft van heading back to Malad, Idaho, from Aloha, Oregon, where we had spent the Thanksgiving holiday with Grandma Bowen. Roger and Tyler stayed back in Malad because of basketball practices.
We had a bed set up in back of the van so anyone could lie down and try to sleep because the trip took nearly 14 hours to complete. Dad drove us to John Day but was tired of fighting the weather, so he climbed in the back to rest, and I started driving. As usual, all the kids were fighting over the front seat, yelling back and forth, "Shotgun!" Zane, eight years old and the youngest child, had no say in the matter; therefore, he was sitting in his usual spot on top of the cooler between the two front seats.
Times have changed. We had no car seats for kids and no seat belt laws, nor cell phones nor iPads to entertain the kids. Can you imagine? Continuing from my mom's journal entry:

I had been driving about an hour when everyone began complaining that they needed to go to the bathroom. The Boardman rest stop was coming up, so I pulled in. With Dad asleep in the back of the van, all the kids and I got out to use the facilities. When I got back to the car, I asked the kids if we were all there, and they responded, "Yes."

We started down the road with the intention to get across the Blue Mountains before it got dark and temperatures dropped to freezing. When I hit Pendleton, the kiddy choir started up again, all professing their undying hunger. I didn't want to pull over, but there was a McDonald's at the last Pendleton exit just before we started up the Blue Mountains range. I pulled in to the McDonald's parking lot and turned off the car. I turned to Zane and asked him to wake Dad and get some money. He got a funny look on his face like "oh no!" I asked him again to wake Dad and get money, and he responded, "I can't; he is not here."

"What! Where is he?" I asked.

Zane replied, "Back at the rest stop." Apparently Dad woke up after the girls, Zane, and I went to the restroom. As Zane came out of the men's room, he saw Dad go in but didn't think to tell us about it until I asked him to get the money from Dad.

Needless to say, I turned around and hot-footed it back to Boardman going 90 miles an hour. It took an hour to backtrack.[1]

Now, let me be very clear here. What my dad went through was not a pleasant experience. He left his coat in the car and tried to stay warm by running his hands under the hand dryer in the men's restroom. Yet he would be the first one to tell you that he is as guilty of forgetfulness as the next person.

Mike’s interest in amateur radio (the term ham is a nickname for the same thing) began while he was young. “We set up an electric train in the basement when I was about five, and I started figuring out how it ran. I’ve been working with wires ever since.”
“My uncle gave me a home-built transmitter, which I used along with a receiver I built from a kit. You can get a novice (beginner’s) license from the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), and with less than $100 worth of equipment, be operating a Morse code station.”
Mike got his novice license in August 1975, received his general license eight months later, his advanced license “a couple of months after that,” and now holds the highest license, the extra class license. There is one other license, the technician license, but it is used mostly for business communication, and higher licenses have the same privileges, so Mike bypassed it.
A novice licensee is allowed to broadcast only in Morse code. If he attains a higher license, however, he is allowed to broadcast his voice. “I started out memorizing Morse code,” Mike says. “Then I had a record with a very slow code speed, and I practiced off the air. Once I got on the air, I didn’t have any interest in receiving from a record. The main thing that pushed me to learn code was foreign stations sending it faster than I could receive, so I kept on pushing.”

Elder Alma Sonne lifted his nose and inhaled the smell of the Liverpool dock—a mixture of wet rope, steam from ships, and bustling crowds. He’d spent hours here as the mission secretary, arranging travel from England to America for both Saints and missionaries. Now it was his turn to travel home to his family and his sweetheart.
“The Mauretania,” he announced to the four missionaries who would be traveling with him, gesturing to the ship before them. “She’s over 750 feet long and weighs 30,000 tons—”
“I’m sure she’s a nice ship, but she’s no Titanic.” Elder Chambers sighed.
“The Titanic! The Ship of Dreams! The Wonder Ship! The Millionaire’s Special!” Elder Sayer said, quoting the nicknames for the new luxury liner that had set sail just three days before. The Titanic was 11 stories high and almost three football fields long!
Alma had originally booked tickets for all of the missionaries to sail home on the Titanic. But those plans had changed when Alma had received a telegram from Elder Fred Dahle, one of the missionaries who was supposed to travel with them. The telegram said that he had been delayed and wouldn’t arrive on time to sail on the Titanic. So Alma had canceled everyone’s tickets.
“I know you’re disappointed, but we couldn’t just leave Fred,” Alma told the other elders again. They weren’t too happy to miss the Titanic’s first voyage across the Atlantic.
“Where is Fred, anyway?” Elder Sayer asked.
“Here!” Fred called, coming toward them. He wore a big smile, and Alma grinned back. His friend had changed a lot over the past couple of years. Two years ago Fred hadn’t gone to church much. When he and Alma received mission calls to Great Britain at the same time, Alma had convinced Fred to accept the call to serve. Fred had turned out to be an excellent missionary, and Alma looked forward to spending time with him on the journey home.
The six missionaries all boarded the Mauretania and waved goodbye to the Liverpool Saints as the ship pulled away from the dock.
The journey was uneventful until four days later, when a member of the crew pulled Alma aside.
“Did you hear about the Titanic?”
“No, what about it?” Alma asked.
“She sunk two days ago, on April 15,” the man said quietly. “Hit an iceberg on a cold, moonless night.”
Alma felt like all of the air was sucked out of his lungs.
“And the passengers?”
“Only 705 survivors, according to the latest reports. The ship didn’t have enough lifeboats. More than 1,500 of the passengers and crew were lost.”
More than 1,500 people lost. Alma felt like his head was spinning as he walked to the cabin to share the news with the other elders. They sat in stunned silence.
“That could have been us,” one of the elders finally said.
The other missionaries nodded.
“I’m going to the deck to get some fresh air,” Alma said. Fred came with him. The two friends stared silently into the dark, icy waters of the Atlantic.
What Happened to Alma?
Alma Sonne returned home safely and married his sweetheart, Geneva Ballantyne. He later served as an Assistant to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He never forgot about the lessons he learned from the Titanic.
“You saved my life,” Alma said, thinking of Fred’s telegram. If it hadn’t been for Fred, they all would’ve been on that ship.
“No,” Fred said. “By getting me on this mission, you saved my life.”
Alma put his arm around Fred. Heavenly Father had preserved their lives in more ways than one.

Beth Tracy accepted a call to serve in the Los Angeles California Stake Primary with apprehension. As a convert to the Church who had never attended Primary and had served mostly with adults, Beth wondered, “What can I offer to children?” But through substitute teaching in a nursery, encouraging other Primary leaders who were also feeling inadequate, and learning to love children of many nationalities, she found satisfaction and joy—the results of Christlike service to her fellow beings (see Mosiah 2:17).