Gospel Story Finder

“My mom likes to sew a lot, so I decided to make a quilt to see how I would like it,” says 16-year-old David Rowse. “I’ll use it on my bed after the competition is over.”
A 16-year-old boy tying a quilt of his own free will and choice? Isn’t that just a little strange?
Not in Glendale. In fact, he faces stiff competition from the other boys who have sewn throw pillows and other useful household items.
Even more important than learning how to bake a perfect cake, run faster, or play a piano piece, are the relationships that are formed through participation in the competition. In addition to individual events, each ward earns points for every event a member participates or places in.
“Even if you don’t ever win anything,” says Natalie Garrard, “every entry is important and counts for something.”
Every person is important as well. The competition is a vital part of what makes the Glendale youth such good friends. Friendships formed at the competition are often the springboard that strengthens testimonies, gets the less-active coming to church again, and makes everyone feel that they are an important part of the stake.
Adrian Juchau says, “The competition is so much fun because everyone shows so much support. I was a little afraid to compete, until I actually tried it and found out that people are really having a good time.” In fact, Adrian had so much fun that he decided he would be at every event whether he was participating or not.
“At the Ping-Pong tournament, I was more nervous than the people who were playing,” he admits.
Because the competition takes place over a three-week period, the youth spend a lot of time together, working out, rehearsing, competing, and just “hanging out” waiting for the next event.
“My friends and I wanted to enter the group vocal-music competition. We just couldn’t find a song we liked, so we spent five hours looking together. Finally, we turned on the radio and heard the perfect song. We joked that it must be true inspiration,” says Mia Maid Marlowe Ziegler.
Cheering on your competitors in other wards, spending five hours to find the perfect piece of music, or traveling back and forth to different church buildings for three weeks every year, might seem like a lot of effort, and it is. But in Glendale, most everyone says, “It’s all worth it.”
When the contest finally ends for another year, ribbons and medals are given in every competition, with separate categories for boys and girls. Nearly everyone wins at least one award, and lots of people have several. Yet no one really seems to notice. Everyone has won other things that seem much more important: friendship built on a gospel foundation, love for fellow competitors, and an appreciation for the talents of others.
“I wanted to learn how to play the piano blindfolded, and now I can,” says Adrian, a skill that, by all accounts, is a new one in the stake.
“I would never have learned how to build that cabinet without the competition as a goal,” adds Jared Hall.
Paul Jenkins competed with a good friend. “There aren’t any bad feelings,” he says. “We both knew we’d do well, and we did.”
Those sentiments are echoed by many other participants and can be seen in the way everyone gets along throughout the various competitions. On performing and fine arts night, while one girl is being congratulated on an exemplary piano performance, another is being cheered up by friends who realize she wanted to do better on her vocal solo. Boys good-naturedly tease each other about who is going to win the art competition, but then wish each other good luck. On track-and-field day, several girls laugh about deciding to cross the finish line together in a race so they can all come in first. The list goes on.
And although the competition has been going on for longer than any of these participants can remember, no one really remembers past winners.
Jessica Forsberg, a 16-year-old whose talents shine brightest on track-and-field events, sums it up best. Still breathless from a race, she says, “When you cross that finish line, even if you didn’t win, you feel like you’ve succeeded. Winning isn’t everything; it’s just for fun.”
Competing just for fun? Focusing on people rather than achievements? Using competition as an incentive to excel without hurting people’s feelings? Some might think those things are too good to be true. But if you live in the Glendale Arizona Stake, it’s just how things are done.

My precious wife, Jeanene, although afflicted with an aggressive terminal disease, consistently found joy in life. She understood the plan of happiness, had received the temple ordinances, and was doing her best to qualify for the promised blessings. Her personal journal records: “It is a beautiful fall day. I picked up the mail and sat down on the swing. I was so happy and content in the warm sun, the sweet smell of nature and the trees around me. I just sat and gloried in the fact that I am still alive on this beautiful earth. . . . The Lord is so good to me. How I thank Him that I am still here and feeling so good. I am soooooo happy I just want to shout and dance through this beautiful house as the sun streams into the big windows. I love being alive.”

I know what it is to love a daughter of Father in Heaven who with grace and devotion lived the full feminine splendor of her righteous womanhood. I love my dearest wife, Jeanene. She was always joyously happy, and much of it came from service to others. Even while very ill, in her morning prayer she would ask her Father in Heaven to lead her to someone she could help. That sincere supplication was answered time and again. The burdens of many were eased; their lives were brightened. She was blessed continually for being an instrument directed by the Lord.

Long ago, when I first became an LDS chaplain in the Air Force, my wife and I were stationed at a large military training center. Every Sunday evening we opened our house to all of the Latter-day Saint military students for a family home evening. We sang, played games, shared joys and disappointments, and inhaled the refreshments. But, most of all, we tried to make sure no one was ever left to feel alone. Something happened there that we’ve never forgotten.
One night my wife and I decided to have a “do-it-yourself” lesson for the students. We handed out crayons, construction paper, clay, and building blocks to everyone and asked them to create something that would reflect their feelings about family home evening and why they would continue to have it as they went on to future military assignments. Some drew pictures, some wrote poems, some made paper models, everybody did something—even John.
John was our quiet one. He always came, but he never spoke to anyone. You see, he was from a very underprivileged background, and social life was not his way. He always stood in a corner by himself and occasionally smiled. My wife and I often worried for his welfare because he seemed so alone. But that night John did more than smile; he spoke from the very depths of his soul to the depths of ours.
When everyone else had finished showing their creations and attempts to capture the spirit of family home evening, John took his turn. He stepped out of his corner and held up the sheep he had sculptured from what had been a lump of ugly clay. But the clay was no longer ugly; it gained meaning in John’s hands as he said, “This represents the lost sheep that the Savior left the ninety and nine to find. I was lonely, and you found me. I was sad, and you brought me good cheer. It was here in this family home evening with all of you that I found true friendship and love. Thank you.”
Over 60 eyes were wet with tears as he finished, because John had taught us the true meaning of Matthew 25:40: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [Matt. 25:40]
I keep John’s sheep in a place I can always see. It reminds me that it is for people like him, people who feel they are alone, that we are to “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8).

Heber gave so generously because of his love for his fellowman and because of his faith in the Lord’s promises. As a young man, he had attended a Church meeting and heard an appeal for donations. After the meeting, he handed his bishop $50. The bishop returned $45 to him and said that $5 was his fair share. Heber returned the entire $50 to the bishop, saying, “‘Bishop Woolley, didn’t you preach here today that the Lord would reward fourfold? My mother is a widow and she needs two hundred dollars.’ He said: ‘My boy, do you believe that if I take this other forty-five dollars you will get your two hundred dollars quicker?’ I said: ‘Certainly.’ Well, he took it.” As Heber walked from the meeting, he got an idea. He wired a man he didn’t know and completed a business transaction. Heber’s profit was $218.50. The next day he went to his bishop and said: “I have made two hundred eighteen dollars and fifty cents, after paying that fifty dollars donation the other day, and so I owe twenty-one dollars and eighty-five cents in tithing. I will have to dig up the difference between twenty-one dollars eighty-five cents and eighteen dollars fifty cents. The Lord did not quite give me the tithing in addition to his ‘four to one’ income.”

I had been out in the mission field for a week when my mission president called and told me that my great-grandmother passed away. Most people don’t even get to meet their great-grandparents, let alone have them in their lives for 19 years, and I tried to be happy knowing that I would get to see her again. But all I could think about was that she was gone.
I’d heard stories about people being almost joyous at the passing of a loved one because that person was with family on the other side. And my great-grandmother was with her husband. He had passed away over 20 years earlier. And I was a missionary! If anyone should be happily preaching about living again, it was me. For a while, I felt guilty for feeling sad.
Then I came across Doctrine and Covenants 42:45: “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die.” Here were the words of the Lord telling me my feelings were OK, that loss naturally brings sadness. I didn’t need to feel guilty!
Since then, I have been able to go through the temple for my great-grandmother and participate in sealing her to my great-grandfather. It still hurts sometimes when I think about not seeing her in this life, but I know that because of Jesus Christ, one day I will be with her again.
Heather C., Oregon, USA

When I was 10 years old, our family had the honor of hosting Elder L. Tom Perry of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles while he was on assignment in my hometown.
At the close of the day, our family and the Perrys sat down in our living room to enjoy my mother’s delicious apple pie while Elder Perry recounted stories about Saints around the world. I was enthralled.
It was getting late when my mother called me into the kitchen and asked a simple question: “Bonnie, did you feed the chickens?”
My heart fell; I had not. Not wanting to leave the presence of an Apostle of the Lord, I suggested the chickens could fast until morning.
My mother replied with a definitive “no.” Just then, Elder Perry entered the kitchen and with his booming, enthusiastic voice asked, “Did I hear someone needs to feed the chickens? Can my son and I join you?”
Oh, what an absolute joy it now became to feed the chickens! I ran to get our large yellow flashlight. Excited, I led out, skipping over the well-worn path to the chicken coop. With flashlight swinging from my hand, we crossed the corn patch and passed through the wheat field.
Reaching the small irrigation ditch that crossed the path, I instinctively jumped over it as I had done many nights before. I was oblivious to Elder Perry’s efforts to keep up on a dark, unknown path. My dancing light did not help him see the ditch. Without a steady light to see, he stepped directly in the water and let out a loud groan. Panicked, I turned to see my new friend remove his soaking wet foot from the ditch and shaking the water from his heavy leather shoe.
With a soaked and sloshing shoe, Elder Perry helped me feed the chickens. When we were through, he lovingly instructed, “Bonnie, I need to see the path. I need the light to shine where I am walking.”
I was shining my light but not in a way that would help Elder Perry. Now, knowing that he needed my light to safely navigate the path, I focused the flashlight just ahead of his steps and we were able to return home with confidence.

Immediately, I contacted the Church’s area legal office, and they hired an attorney to seek Sister Llanos’s release. This attorney was not a member of the Church. He committed to help us but expressed pessimism. He explained that mere possession of a military bullet by nonmilitary personnel is a serious crime, regardless of a person’s intent.
Later, Sister Llanos told us she had picked up the bullet off the street in her last area. She thought it was a souvenir. The bullet, after all, resembled the souvenir key chains sold outside an old silver mine in one of her previous areas. Government investigators, however, treated her like a terrorist. Within a few days, Sister Llanos was moved from the airport jail to a high-security prison where the worst female criminals were housed.
Prayers for Sister Llanos’s prompt release began immediately. Janeen and I invited the 115 missionaries serving in our mission to exercise faith that we could see a miracle, if it was the Lord’s will. I contacted the mission presidents in Mexico City, the Costa Rica San José East Mission, and the Mexico Missionary Training Center, and they invited their missionaries to join us in prayer.
Inside the prison walls, Sister Aketzaly Llanos never lost sight of her purpose as a representative of Jesus Christ.
Inside the prison walls, Sister Llanos never lost sight of her purpose as a representative of Jesus Christ. She taught her nine cellmates to pray by offering morning and evening prayers as a group each day. She also taught them about their divine identity.
One of her cellmates declared, “I am a really bad person for what I did to get in here, and God hates me.” Sister Llanos looked her in the eye and said, “No. You are not a bad person. You’re someone who did something bad. But you are a daughter of God, and He loves you!”
Another cellmate recounted a dream she’d had a few weeks before Sister Llanos was arrested. The cellmate dreamed that a quetzal bird had flown into the prison to help her. Before Sister Llanos joined the Church, she had had a picture of a quetzal bird tattooed on her back. When the cellmate saw the tattoo, she knew she should listen to Sister Llanos’s missionary message.
Sister Llanos taught her about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ and gave her the copy of the Book of Mormon she had brought with her to prison—the same copy sister missionaries had given Sister Llanos five years before when she investigated the Church.
A preliminary trial was quickly scheduled in Mexico City. Janeen and I went to testify in person. When we met the legal team outside the courthouse, the attorney was visibly nervous, pacing up and down the sidewalk.
I took him aside and said: “Today you are going to feel more calm and more peaceful than you have ever felt in a courtroom. Let me tell you why. More than 500 missionaries and their families are praying for you and your success today. They’re also praying that the judge will have a softened heart and that he will release Sister Llanos from prison.”
The attorney’s eyes filled with tears, and he expressed his appreciation for the faith and prayers of so many people in his behalf.
At 10:00 a.m. the trial started, but I was required to wait outside until my turn to testify. Two long hours passed. Then the courtroom guard came out and said the judge didn’t need to hear my testimony—he’d already made his decision.
Anxiously, I entered the courtroom, and the judge began to speak. He spoke about the law Sister Llanos had violated and about the serious charges she faced.
“Disregarding all that,” he continued, “I believe the evidence that has been presented about Sister Llanos’s good character.” Then he quoted an obscure part of the law that allowed him to grant mercy, and he immediately released her.
Sister Llanos with Sister Janeen Redd, into whose arms Sister Llanos collapsed upon her release from prison.
This was the miracle we had sought! Instead of being sentenced to four or more years in prison, Sister Llanos was free to go. After the hearing, her attorney said that that day was one of the most significant days of his professional career.
“I truly felt God at my side,” he said. “I want to learn more about your beliefs.”
I invited him to the Mexico City Mexico Temple Visitors’ Center. “You will see other missionaries there as good as Sister Llanos,” I told him. “You’ll see the sparkle in their eyes, and you will ask yourself why.”
Twelve hours later, Sister Llanos was released, still dressed in prison clothes. She collapsed into Janeen’s arms. Once we all stopped crying enough to speak, Sister Llanos exclaimed, “President, I got some referrals in prison!”
This entire experience confirmed that “God has not ceased to be a God of miracles” (Mormon 9:15). I have no doubt that the faith and prayers of many good people helped an attorney argue his case and softened the judge’s heart.
Because Sister Llanos was arrested, several imprisoned women received hope through the gospel of Jesus Christ, an attorney sprouted a seed of faith, and we were strengthened in our conviction that God can use us to further His work no matter where we are.

My husband’s great-grandfather Henry Clegg Jr. was a finisher. He joined the Church with his family when the first LDS missionaries went to Preston, England. Henry had a view of his destination in his mind as he and his wife, Hannah, and their two young boys immigrated to Utah. Henry left his older parents, who were too feeble to make such a long and arduous journey, knowing he would never see them again.
While crossing the plains, Hannah contracted cholera and died. She was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. The company then moved on, and at 6:00 in the evening, Henry’s youngest son also died. Henry retraced his steps to Hannah’s grave, placed his young son in his wife’s arms, and reburied the two of them together. Henry then had to return to the wagon train, now five miles away. Suffering from cholera himself, Henry described his condition as being at death’s door while realizing he still had 1,000 miles to walk. Amazingly he continued forward, putting one foot in front of the other. He stopped writing in his journal for several weeks after losing his dear Hannah and little son. I was struck with the words he used when he did start writing again: “Still moving.”
When he finally reached the gathering place of the Saints, he began a new family. He kept the faith. He continued his story. Most remarkably, his heartache over the burial of his sweetheart and son gave birth to our family’s legacy of moving forward, of finishing.
Henry Clegg was still moving forward to live among the faithful Saints, to take his place, to raise a righteous family, to serve his neighbor. He had that picture in his mind even when his heart was breaking. I heard a Primary child from Ghana answer the question “What does it mean to choose the right every day?” with, “It means to follow the Lord and Savior every day and do your best even when it is hard.” This modern pioneer boy knew President Hinckley’s admonition. He knew about keeping commandments every day. He understood that his own story would unfold simply by putting one foot in front of the other, one day at a time.

Not long ago Elder David Haight of the Council of the Twelve had been assigned to a stake conference in Mexico. As he reached the border, he found that he did not have with him the necessary papers which would allow him to enter the country. In spite of his plea and the urgency of his mission, the officials had no authority to admit him without proper credentials. Therefore, he could not attend the conference.

So it is with our progress in the priesthood. We must be properly recommended and endorsed by those in authority before we can advance from one office to another, and we cannot receive the certification or proof of our advancement without being worthy, or meeting the requirements. It will be so when we want to enter the kingdom of heaven to join with others who have gone before, and live eternally with God, our Father.

President James E. Faust (1920–2007), Second Counselor in the First Presidency, once told of applying for Officer’s Candidate School in the United States Army. He said:
“I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
“The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. ‘Do you smoke?’ ‘Do you drink?’ ‘What do you think of others who smoke and drink?’ I had no trouble answering these questions.
“‘Do you pray?’ ‘Do you believe that an officer should pray?’ The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. … I wanted to be an officer very much. …
“I decided not to equivocate. I admitted that I did pray and that I felt that officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. …
“More interesting questions came. ‘In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?’
“… I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, ‘I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.’
“I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would … surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School!”
And then President Faust, realizing how small decisions can have large consequences, said, “This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.”4

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to stand in awe of his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim, brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a pickup with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he poured out the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor broke this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he made his exit, he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was swarming with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and, when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He devoured the words of this book for three days and two nights, jealous of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with this new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps the lump from my throat.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble petitions to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known good-naturedly as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often lifted his voice in song as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for a hootenanny, and patients joined together with voices raised in song and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name. This new spirit extended into other activities as well.
One of the more dramatic examples was the organizing of a wheelchair olympics.
On the day agreed upon, patients wheeled excitedly from place to place as they marked out a course for the coming events. Wheelchairs were lined up at a starting line, while occupants leaned forward, intently waiting for the starting signal. The signal was given, and they were off in a flurry of wheels and laughter. After a breather and an untangling of wheels, patients were given a chance to challenge another wheelchair. Don looked around, and pointing his finger at one of the chairs, said, “I challenge that chair.”
“Don, you can’t do that,” the astonished attendant replied. “That chair has a motor!”
The competitive young man was undaunted and remained firm; so a course was set and an eager audience waited expectantly for the signal to begin this most unusual race. Soon the signal was given and Don’s hands fairly flew as he propelled his chair toward the finish line. When he had gained full momentum, he ventured a cautious look toward his opponent, only to discover that he was shifting to a higher gear! To complicate matters further, a woven wire fence was stretched a few short feet behind the finish line.
With the heart of a champion, Don ducked his head and gave it everything he had. He crossed the line only inches ahead of his opponent and crashed happily into the wire fence. He was picked up and dusted off amid excited expressions of admiration. He had won!
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to muster up enough courage to direct the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special hootenanny was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song rendered in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had touched the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had embraced the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the winds of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

Old Father Frost had a son, Little Frost, who was an impossible braggart. My father has grown so old that he can hardly do his job anymore, the youngster decided. But I’m young and strong. I can freeze people better than anyone! No one can escape my icy nip or equal the mighty force of my hoary blasts. I can conquer all!
The first thing Little Frost saw when he went down the road was a gentleman riding along in a fine sleigh pulled by a sleek, well-fed horse. The gentleman was stout, and he wore a warm fur coat. He had a thick blanket draped over his lap to keep his legs nice and toasty.
Little Frost whispered, “No matter how tightly you wrap your warm things about you, nothing will save you from my chilly fingers.” He slipped under the blanket and crawled up the sleeves of the warm fur coat. Then he curled himself under the collar and tweaked the poor fellow’s nose.
The fine gentleman ordered his servant to hurry the horse along. “Otherwise I’ll freeze!” he cried.
Little Frost’s cold became even more bitter. He wore down the rich man’s resistance, tweaked his nose even harder, turned his hands and feet icy, and made the air too cold to breathe.
The gentleman was now too cold even to shout. In fact, by the time they reached his house, he had to be carried in from the sleigh; he was barely alive.
Little Frost flew back to his father and began to brag about what he had done. “See what a fine boy I am!” he boasted. “See what an important gentleman I’ve frostbitten! Look what a warm winter coat I managed to get through!”
Old Father Frost laughed and said, “So you think you’ve done something really fantastic, eh? See that peasant over there wearing the tattered coat and leading the skinny nag? He’s on his way to cut firewood in the forest. If you can make him freeze with cold, then I’ll really believe you’re strong!”
The peasant reached the forest, took out his ax, and started to chop down the trees. My how the wood chips were flying! Little Frost grabbed him by the hands and feet and even slipped under his collar. But the harder Little Frost tried to freeze the woodcutter, the faster the peasant swung his ax. He warmed himself so well with his work that he even took his mittens off.
That was a great surprise to Little Frost, and he thought, “Well, I’ll just slip inside these mittens and fill them so full of cold that they’ll turn to ice! Then he’ll sing a different tune.” So Little Frost crouched inside the mittens while the peasant chopped away.
When the sleigh was filled with firewood, the peasant declared, “Now I can go home.” He picked up his mittens and tried to put them on, but they were frozen as hard as steel.
“Aha! What are you going to do now?” Little Frost chortled.
The peasant grabbed his ax and started beating the mittens with the back of the ax head. All the while he whacked away at the mittens, Little Frost, who was trapped inside, howled and roared with pain. Then the peasant started home with the firewood.
Little Frost limped back to his father, moaning all the while.
As soon as Old Father Frost caught sight of Little Frost, he asked, “How is it that you’re limping along so, Son? And why are you moaning so pitifully?”
“That peasant really wore me out,” answered Little Frost. “And he gave me a working-over besides.”
Old Father Frost burst out laughing and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, my son. It’s easy enough to get the best of an idle man. But you can never freeze a fellow who stays busy—he’s got his work to keep him warm!”

Susan Hardy, California, USA
When I was 11 years old, my Sunday School teacher, Brother Deets, told our class that if we would memorize the Articles of Faith and explain to him what they meant, he would buy us our own set of scriptures.
Brother and Sister Deets were a young couple, just starting out. I wasn’t sure Brother Deets could afford to buy a gift for anyone. But I decided that if he thought the Articles of Faith were important enough to memorize, I would take the challenge.
After I finished all 13, time went by and I forgot about his promise.
Then, on Christmas Day, I received a package with my name on it. I opened it to find a set of scriptures just for me, with a card encouraging me to read them regularly. That was in 1972, and to this day I still have those scriptures. They are precious to me.
It wasn’t the cost of the gift but the kindness he showed to me and the sacrifice he was willing to make for me that left me with a deep desire to study the word of God. I try to follow Brother Deets’s example of ministering by giving meaningful gifts to those around me, hoping that I can bless others’ lives as he has blessed mine.

Elder Zivic faced another difficult decision when it came time to choose a vocation. For four straight years of secondary school, he had to take an additional end-of-year test in accounting because he did so poorly in the subject during the year.
“I really didn’t like accounting,” he says. But when he prayerfully considered his career path, he felt strongly that he should go into accounting. Trusting in the Lord, he received his accounting degree from the University of Buenos Aires and enjoyed a career as a certified public accountant.

Some years ago I received a notification in the mail regarding a testimonial and special recognition being given to a man I had known at an earlier time in a community where I had once lived with my family. The man and his wife were leaving the community where they had spent most of their lives. The local citizens were organizing a special event to honor him for the service he had given and the influence he had had in so many of the lives of the people. My life was one that he had touched. Receiving the announcement brought a rush of recollections to my mind about ways in which I had been benefitted, encouraged, and guided by this man’s concern and kindness for me.
Almost at once I decided I would make an effort to attend this event, even though it was the winter season and the weather was threatening. The community was a good distance from the place where I lived at the time, and I knew it would not be convenient for me. I had been given no part to play in the planned proceedings, and I suspected I might not even be recognized in the throng that would likely gather. But I felt compelled to go and join the others in paying him his honor.
The community in which the man had lived was a small one. He had never drawn about him much of the world’s goods. The little business he had operated could have been profitable enough, but he was too interested in people to be much concerned with embellishing his standard of living. He was always available to people, but he never demanded anything of them. Most of us had learned to take him very much for granted. It is unlikely he would ever have been given any public recognition until his burial day, had not his unexpected departure from the community prompted this effort to honor him.
On the evening the special event occurred, I entered the place for the meeting and was immediately intrigued by the arrangements that had been made. All who entered were asked to sign their names on slips of paper that were then folded and dropped into a cardboard box. When the large crowd was seated, and the honored guest had taken his place on the stand, there was a song and a prayer, and then the chairman arose to announce the proceedings. No speakers had been assigned for the evening, he said. He pointed to the cardboard box that was now on the rostrum. Names would be drawn from the box, he explained, and those who were chosen in this manner would be asked to represent all who were present in making expressions of appreciation and love for our friend.
One by one the names were drawn. As the hour passed, a procession of unrehearsed speakers filed to the podium and revealed the story of selfless service that our friend had given to members of the community.
As the meeting drew to a close, the name of a local physician was drawn from the box. For many years the good doctor had lived as a neighbor to our honored friend. He had recently returned to his home following treatment in another state for what had proved to be a near-fatal illness. As he spoke, he explained that for many years he had contemplated how his own life and that of our friend had been devoted to serving others. He told of leaving his home to make professional calls at hours both early and late, and of frequently encountering our friend departing on what appeared to be responses to the call for help from someone with a problem. At these times, the doctor said, he felt particularly close to his neighbor in the fellowship of service that they shared.
At this point in his remarks, the doctor paused, and his voice became touched with emotion. Making reference to his recent illness, he related how he had left this same community several months before, not knowing whether he would ever recover and return. No farewell testimonial had been held in his honor. He confessed that he had been disturbed by the obvious difference in the feelings of the community toward himself and our friend, especially in view of the service that both of them had given. Tonight, he said, he had learned why this was so.
With all of the apparent parallels between his life and that of his friend, there was one very important difference that had set them apart from each other in the eyes of the people in the community. For all of his services, the doctor pointed out, he had collected a fee. That was the difference. He had not realized until tonight how much his fees had cost him.
All of us who knew the good doctor and had benefitted from his kindly ministrations realized that he was being too critical of his own compassion and charity. But he succeeded, in those dramatic circumstances, in teaching all of us a lesson that we would not soon forget.
Most of us demand fees for the service that we give. It is not always in the form of money or some material reward. Sometimes we feed upon the recognition and notice that our good acts have earned. Of such the Savior said, “Verily I say unto you, They have their reward” (Matt. 6:2).
It is only when we learn to serve for the sake of service and to do good in order to bless the lives of others that we begin to know the inner peace and satisfaction that come from caring for others. Then we are not concerned about whether our service shows on the reports, or whether we qualify for badges and ribbons and medals of recognition. The sweetness that comes into our lives when we learn to give for the sake of giving is far more precious than all of the public attention that we might otherwise receive. Most importantly, when we learn to serve with no thought of reward or recognition for ourselves, we begin to develop one of the most desirable traits that the Savior himself possesses. We draw closer to him.
I encourage you to think about this principle and to explore ways that you can begin to develop the joy of service in your own life. In the final outcome of things, it will probably be one of the most rewarding things you can do.

If you’re a seminary student in Gig Harbor, Washington, you decided to find out. Since you can’t go yourself—things like school and work prohibit cross-country travel—you send a teddy bear in your place.
A teddy bear? Absolutely. Gig Harbor seminary students loaded a stuffed bear they named “America” into a box, along with a camera, a journal, and a list of questions. “We just wanted to pretty much find out what it is like to live in different areas,” says Nick Sabin, a senior from Gig Harbor. The students sent the bear to 13 different seminary classes located near Church history sites. They asked its recipients to take pictures and to write back about their experiences in seminary.
The bear’s first stop was a class in Sharon, Vermont, birthplace of the Prophet Joseph Smith. From there it was mailed to seminaries near the Hill Cumorah, the Mormon Battalion muster site, Liberty Jail, and Winter Quarters, among other places.
Nearly a year later, America returned to Gig Harbor with gifts: students who received the bear mailed back souvenirs, including a leaf from the Sacred Grove and stones from the Susquehanna River, where Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery received the Aaronic Priesthood and were baptized. They also sent two rolls of film and a journal filled with messages about attending seminary and living near Church history sites.
Included here are excerpts from the journal.
Editor’s Note:Just a word to the wise—seminaries along the Church history trail were happy to participate in this one-time activity. But you can imagine the burden on their resources and time if they started to receive similar requests from others.

Some time ago, a young man came to my office requesting a blessing. He was about eighteen years of age and had some problems. There were no serious moral problems, but he was mixed up in his thinking and worried. He requested a blessing.
I said to him, “Have you ever asked your father to give you a blessing? Your father is a member of the Church, I assume?”
He said, “Yes, he is an elder, a rather inactive elder.”
When I asked, “Do you love your father?” he replied, “Yes, Brother Benson, he is a good man. I love him.” He then said, “He doesn’t attend to his priesthood duties as he should. He doesn’t go to church regularly, I don’t know that he is a tithe payer, but he is a good man, a good provider, a kind man.”
I said, “How would you like to talk to him at an opportune time and ask him if he would be willing to give you a father’s blessing?”
“Oh,” he said, “I think that would frighten him.”
I then said, “Are you willing to try it? I will be praying for you.”
He said, “All right; on that basis, I will.”
A few days later he came back. He said, “Brother Benson, that’s the sweetest thing that has happened in our family.” He could hardly control his feelings as he told me what had happened. He said, “When the opportunity was right, I mentioned it to Father, and he replied, ‘Son, do you really want me to give you a blessing?’ I told him, ‘Yes, Dad, I would like you to.’” Then he said, “Brother Benson, he gave me one of the most beautiful blessings you could ever ask for. Mother sat there crying all during the blessing. When he got through there was a bond of appreciation and gratitude and love between us that we have never had in our home.”

When Elder Backman finished his mission, he was soon drafted. “When I went down to make my appearance, who should show up but my mission companion of 15 months. He was drafted the very same day. Here was another of those examples where the Lord had his hand on me. Instead of being isolated and going into the army by myself, here was my beloved missionary companion by my side. We went down to Camp Wolters, Texas, for basic training. The first six weeks we were there, we got transferred six different times to different outfits, always together. By that time in the war there was a heavy need for infantry, so we were being trained as infantry replacements. I don’t know what I would have done without my missionary companion. We were always transferred together. In fact, along with us were five other Mormon boys, all returned missionaries. We formed a cluster that sustained us all during those 17 weeks of basic training and gave us the strength and courage to face that kind of challenge. You can imagine going from the mission field into the army!”
At the end of basic training every one of those Mormon boys was sent to the Pacific. “The whole bunch of us went overseas together. I’ll never forget going out of San Francisco harbor and under that bridge. You just can’t describe the feeling of leaving this land and wondering if you’re ever going to see it again.”
He helped care for his seasick companions on the month-long voyage to New Guinea. “We thought that they would surely give us more training before they put us into combat, but they didn’t.” In New Guinea the Mormon group was finally split up, as each member received a different assignment, Elder Backman being placed with the 43rd Division. “But just think! We remained together all that time, and my beloved missionary companion, whom I still love to this day like a brother, stayed with me all that time. I just can’t conceive of that all just being happenchance.”

I was far from home attending an international conference for my job. Hundreds of people attended, but I was the only one from my state and region.
One evening a dinner was hosted for all the attendees. As we entered the dining hall, each of us received four tickets to use at the bar to order free alcoholic beverages. It occurred to me how easy it would be for someone far from home to be tempted by such an opportunity, thinking that no one would ever know. It was a fleeting thought, and I handed the tickets back to the person at the door.
During dinner I sat with seven strangers. I drank water as we ate, talked, laughed, and exchanged information that would help us in our employment.
As we entered the dining hall, each of us received four tickets to use at the bar to order free alcoholic beverages.
The next morning at breakfast I greeted a gentleman who had been seated at my table. I was excited to notice by his name tag that he was from my hometown—a town I had not lived in for 35 years. After high school I had left home for college, married, and moved away.
As we discussed places and community events we both knew, he asked me if I still had family there. I replied that I did not but that I had many good friends there and that we kept in touch. He asked who they were, and I began to name some of them.
After the first few names he stopped me and said, “Wait, are you a Mormon? All the people you have named are Mormons.”
When I acknowledged that I was a Latter-day Saint, he told me what fine citizens those friends were and how they had served the community and been good examples to all. For several minutes he shared his admiration for the Church and my friends, telling me how they had been advocates for good in the community.
As we parted, I could not help but think what might have happened had I chosen to use those drink tickets. I had been taught to choose the right by those very people we spoke of. I would have been uncomfortable and ashamed to admit that I was a member of the Church had I used the tickets.
How grateful I am for the example of those worthy, active, serving friends—35 years later and 2,000 miles (3,220 km) away from the home of my youth.

In my first general conference address, I shared an experience of my mother teaching me to work in our field. “Never look back,” she said. “Look ahead at what we still have to do.”

Toward the end of her life, while Mother battled cancer, she lived with Naume and me. One night I heard her sobbing in her bedroom. Her pain was intense, even after taking her last daily dose of morphine only two hours earlier.

I entered her room and sobbed with her. I prayed aloud for her to receive instant relief from her pain. And then she did the same thing she had done in the field years ago: she stopped and taught me a lesson. I will never forget her face at that moment: frail, stricken, and full of pain, gazing with pity on her sorrowing son. She smiled through her tears, looked directly into my eyes, and said, “It is not up to you or anyone else, but it is up to God whether this pain will go away or not.”

I sat up quietly. She too sat quietly. The scene remains vivid in my mind. That night, through my mother, the Lord taught me a lesson that will stay with me forever. As my mother expressed her acceptance of God’s will, I remembered the reason Jesus Christ suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross at Golgotha. He said: “Behold I have given unto you my gospel, and this is [my] gospel which I have given unto you—that I came into the world to do the will of my Father, because my Father sent me.”