Gospel Story Finder

“Go away! Go away!” Little Wolf shouted, looking back and racing over the carpet of pine needles as fast as his legs would carry him.
But the small bear cub kept making lonely little grunts as it followed him. The cub had lost its mother and was willing to accept anyone as a substitute—even a frightened Indian boy!
Little Wolf had been picking berries for his mother when he peeked through the bushes and saw the small bear standing awkwardly on its hind legs, stretching to nibble off the juicy berries that hung in clusters all along the branches.
The boy had stood quietly, grinning with delight as he watched the clumsiness of the small grizzly. He would have liked to pet him, but Little Wolf’s father, Chief Otoe, had taught him that it was very dangerous to bother the young of any wild animal.
There was nothing sweet and cuddly about a mother grizzly, especially if she felt one of her cubs was in danger. Certain that the cub’s mother would not be far away, Little Wolf had begun to slip backwards through the brush, away from the little bear. But he wasn’t able to glide silently through the forest as the braves could, and suddenly a small dry twig cracked like a whip under his moccasin.
The cub had seen the boy and eagerly loped toward him. All Little Wolf could think of was the cub’s mother. “Go away! Go back to your mother!” he kept shouting, as he ran toward his village.
Looking backward over his shoulder, the boy failed to see a big log lying in his path. He tripped over it and sailed through the air, then fell face down in the pine needles.
“My mother has always said they should have named me Clumsy Wolf,” Little Wolf grunted. “And she is right.” Sitting up, he tried to straighten the broken feather in his headband, which had flown off when he fell.
The cub caught up with the frightened boy. It pounced on him and pawed playfully at Little Wolf’s drawn-up knees; then it began to lap at his bare chest and nuzzle his chin. What would the braves think if they saw the Chief’s son being kissed by a bear!
Climbing over the logs, Little Wolf threw some sticks at the cub and limped into a clearing that surrounded a small cluster of tepees on the bank of a clear and sparkling brook.
No one laughed at the sight of the dusty, tired boy jogging into the village with a grizzly close behind. They were all afraid that an enraged bear might be close behind the pair. The mothers hurried small children inside the tepees. Several of the braves put arrows in their bows and stood waiting.
“I should have run the other way—away from the village,” Little Wolf panted. Now he had put everyone in danger! He always seemed to do everything wrong. Would he ever learn to be a real brave? Suddenly he snatched up the cub and, ignoring his mother’s cries, raced back into the forest as fast as he could go. If I can find the mother bear, he thought, I can return her cub. Then our village will be safe!
“Being little has some advantages,” he mumbled, beginning to tire. The little bear was heavy and kept turning its head to lap at Little Wolf’s chin, as if they were playing a game! The boy slowed and began to walk carefully when he approached the berry patch. Putting the cub down, he shoved it toward a branch hanging heavy with purple fruit. He sighed with relief as the little bear gave a grunt of pleasure and began eating. Now Little Wolf could sneak off.
A loud, sniffling grunt from the other side of the bushes made Little Wolf stiffen in sudden panic. Luckily he was close to a tall tree. There were no low branches he could leap to and grab, but climbing trees was one thing Little Wolf did well. Wrapping his arms and legs around the slender trunk, he shinnied his way up and into the thick foliage just as the mother bear appeared, accompanied by another cub.
Circling the cub, she sniffed suspiciously. Her eyes told her this was her cub, but her nose warned her that something was wrong. The cub smelled of man.
Breathlessly Little Wolf watched, his heart hammering in his throat. If the bear caught his scent and climbed the slender tree, it would snap under her weight, or bend until his hiding place hit the ground. Then he would have to leap out and run. He had seen bears run, and he knew that he would have little chance of making it to safety. Despite their lumbering walk, bears could run like the wind!
His father had taught him that the only way to escape a running bear was to go downhill. Because of their short front legs, they had to go slowly or they would become overbalanced and roll down the hill.
The little cub kept trying to approach his mother, but her fierce grunts kept him back. Bewildered, he stood quietly staring at her as she circled him warily, sniffling the ground. “Oh, no!” Little Wolf gasped as she came directly to his tree. Standing on her hind legs, she began to throw her massive head from side to side as she made angry sounds.
Little Wolf felt sick as he clung to the swaying branches and stared down at the huge teeth waiting for him. Seeing that she couldn’t dislodge him, the bear began slashing at the tree trunk with her claws. Tree bark flew in all directions as she tore at it. The boy knew that when the bear saw she could not knock the tree over, she would begin to climb.
Little Wolf had never heard a more welcome sound than the drumming of a tom-tom and the shouts of men who were running through the forest toward his hiding place. The shouting braves were led by his father, Chief Otoe. They had come to rescue him!
Concern for her cubs overruled the grizzly’s rage. Turning, she lumbered off, leading them away from the shouts.
“You were willing to sacrifice yourself for the tribe,” Chief Otoe said to his small son as they walked back toward the village. “It was a very brave thing to do, Gray Wolf.”
Little Wolf glowed with pride. His father had called him Gray Wolf, not Little Wolf. It was his first big step toward manhood!

Several years ago our sons would spend their time during the summer on their grandfather’s ranch. Twelve years ago one of our sons had a horse. It had been given to him when it was born. It had been running with a wild herd of horses on the ranch. It was now two years old, time that it could be broken to ride. Early one summer we went to the ranch. It took all day to get the horses into the corral. Finally we had my son’s horse in a chute and put a heavy halter on it. We put a big rope on it and tied it to a big post. “Now the horse must stay there for two or three days,” I told him, “until it quits fighting the rope, until it becomes calm.” We worked with it during the morning, and then we went in to eat. He hurried with his meal and then went out to his horse. He was 14. He loved that horse.
Just as we finished the meal, I heard a noise, and I heard him shout. I knew what had happened. He had untied the horse. I had told him not to, but he was going to work with it. In order to hold the horse, he had wrapped the rope around his wrist. As I came out the door, I saw that horse run by. My son was running after it with great big steps, pulled by the horse; and then he fell. If the horse had turned right, it would have gone out the gate into the mountains. It turned left and was cornered by two fences. While it was trying to find its way out, I got the rope off my boy’s wrist and the end of the rope around the post. He was bruised but not badly hurt.
In a little while we had the horse tied up again, and we sat down for a father and son lesson. I said to him this: “My boy, if you are ever going to control that horse, you will have to use something besides your muscles. The horse is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are. Someday you can ride that horse, but it will have to be trained. You cannot train it with your muscles. It is bigger than you are; it is stronger than you are; and it is wild.”
Two years later we went to the ranch in the spring. This horse had been running all winter with the herd. We went to find it. We found the herd of horses down by the river. I knew if we went too close, they would run. So this boy and his sister took a bucket with some oats and walked quietly to the edge of the meadow. The horses began to move away slowly. Then he whistled, and his horse came out of the herd and trotted up to my boy. We had learned a great lesson. Much had happened in those two years. He had used more than his muscles.
After the experience when he had untied his horse, he was frightened. He had disobeyed, and he said, “Dad, what should we do?” And I said, “This is the way we will do it. And one day that horse will run up to you.” He had been prepared and had learned a great lesson.

Many years ago when we lived at a different location, Merlene said she wanted a rock garden. On a particular Saturday I went out into the field that was right behind our home and decided that if I dug a hole six feet deep, six feet wide, and six feet across, the dirt from that hole should be enough to provide her with a hill whereon we could place rocks and beautiful flowers in the corner of our yard.
To begin with, as I started digging the hole, I could throw the dirt, each shovelful, over my shoulder, over the fence, and into the corner where Merlene wanted the rock garden. As the hole got deeper and I became more tired, I would have to throw the dirt up on the side of the hole. Then I would climb out of the hole and throw the dirt onto the pile across the fence. As the hole became even deeper, I finally had to lower a bucket into the hole, fill the bucket, and lift it out, and pour it on the hill over the fence.
As I started the hole, Lawrence, our three-year-old, began to gather his little friends around. There must have been 15 or 20 little friends watching me dig the hole. When I got deep enough in the hole to use a bucket to lift the dirt out, I said to Lawrence and his little buddies, “If you’ll pull the bucket filled with dirt out of the hole and dump it on the shoulder of the hole each time I fill it so that I will not have to climb out, when I get finished with this hole, I’ll give it to you.” Now a hole isn’t much of a prize for an adult, but for three- or four-year-old boys, a deep hole with a little trench leading down into it is a great prize. So they began to assist me.
After doing this work for a few minutes, Lawrence said to me, “Dad, why are you lifting the dirt out of the hole, then climbing out of the hole and throwing it over the fence onto that pile of dirt?” I said, “Lawrence, your mother wants a rock garden in that corner, so I came out here to get enough dirt to build the hill for her rock garden. What your mother really wants me to do, that is what I do.” Then Lawrence turned to his little buddies and said, “Our mom is our leader.”

I will share with you another story, that of Melanie and how she was assisted by her family during a storm.

Melanie stared straight ahead. The storm was getting worse. She watched the windshield wipers go back and forth. “Poor Grandpa,” thought the girl. “He looks worried. He hates driving in this kind of weather.” Melanie was worried, too. She’d never been out in a storm this bad. She closed her eyes and tried to forget it. But just then she was thrown forward. The car jerked to a halt.

“Grandpa, are you all right?” she cried.

“No, Melanie,” he said in a weak voice. “We need help. I think I’m very sick.”

The girl looked at her grandfather. His face was very pale. She could tell he was in pain.

“Grandpa, what is it?”

The old man said slowly, “My chest aches something awful. I need a doctor. Please, child, open my collar.”

Melanie leaned over and unbuttoned her grandfather’s shirt. Tears ran down her face.

“No time for crying,” he said softly. “Too much to do. I got us to the side of the road. I can’t go any further. You’ve got to drive the car.”

“But I don’t know how!” cried the girl.

“I know,” said her grandfather. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do. We’ll take it step by step.” [The scriptures call it “line upon line” (Isaiah 28:10).]

Melanie thought of all the times she had dreamed about driving. She’d always thought it would be easy and fun. But not now. Melanie helped her grandfather move to the right side. Then she climbed over him and in behind the steering wheel.

“Open your window. You’ll have to fix the side-view mirror. Check the rearview mirror. Okay, now start the car. Now put your left foot on the brake, hold it down, and shift into drive. You are doing fine. Put your foot on the gas pedal very gently, and don’t worry,” he added. “We’ll be fine.”

Grandpa leaned over toward the steering wheel and pushed a button under it and then fell back into his seat. Melanie took her foot off the brake and pressed down on the gas pedal. The car started forward. She held onto the wheel and steered as best she could.

“Why are those lights flashing on the dashboard?” she wondered. “Is something wrong with the engine?”

There was so much to remember, so much to figure out. She brushed the tears out of her eyes. Melanie could see a car coming down the road. It was headed straight for her. Just in time the other car veered out of the way and stopped.

“Is everything okay?” yelled the other driver.

“No!” Melanie shouted as she rolled the window down. Melanie did as the men told her and brought the car to a halt as the other car pulled up behind her. Within half an hour, Melanie, her grandpa, and the man who had helped them were at the emergency room of the hospital.

“How did you know something was wrong when you saw our car?” questioned Melanie.

“I saw your lights flashing,” he replied.

“But how did they go on?” asked Melanie.

The man replied, “Most cars have a button under the steering wheel for the flasher lights. Maybe you hit it by mistake.”

Melanie smiled, “No, I didn’t, but I know who turned them on. [Author unknown]”

A Laurel wrote of her desire to respond to President Hinckley’s words about missionary work. Her personal message was to be a missionary by being a better example to her friends. At first she found this difficult to do, but she didn’t give up. Finally, she changed her habits successfully.
She writes: “We got out of school early and all went to a friend’s house to watch a video. They wanted to watch one that was rated R and they said it wasn’t that bad. I was going to go along with it because I was sick of being the one to always be good. Luckily, one of the guys spoke up against it, refusing to watch it. I felt an overwhelming relief. But then they watched a PG-13 movie that was probably just as bad. I tried my hardest to talk them out of it, but couldn’t. I should have gone home, but didn’t. I regret it. That night in my prayers I promised the Lord to be a better example to my friends. Since then I’ve cut some words out of my speech. I’ve quit sluffing [skipping school], and some of my friends have stopped now too. I suggest better movies, and every time they choose something I’d rather not see, I leave.”

In the United States, jail is often a place of waiting. Usually the men and women there are waiting to be sentenced by a court. There isn’t much to do to pass the time, and sometimes boredom spills out into outright anger.
I had the opportunity to serve as branch president at a jail. It was a privilege to help bring the gospel of Jesus Christ into that building. It was at one of our weekly services that I met Brad.
Brad had been incarcerated in various places for 30 years. His family had given up on him, and he didn’t have much to look forward to. One day he discovered that an old friend was also at the jail. They decided to catch up at one of our Sunday services. The Spirit was so strong, however, that they didn’t end up doing much talking. Brad was touched. He agreed to meet with me after the meeting.
I still remember Brad walking into that first interview, his head shaved except for a braided ponytail and menacing mustache. I remember thinking, “Here is my next Alma the Younger.” As we prayed together, something amazing happened. I saw in my mind a spiritually pure, peaceful man. I realized that Heavenly Father had shown me what Brad’s future could be if he responded to the Spirit.
Brad agreed to meet with me again and again. With each visit, the spiritual intensity of our conversations grew. The Holy Ghost helped me feel close to Brad and brought Brad closer to the Lord. Over time, Brad helped many other inmates study the gospel. They knelt together in prayer at night, ignoring the stares and ridicule of inmates who did not join them. The Light of Christ shone more obviously from them. I started lovingly referring to them as our “sons of Mosiah.”
Brad and his other incarcerated friends are still on their spiritual journey, as we all are. But their story reminds us that the Holy Ghost can help us wherever we are. God loves His children—every last one of us.

I recently received a copy of a story written about a good friend of mine, Donald W. Cummings, former president of the first Australia state, concerning sacrifice bringing forth the blessings of heaven. Let me relate a portion of it.

What sacrifices would you be willing to make to go to the temple? Would you jeopardize your home, give up your job, sell your car? These thoughts nagged at the mind of the twenty-six-year-old district president as he weighed all that would be required of him and his family if he accepted the mission president’s challenge to attend the house of the Lord. It was in 1958, and the New Zealand Temple dedication was just four months away. He sat pondering the difficulties he would have to face if he accepted this invitation, sweltering in the heat of the Australian summer; for it was January down under, and he lived in the city of Perth on the edge of the Indian Ocean.

The young man, President Donald W. Cummings, had joined the Church just ten years earlier and could remember well the small group of Saints who used to worship together. Now, of course, the district had two vigorous congregations, big healthy branches, and he was their spiritual leader. It was proper that he should attend the temple dedication regardless of the vast distance, for New Zealand was over four thousand miles away.

The mission president’s challenge kept ringing in his ears: “If you have a righteous goal and pray about it, the Lord will help you achieve it.” President Cummings reviewed his finances. He was struggling to purchase a home for his growing family. He earned only a modest salary. He had no money in the bank. He drove an old car. The price of going to New Zealand was six hundred pounds, or twelve hundred United States dollars at the time. He set his jaw and picked up the paper, looking in the classified section for loans. His eye caught an advertisement for loans on furniture. He stared out the window at his well-worn family car, pondered a little longer, and then made the decision. The company lending money against furniture was trying a new idea which they were soon to stop, but not before he was granted their final loan. He sold the old car and started walking and riding buses and even hitchhiking. He was to walk and ride buses for the next eighteen months and, in all of that time, never missed his rotated visits to the branches each week. He recalls, “Yes, it was hard getting around, but my wife and I remember this as one of the happiest periods of our lives.” He had discovered the joys of sacrifice for the Lord. “We appreciated walking all the more.”

Even in selling the car and mortgaging both house and furniture, he was still two hundred dollars short, with no other funds in sight and just several weeks to go. President and Sister Cummings were becoming discouraged when a call from the mission president two thousand miles away in Melbourne gave them fresh courage for the final push: “Keep trying. You’ll make it.”

Determined, they finalized their plans. There would be no turning back. President Cummings had to serve notice on his company that he would be quitting, for they would not hold his job for this six weeks’ trip. With less than a week to go and still two hundred dollars shy, a relative who was not a member of the Church met him on the street and, after chatting about the intended trip, surprised him with a gift of a hundred dollars. With one day left, still another nonmember relative, having driven in from the country, pressed the final hundred dollars into his hand. Brother and Sister Cummings knew both gifts had been inspired.

“The Lord had intervened and he had touched the hearts of those closest to us. We were now on our way,” they recall. This was to be an eight-thousand-mile round trip which started with a two-thousand-mile train trip across the width of the Australian outback. They changed trains five times and took 4 1/2 days to accomplish the journey. When the family finally arrived in Sidney, they delightedly met for the first time with other Saints who had also arranged for passage on a boat bound for Auckland. To their wrenching disappointment, however, they discovered the boat had recently been damaged in hitting the wharf. It required lengthy repairs and would now leave too late to get them to New Zealand on time.

They were billeted with Church members in Sidney while desperate arrangements were tried. They might still make the dedication if an airplane could be chartered. Remarkably this was done without excess cost. They all flew to the dedication and witnessed this sacred event as President David O. McKay presided and prayed. President Cummings was honored as a speaker in the spacious auditorium of the new Church college adjacent to the temple. After all their sacrifice, the Cummings family was gratified to attend the first day of endowments in the New Zealand Temple and was also the very first group to do work for the dead.

They were to have been placed in tents because their funds were so meager, but, again at the last minute, arrangements were made for hotel accommodations. Though the cost was doubled, it was agreed that they could pay later, though they never were to be billed and they never were able to discover whom to pay.

Too poor to tour, they rejoiced in working in the temple for several weeks. Then, filled with the spirit of their new blessings and accomplishments, they traveled home ten days by boat and train with merely ten dollars left—no job, no car, and a mortgaged home and furniture. But they were rich in rewards only a temple can provide—family sealing for all time and eternity.

President Cummings went back to his old employer to see about work. To his astonishment, he was hired with both an increase in pay and a new title–sales manager. But though he started work immediately, he would not get paid until the end of the week. Now the money had run out completely. There was nothing to eat. Again, one of his wife’s country relatives paid a surprise visit and dropped off enough fresh garden produce to carry them until payday. When Elder Thomas S. Monson organized the Perth stake in 1968, Donald W. Cummings was its first stake president. He had seen the kingdom of God swell from a small handful to a big thriving stake, but he never forgot the promise of his mission president: “If you have a righteous goal and pray about it, the Lord will help you achieve it.”

Each new convert should be provided a calling in the Church. Such brings interest, stability, and growth. The task may be somewhat simple, such as that given to Jacob de Jager when he and his family became members in Toronto. He held lofty posts in business, but his first calling in the Church was to put the hymnbooks in place along the pews. He took his assignment seriously. In recollecting this first calling, he said, “I had to be present each week, or the hymnbooks would remain undistributed.” As you know, Elder de Jager later served many years as a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Though he had many demanding responsibilities as a General Authority, he never forgot his first calling in the Church.

Why is Floriano Oliveira, a member of the high council in a stake in Brazil, so successful as a missionary? Because he obeyed the Lord’s counsel to open his mouth and share the gospel. One day as he was driving through the congested traffic of São Paulo he took his eyes off the road for but a second and crashed into the car in front of him. He jumped out of the vehicle, hurried up to the car he had hit, opened the door and said, “I am so sorry I hit you. It was all my fault. I accept the full blame and will pay the total costs. I had no intention to do this, so please forgive me. Yet if I hadn’t hit you, you wouldn’t have received this message I have for you, the message that you have waited for all your life.” He then explained the restoration of the gospel to this man, who was a medical doctor, and the man joined the Church two weeks later. Why has Brother Oliveira had so much success in baptizing more than two hundred people? Obedience—obedience to the request of the Lord.

Several years ago, a young man in Michigan fell in love with an LDS girl. He was told forthrightly and with great love that she wanted the power of the priesthood in her home and the blessings of an eternal family, and she would marry only someone who could give her those blessings. The teachings she had received had taken root, and the seeds of faith, knowledge, and choice had grown, and she knew that they were true.
The young man felt her spirit and agreed to be taught the gospel. But after he had learned that the gospel was true, his father would not approve his baptism. A great shepherd, a bishop of the young girl, went to the father and helped him to see the value of that young woman, her standards, the Church, and the truly important things in life. The father was touched that day as he attended the baptism and saw about twenty young men and women of the Church. Following the service, he asked that the missionaries come teach him.
A young woman had taken on the divine nature and was able to share the priceless truths with others. I invite all to seek the blessings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Lord and His church will bless you and your families—even into eternity.

One day my instructor was giving an explanation to five of us in the ready room. In order to explain a certain maneuver, he went to the blackboard. Inasmuch as he was smoking a cigarette, he handed it to me to hold while he made the demonstration, and by this means I had the “privilege” of holding my first cigarette. After he had finished his demonstration at the blackboard, he took his cigarette back, and then he said, “Mr. Bangerter, I apologize for handing you my cigarette. I know you don’t smoke, do you?”
I said, “No, sir, I don’t.”
He said, “You don’t drink either, do you?”
I said, “No, sir.”
He asked, “Do you drink tea?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“No, sir.” He turned to the other four students standing together and said, “Now, men, that’s the Word of Wisdom. We would all be much better off if we lived that way.” You can appreciate that I felt uplifted by that experience.

A while ago, I was called to be a primary teacher for three-year-old Owen, who was an autistic boy in our ward. Owen’s autism made it difficult for him to talk, he had trouble sitting still in a chair, and his attention would constantly shift from one activity to another. Consequently, when he tried to attend the Sunbeam class in primary, he would frequently distract the other children from the teacher’s lesson. This made it difficult for the Sunbeam teacher who was trying to teach a class with eight other three-year-old children.

I had been a teacher in the nursery during the previous year when Owen was attending nursery. During that year, I got to know Owen. So, I was called to be his special teacher when he was in Sunbeams.

On Sundays, Owen and I developed our own routine for primary time. We would participate in primary opening exercises with all the children. After opening exercises, Owen and I would go to a large classroom with a chalkboard and a piano. Owen would draw letters on the chalkboard while I drew pictures of Nephi and the brass plates. We would sing the primary song Nephi’s Courage while playing the piano together. We would watch a video about Lehi and his family sailing to the Promised Land. We would move back and forth through these activities until Owen’s attention was spent. Then, we would visit the nursery class while all the children were playing with the toys. We would finish our Sunday by going back to the main primary room where the children were participating in sing time.

Through all of our activities together, I learned a lot about Owen. He had many difficulties related to his autism. But I discovered that he was an unusually gifted reader at three years old. He would read words that I wrote on the chalkboard (like happy, Book of Mormon, Nephi), and he would write words. I also learned that he was a very loving and affectionate child. Despite his struggle to communicate his needs through speaking, he loved to give hugs and would frequently flash a shy smile. Most of all, I learned that Owen was a child of God, and while Owen faces unique challenges while on earth, a loving Heavenly Father blessed Owen with special gifts and talents. He also blessed Owen with a loving mother who cares for Owen and who desires nothing more than for Owen to be safe, happy, and filled with a testimony of the gospel.

I loved Sundays with Owen. Because of my calling in the church, I made a three-year-old friend who taught me every week about a loving Father in Heaven who watches over His children here on earth.

I think of my experience through the years, traveling through the various missions where we’ve had youth firesides. I’m going to refer to one that was held in Carthage, Illinois, where the Prophet Joseph and his brother Hyrum were martyred. We held a fireside there on Sunday morning. We had it in the biggest chapel on the university campus. There were about 1,500 young people there; some of them had traveled for over a thousand miles to be there at that youth conference and to attend that fireside. We had a couple of benches down in front kept vacant for the young people who wanted to bear their testimonies. We met from eight in the morning until twelve noon, and there was not a minute’s time lost. When one young person was nearly through bearing testimony, another would be standing right there by that microphone ready to take over. And there those young people who were gathered from all over the area, thousands of miles, would stand with tears in their voices and tears in their eyes bearing their testimonies, thanking God for the Mormon missionaries who had come to their homes and brought the gospel. I said to myself, “Talk about hidden knowledge; what more could you ask than that?”

My family is from America, but we live in Japan and I attend a Japanese grade school. This year each student in my fifth grade class was assigned to give a book review. I decided to tell my class about the Book of Mormon. When it was my turn, I stood in front of the class and explained that the Book of Mormon was written by prophets of God long ago. I bore my testimony that reading the Book of Mormon can help us feel good and be happy. I showed them a copy of the Book of Mormon and offered to let anyone who wanted to have it to read.
Fifteen classmates requested a book to read, so my family got some more copies, and I spent the week marking special passages in the books. I carried as many as I could to school in my backpack each day until I had given one to each of the 15 students.
My teacher visited our home the next week to make sure it was OK for me to give away so many books. She asked my dad some questions about the Book of Mormon. I was able to write my testimony in a copy and give it to my teacher.

On December 28 of this past year, our dear friend and beloved General Authority Elder Bruce D. Porter completed his mortality. He was 64 years old.
I first met Bruce when we were students at Brigham Young University. He was one of the best and the brightest. After he received his doctoral degree from Harvard University, emphasizing Russian affairs, Bruce’s thinking and writing brought prominence that could have derailed him, but the wealth and praise of the world never clouded his view.25 His loyalty was to his Savior, Jesus Christ; to his eternal companion, Susan; to his children and grandchildren.
Bruce was born with a kidney defect. He had surgery, but over time his kidneys continued to decline.
Shortly after Bruce’s call as a General Authority in 1995, we served together with our families in Frankfurt, Germany, where his work centered in Russia and Eastern Europe.
Life for Elder Porter changed dramatically in 1997 when his kidney function and health began to fail. The Porter family returned to Salt Lake City.
During his 22 years of service in the Seventy, Bruce was hospitalized numerous times, including for 10 surgeries. Doctors told Susan on two occasions that Bruce would not live through the night, but he did.
For more than 12 years of his service as a General Authority, Bruce was on dialysis to clean his blood. For much of that time, the dialysis consumed five evenings a week for four hours each treatment so that he could serve in his calling during the day and accept conference assignments on the weekends. When his health did not improve after several priesthood blessings, Bruce was puzzled, but he knew in whom he trusted.26
In 2010, Bruce received a kidney from his son David. This time his body did not reject the transplant. It was a miracle, bringing renewed health and eventually allowing him and Susan to return to their beloved Russia, with him serving in the Area Presidency.
On December 26 of last year, after fighting continuous infections in a hospital in Salt Lake City, he asked the doctors to leave the room. Bruce told Susan “that he knew through the Spirit that there was nothing the doctors could do that would save his life. He knew … that Heavenly Father would take him home. He was filled with peace.”27
On December 28, Bruce returned to his family home. A few hours later, surrounded by loved ones, he peacefully returned to his heavenly home.
Years ago, Bruce Porter wrote these words to his children:
“The testimony I have of the reality and love of Jesus Christ has been the compass of my life. … It [is] a pure, burning witness of the Spirit that he lives, that he is my Redeemer and Friend in every time of need.”28
“Our challenge … is to come to know [the Savior] … and, through faith in him, to overcome the trials and temptations of this world.”29
“Let us be faithful and true, trusting in him.”30
Bruce Douglas Porter overcame the world.

In my gym class, we had to run the mile every Monday. We called them “Mile Mondays.” Everyone dreaded them because they were exhausting. Each Monday, one classmate was always picked on because he was a little overweight and always finished the mile a few minutes after everyone else. I felt bad for him and wanted to help him out, but I wasn’t sure how.
One day I had an idea. After I finished running the mile, I went back and ran with him until he was done. I was a little nervous because I wasn’t sure what everyone would think, but I decided that what other people think shouldn’t matter that much. I was surprised when more people joined me the next week. Every week, more people joined until eventually everyone in the class joined in! As we ran, we encouraged him by saying things like, “You can do it!” and “Only one more lap!” He began to smile while running, and people didn’t pick on him anymore. Each week he finished the mile in less time, and we cheered him on every time he beat his personal best.
I’m glad we could boost his spirit and help him do his best. It really brought our class closer together, and we were all a little nicer to one another. This experience helped me remember that we are all God’s children and of great worth, and everyone needs to be treated that way. I’m glad I decided to run a little extra, and I know that Heavenly Father gave us all added strength to help His children feel loved.

As a discus thrower for my high school’s track-and-field team, my dream was always to become good enough to compete in the state track meet.
I worked tirelessly to achieve this dream: I was the first to arrive at practice and the last to leave. When everyone else huddled inside because of the weather, I practiced in the pouring rain.
After three years, I had vastly improved. I kept beating my personal record and placing in meets, but I still couldn’t make it to state! I only had one season left before I graduated, so I pinned all my hopes on it.
Then the district meet came—my last chance to qualify for state. And I lost. I failed.
At the end of the meet, I felt so defeated. In one moment my dream seemed so real and so possible, and in the next, it was all gone. I felt like I had wasted those years of practice.
Then one day a song came on the radio that reminded me of one of my favorite track meets, when my teammates and I spontaneously sang that song together. It reminded me that there were so many good memories and lessons from track that I could always remember, even though I hadn’t achieved my goal.
It can be painful when we don’t reach the goals we’ve worked really hard for. But because of Jesus Christ and His tender mercies, we can find hope and focus on the good in life.
Heather C., Oregon, USA

The Hunk. That’s what his friends called him. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt; his blonde, naturally wavy hair curled back from his tanned, intelligent forehead; and his teeth dazzled when he turned to smile. When he walked by, girls oohed and whispered in admiration and the guys backed up in awe.
Today would be the Hunk’s day of glory. Single-handedly he would sweep the state track tournament, bringing in dozens of trophies for Riverview High, along with numerous offers of scholarships to prestigious colleges for him. Then, on to the Olympics where he’d have gold medals draped over his muscular chest and crowds cheering and calling his name.
“Dexter! Dexter!” called his mother. “Pay attention or you’ll be late for seminary. Julie is out honking for you, and I need you to bring in some more sugar from the storeroom before you go.”
Dexter looked up at his mother, who was canning pears, and pushed a straight, dark lock of hair away from his glasses. He grabbed a sack of sugar, but it was too heavy to carry, so he set it on the floor, then scooted it across to where his mother stood by the stove. He grabbed his books, then ran out to where Julie, a classmate and neighbor, was waiting in her family’s beat-up station wagon.
Elder Hunk was the talk of the mission. Never had a missionary swept an area as he had. There had been talk of closing that area, but single-handedly Elder Hunk had swelled convert baptisms until conservative estimates ran in the thousands. His picture was on the cover of the Church News under the caption “Wonder Missionary,” and he was being compared to missionaries in the early days of the Church.
“How do you do it?” asked his mission president.
“Dexter. Dexter. How do you do it?” questioned his seminary teacher, Brother Larsen.
A classmate poked Dexter in his ribs, “Hey, wake up.” Brother Larsen patiently repeated his question. “How can we be member missionaries?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he said.
The youth genealogy class had started. Sister Barton had handed out pedigree charts. The Hunk walked in, arms loaded with notebooks and files.He dropped them before her and stated, “This is my genealogy research. I have recently added 15,000 names after having mastered 12 foreign languages. Notice the coat of arms and the royal lines that run throughout. And I have revolutionized data gathering using my new program. This computer disk now contains four million new names I’ve researched.”
As he drew the disk from his briefcase and casually dropped it before the instructor, the class gasped in amazement, and Sister Barton, hands to her face, stared in awe and reverence.
“Dexter, Dexter,” Sister Barton’s voice pierced his mind. “Here’s your family group sheet. Now put down what you can.”
Dexter replied, “I don’t even know where my grandfather was born,” as he pushed the sheet away.
“Scouter Hunk,” said the country’s president, “I want to pin this medal on you in appreciation for your courage and leadership skills. Bravely you rescued 400 tourists when their boat swamped. Your Eagle Scout project has revitalized your town, along with the entire country. And single-handedly you reformed 200 delinquent children by getting them involved in Scouting.
“Dexter,” called out Scoutmaster Simmons at the Scout meeting. “When can you help us collect food for the homeless?”
Dexter looked up. “I dunno,” he replied.
“Brother Hunk,” the stake leader said, “the youth conference you planned and supervised was the most impressive activity I’ve seen. As the youth representative you single-handedly organized and carried off a wholesome activity that will be recorded in this stake’s history. Every house has been painted, disaster plans and emergency supplies are present in every household, wickedness is banished, corruption and litter are gone. And the youth say they’ve never had so much fun. You are magnificent!”
The youth surrounding the stake leader cheered the Hunk.
“Dexter! Dexter!”
The voice of his priesthood adviser, brother Magnuson, broke through.
“Dexter, will you help set up tables for the youth conference next month?” asked brother Magnuson.
Dexter looked up, realized he was at a ward youth meeting, and replied, “I dunno.”
There’s no glory in that, thought Dexter. I want to be chairman or nothing. Fat chance of being chairman so I’ll be nothing. He sat silent for the rest of the meeting.
Afterwards Julie hurried to catch him as he started to climb into the family car.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You’ve been so distracted and distant lately, like you’re in a different world. You always used to help out with youth conferences. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s nothing,” said Dexter. “It’s just that I’m tired of being ordinary—just average, with no honor or recognition. Look at us Julie. We’re the average kids. No one notices us. We are never head of anything, never applauded, just the average ones who are always there. If the school paper did an article about us do you know what it would say?”
Dexter picked up a school book, cleared his throat, and in a deep voice intoned, “Dexter and Julie are two average students at Riverview High. They have never been president of any organization. They did not win a scholarship. They haven’t won a race or a trophy. They have not won honors for any talent. They are average.”
“Now,” said Dexter, putting down the book. “Do you see what I mean?”
“But we try.”
“Name one thing you do really well Julie.”
“I like to paint.”
“Have you won any awards?”
“Well, no.”
“Don’t you see what I mean. You’re an average painter. So why paint?”
“Maybe I’m not a Michelangelo or even a Grandma Moses. But painting makes me so aware of the world. How many colors do you see in that tree?”
“One—it’s green. Trees are all the same. All green.”
“But I see maybe ten shades and colors—some darker with touches of brown, other parts lighter with splashes of yellow.”
“They’re still trees in an average painting. For me it’s going to be the top or nothing. I want to be a winner. I want recognition!”
His voice had gotten louder and classmates turned to stare.
“You’re getting recognition,” giggled Julie.
He lowered his voice. “I want to be the best, the greatest.”
“Well,” replied Julie, “it wasn’t some famous person that touched our family when we were investigating the Church. It was my three-year-old niece singing ‘I Am a Child of God.’ Sometimes the common can achieve the uncommon.”
“Not for me. I want to be the greatest. I want recognition. I want honors.”
Dexter climbed into the car and drove off.
Member Missionary Hunk was assigned to coordinate the open house for the public at the newly completed temple. He planned on being stationed in the celestial room, where he would quietly nod acknowledgments to community dignitaries. Afterwards there would be cookies and punch with guest speakers at the stake center to honor him. Honors to the Hunk.
“Dexter, you’ll be serving here. You’ll help put booties on the shoes of the visitors before they enter the temple for the tour,” the tour leader said.
Filled with disappointment, Dexter sat on the ground and assisted visitors with shoe coverings. No honor in this he thought. In fact it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. But there was something familiar about it. What was it?
He looked up at the temple spires and remembered the words carved on the side: “Holiness to the Lord.”
Holiness to the Lord. Again there was that nagging feeling of familiarity.
Suddenly, a scene came to his mind of a painting that hung at home. He who was greatest was washing the feet of the disciples.
Across the walkway of the temple two visitors were conversing.
“Say, who’s that kid with the glasses, the one who is putting on foot coverings. Is he someone special?”
“No, that’s just Dexter. He’s a nice, average kid.”
“But look at the way he’s treating visitors. It’s as though each person he helps is the most important person he’ll meet.”
On Saturday Dexter wrote a letter to his great-aunt requesting information on his grandfather’s birthplace. He gathered food, took it by an immigrant family’s home, and told them he’d be back the next day with two young men and a special book written in their own language. Later he wrapped up a clean Scout shirt and Scout handbook and quietly laid it on the doorstep of a widow’s home whose son hadn’t much money. He knocked and ran. The widow and son found the bag along with a note: From your friend.
Brother Magnuson was surprised that Saturday to get a call from Dexter. He volunteered to set up tables for the youth conference and offered to help with cleanup also.
Then Dexter called Julie and invited her to walk down to the park with him. She’d paint trees while he took photographs of the ducks.

Christ gives peace. I remember being in Europe a number of years ago at the time tanks were rolling down the streets of a great city, and students were being slaughtered with machine-gun fire. I stood that December day in the railroad station in Berne, Switzerland. At eleven o’clock in the morning, every church bell in Switzerland began to ring, and at the conclusion of that ringing, every vehicle stopped—every car on the highway, every bus, every railroad train. The great, cavernous railway station became deathly still. I looked out the front door across the plaza. Men working on the hotel opposite stood on the scaffolding with bared heads. Every bicycle stopped. Every man and woman and child dismounted and stood with bared, bowed heads. Then, after three minutes of prayerful silence, trucks, great convoys of them, began to roll from Geneva and Berne and Basel and Zurich toward the suffering nation to the east, laden with supplies—food, clothing, and medicine. The gates of Switzerland were thrown open to refugees.

As I stood there that December morning, I marveled at the miraculous contrast of the oppressive power shooting down students in one nation and the spirit of a Christian people in another who bowed their heads in prayer and reverence, then went to work to provide succor and salvation.

That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go, but once in Portugal it only took him a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he had the moves.
And it only took him a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits, and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.”
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That got Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God, I have to explain them to other people.’”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and they had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make millions from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on P-day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven, and no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”